Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “Chill, Baby-O. Xoe Chloe is on your case. Wicked is the hottest musical on Broadway, and ‘Defying Gravity’ is the current overcoming-teenage-angst anthem. Every girl feels like a misunderstood witch at your age. Plus the song’s a showstopper for a darker voice, which you have in spades! As the song says, until you try, you’ll never know. We’ll run the wardrobe and the routine and we’ll both come out smelling like, oh … Rose’s green apple juice in a killer martini.”

  “Yeah. That’s cool. Apple green. I saw those feathers. You’ll knock ’em dead.”

  “Speaking of which—”

  “The show’s over, right? That’s what my mom hauled you outa here to say. She always ruins it for me.”

  Temple grabbed Mariah’s plump little shoulders and refrained from shaking.

  “Mariah. She does not. She’s putting her shield on the line to keep the lid on the murders here, just so you can get up there and be shallow like all the other little ‘Tween Queen wannabes.”

  Mariah stared at Temple’s sudden stern turn. Then her eyes teared over. “I don’t know what happens. Sometimes it seems like everything’s so endlessly awful.”

  “Sometimes it is. Not now. You’re just feeling Wicked Witch of the Westly. The police aren’t going to close the show down. They want everybody bottled up here while they do some very complicated background checks. And they’ve imported some undercover pros to prevent any more violence, so expect to see a couple new crew members. Your mom is following some very interesting leads, thanks to … us. We have to keep it together and let the show go on until the police have enough evidence to name and charge the person behind all this. We are … undercover distractions. We gotta be good at it, right? That’s our real job. This stupid contest isn’t the point. I’m not Xoe Chloe, and you’re not Madonna, Jr. We’re us, underneath it all, and we have more important jobs than winning this thing, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess right.”

  “But the talent show is tomorrow and then they judge and then it’s all over.”

  “Right. Then we judge and then it’s all over. Capische?”

  “That is so Sopranos.”

  “And we are the contraltos, right? We are different.”

  “You sure are.” Mariah grinned.

  “Dare to be … you and me,” Temple finished. “Defying gravity.”

  Chapter 53

  Tailings

  The hour is once again my namesake one and I am stationed outside the Ashleigh suite trying to figure out how to get in.

  This is when Miss Midnight Louise happens along.

  Yeah. Like she is following me.

  “What ho, Romeo?” she inquires in the acid tones granted only to the female of the species, any species, and guaranteed to shrivel the cottontail off a bunny rabbit, not to mention other attachments of which I am unduly fond.

  “Stalking the Ashleigh girls again, I suppose,” she adds. “When are you going to get that those snooty purebreds are too good for you?”

  “When I lose my self-esteem, which will be never. So. You are emulating the Crawfish and descending to domestic snooping.”

  “Just wondering why you were slacking off on the job.”

  “I am not slacking anything, Louise. I need to get through the looking glass again.”

  “You and little girls named Alice.”

  “You recall that one of ours started her on that famous adventure. Holy Havana Browns! How am I going to get in there without Miss Savannah Ashleigh seeing me?”

  “I do not see why you cannot rely on your dubious inside connections. Of course, neither one of them would come if you came calling.”

  This gets my goat, and my llama too. I stick a mitt under the bottom of the door, shoot out my shivs, and make what pathetic scratching noises I can.

  Sure enough. In thirty seconds flat, I am playing pattycake with a set of soft, moist pads from the other side.

  Throwing Louise a superior gaze over my shoulder, I hunker down for a game of whisker teasing and whispering via the quarter-inch crack.

  In a minute, I have convinced the Ashleigh girls to make a heck of a commotion in the service of getting me into the secret passage. They are quite aware of this area, especially Yvette, as she is wont to play with her own image in the mirror for hours, Solange informs me. But she thinks she can tear Yvette away from herself long enough to do what is needed.

  Miss Louise and I retreat against the opposite wall and wait.

  Not for long.

  The shrieks, human and not-so, emanating from beyond the door result in an adjoining door slamming open against the hall wall, and Mr. Rafi Nadir, clad only in unzipped jeans and sneakers, charging down the hall and through the door like a cannonball.

  Louise and I exchange a look, then shoot through on his sneaker heels. Well, sneakers do not have heels, as such. Suffice it to say that we are in like dingleberries dangling from a shih tzu’s tail.

  There is a lot of fluffy pale hair flying in the room, part of it Persian and the other part of it Horst of Beverly Hills, and most of it eiderdown from some terminally clawed pillows.

  Quick thinkers, these Persians. They have staged the Mother of All Pillow Fights to upset their mistress and bring the troops running.

  While Mr. Rafi Nadir inserts himself into the pile of flying fur, shrieks, and flailing claws both human and feline—I admit that even I would quail at such a task—I hurl myself at the pressure point that turns the mirror into a revolving door, and Louise and I whisk into the dark beyond, pausing to pull it shut behind us with paw power times two.

  “So this is what you wanted?” she asks in the absolute dark.

  I wait for my eyes to acclimate. That probably takes a little longer than for her, but I do not wish to make this obvious.

  “Shhhh. I am thinking.”

  “I can see you would need absolute quiet for that. Why did you want to be here?”

  “Is it not interesting that this house has been honeycombed with hidden passages since the time it was built?”

  “I have heard that creepy Crawford dude prattling about the big shootout here into his microphone. No doubt these passages made the escape of the masked killer easier twenty years ago. Everyone thought it was Arthur Dickson himself, and no one could prove it. But what does a long-dead scandal have to do with teen queens today?”

  I am about to tell her, which would be interesting as I do not know yet myself, when there is a cracking sound and a vertical bar of light appears behind us.

  That is how I first saw Elvis, as a narrow bar of light in the Action Jackson attraction tunnel under the Crystal Phoenix a few months ago.

  I am eagerly awaiting a return engagement of the King when the light vanishes with a click and another click brings a swash of light into the tunnel.

  Louise and I plaster ourselves to the dark walls, avoiding detection but not avoiding the fact that it is Rafi Nadir bearing a flashlight into our midst.

  I also glimpse shadowy forms by the now-closed mirror-door.

  In sum, we are not alone, times three.

  Louise has dashed across the aisle in the darkness and now brushes against my shoulder. “Great. We are here but so is the hired bodyguard. What do you suppose he wants?”

  “Whatever he wants, it is worth tailing him. And keep your nose alert for that noxious sweet scent I mentioned the other day.”

  “Shhh!”

  Rafi turns and sweeps the flashlight over the unadorned wooden floor, missing us by that much.

  We open our eyes once the searchlight has passed. I hear slight scrabbling sounds behind us.

  “Mice,” Miss Louise dismisses them. “That is what we are dealing with, not a murderer.”

  “A murderer is still in this house. We could, in fact, be tailing him now.”

  This snaps her to literal attention.

  “Rafi Nadir has the scent on his shoes?”

  “Yes, but he could have picked it up out by the pool. The hot sun ha
d melted what traces of it I found that day, so anyone could have accidentally stepped in it. Except myself, of course. I have been certain to keep my toes well out of it.”

  Louise’s tail is hitting the wood planking like a woodpecker’s beak, hard and fast. That betrays her thinking. “So. This substance is a sure link to another murder scene … and to the mischief here, but like rabies it has spread to innocent carriers. Still, we might learn something by tracing every one who has spread it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I admit that this Rafi Nadir has been showing up at every recent murder or crime scene for some weeks now.”

  “Agreed, yet I hate to suspect him. He treats my Miss Temple right, in his way.”

  “So he could not possibly be a killer,” she concludes sarcastically. “Perhaps he is stalking your precious Miss Temple.”

  “I do not think so but I have detected the sticky substance on some others who might be.”

  “Such as—?”

  “Do not forget the cameraman who tried to kick me when I first arrived.”

  “Right. I was not here then. I missed that. Pity.”

  “And Ken Adair, the Hair Guy.”

  “That could merely be some stinky hair gel that got on his shoe.”

  “True. Most of these girls would put recycled bubblegum on their locks if a beauty consultant told them to.”

  “Any other suspects?”

  I hesitate.

  “Spit it out, just not literally.”

  “Miss Sulah Savage, aka Miss Temple’s aunt from Manhattan, whom I bunked with at Christmastime, Miss Kit Carlson.”

  “Whew! I did not guess the relationship. This place is a snarl of hidden relationships as well as secret tunnels. Miss Sulah Savage has been most generous to me with tidbits at mealtime. She could have innocently walked through a bit of it herself.”

  We hear a crack of something opening or shutting far down the corridor of darkness.

  “Quick!” Miss Midnight Louise is all tracker now. “I do not want to lose Mr. Rafi.”

  We take off and there is a double echo of pad thumping wood behind us that only I hear, because I am listening for it.

  We hit a hidden flight of stairs and go streaking down it too fast to stop. More dark hallway. Our whiskers ease us through, warning us before we slam our pusses into solid wall.

  A far sliver of light tells us where Mr. Rafi Nadir has gone.

  We race to that point, pause, and then Louise sticks her nose into the light. (She is very good at sticking her nose where it does not belong.) It widens to whisker width. The light comes from a lit lamp. In its intense circle, we spot Mr. Rafi bending over a desk and chair. I notice some fresh four-tracks on his upper arms, but he is too busy to pay much attention to a few wounds.

  I realize where we are: on the wrong side of the crime scene tape, and so is he.

  This does not seem to bother him as he moves around the room, examining this and that.

  “This is Miss Marjory Klein’s office,” Louise hisses in my ear.

  I flatten my offended appendage. Her hisses are sharper than a biker’s switchblade.

  We push against the wall as Mr. Rafi comes back into the passage, shuts the door disguised as a wall on the other side, and moves farther along it.

  Last I had heard of the pursuing Persian girls was some muffled thumps on the surprise staircase and some choice curses in Farsi.

  Amazing how one reverts to one’s roots in times of stress, even natural blondes like the Divine Yvette.

  Yet I dare not rush to her assistance and give away that we are not alone.

  Rafi is sure giving the place the once-over. We follow him left and follow him right, and then follow him right into another office.

  This is Ms. Beth Marble’s office, and once again we are all on the wrong side of the crime scene tape.

  Miss Louise is the first nose through the hidden door, of course, and she reports to me in short little pants.

  “He is examining her drawers.”

  In other situations, this would not be rated family fare, but since Miss Beth Marble’s mortal remains are long gone, I am sure that everything is above board.

  Besides, it is clear to me that Mr. Rafi is tracing the passage’s access to the crime scenes. Certainly it is clear how a body might be transported from Mr. Dexter Manship’s office to this one without being observed.

  In fact, I turn us around and, using my instinctive feline radar, lead Louise to a site that Mr. Rafi has not discovered yet.

  There I instruct her to jump up at a certain spot until the apparent wall turns into a door.

  I sit back on my haunches and enjoy the exercise, since it is not mine. Eventually she hits the sweet spot that opens the concealed entrance.

  No light this time, as no one bearing a flashlight is in our party, but I bound inside, whisker my way to the desk, and leap up to punch the lamp’s switch.

  Light blinds me for a few seconds, but, sure enough, I am inside Mr. Dexter Manship’s office. No doubt cameras are recording my presence. I recall too late the strange snipping noise that preceded Mr. Rafi into the offices he visited. He had cut the camera cords, which were no doubt placed too high for me to reach anyway.

  Ah, well. I am very telegenic and will be dismissed as harmless vermin, as usual.

  Miss Louise has skittered in at floor level and is sniffing deeply under the desk.

  “Mr. Manship is indeed another bubblegum shoe suspect,” she confirms my previous conclusion with satisfaction. “A pity everybody tiptoed through the exercise mats during the shaving cream graffiti episode. We need the film of that time to check who got close enough to infect their shoes.”

  “Yes, yes. Proof is fine, but right now I need suspects. Ours is not to make the case, ours is to point out the possibilities.”

  “How? We are hardly legitimate consultants.”

  “About your own suspected origins you may speak for yourself, Louise. I know my sire and dam.”

  “Braggart!”

  I inhale deeply the atrocious tutti-frutti scent deposited under Mr. Dexter Manship’s desk. It is particularly strong and there are even a few stringy remnants of the source. Let us hope his shoes are so endowed tomorrow, during the Teen Queen finals.

  I have an urge to unmask a murderer, and cannot think of a more deserving candidate.

  Miss Louise carps about our worthless expedition on our way back to the mirrored door.

  I make no defense, and not only let her precede me back into Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s domain, but show her the hall door with all due courtesy.

  “I am going to inspect Miss Savannah’s shoes,” I tell her. “No sense being sexist and omitting a female suspect. You may want to do the same with Miss Sulah Savage’s closet. After all, she does use a pseudonym.”

  Off the little chit goes, dreaming of Manolos, as in Blahniks.

  Personally, I do not think Miss Kit indulges in status symbols as blatant as Blahniks. So I wait by the mirror, checking the state of my best bib and tucker and licking it into submission.

  On the room’s king-size bed, Miss Savannah Ashleigh snores softly, no doubt the result of a Beverly Hills nose bob.

  In a few moments, the unlatched door pushes open and girls silver and golden slide through. They are looking a bit mussed about the muzzle and decidedly annoyed.

  “Louie!” Miss Yvette is in fine fettle, good mettle, and superb Ma Kettle mode. “You led us on zee wild goose chase. And aftair we had done zee hokey-pokey on the intruder’s epidermis.”

  (When stressed, the Divine Yvette resorts to B-movie French.)

  “Poor fellow,” I say. “But I gathered lots of good intelligence.”

  “Somezing new pour vous, I tink.”

  Yvette is really, really mad. She is starting to sound like a voyageur. Wrong continent, wrong period.

  “Those stairs were very sudden,” her sister Solange rebukes.

  And I am duly chastised. “But you both have the impeccable
French nose for strong cheeses and rank fruit. Did you trace the raspberry/strawberry scent through the tunnels?”

  “And banana,” Solange adds.

  “Banana?” I think she is making a value judgment. But non. I mean, no.

  “There was a distinct undertone of banana. I ought to know. Our mistress uses a banana-scented sun screen.”

  Banana! Of course!

  The scent that leads from the mall to here is not that of a mere ice cream treat; it is that of a healthful fruit smoothie!

  Now I have nailed the full spectrum of ingredients that will lead to a murderer. Brought down by a high-protein health-food shake.

  Somehow it is poetic justice.

  I would boast of my breakthrough, but the Divine Yvette has lofted onto Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s bed and wrapped herself around her percussive head.

  Not only dogs are devoted.

  Solange sees me to the door. “Was it something I said, Louie?”

  I allow her to polish my sides with her softest, foxiest furs.

  “Exactly. What a rare and subtle nose.” (The French love these kind of compliments.) “Brilliant! Now I must prepare for the takedown tomorrow.”

  She wafts her fulsome plume under my own nose. “I am sorry Yvette is being such a pill. Perhaps you will come to tell me the outcome.”

  Perhaps I will. I chuck her under the chin with my most flexible member.

  “Wish me luck, sweetheart.”

  “Bonne chance, Louie!”

  Having restored international relations with our allies of old, I push out into the ordinary hall, walking on air and the inescapable scent of a spilled fruit smoothie that will trip up a murderer.

  Chapter 54

  No Glimpse of Stocking

  Max’s watch read five past midnight when he climbed the Circle Ritz’s conveniently stepped black marble facing up to the second-floor balcony of his and Temple’s unit.

  He was still officially half-owner. That’s how he could make this clandestine expedition, knowing she was gone, with a semiclear conscience. No, nothing was clear about this intrusion except the night sky, spangled with stars.