Once inside, I stop, dismayed ... even outraged. I am inside, not outside, but the sky is frowning and boiling with clouds as if ready to rain on my parade again in earnest. Lightning flashes among the clouds'
cumulus blue underbellies. Thunder growls like my stomach on another Free-to-be-Feline morning. I blink my baby greens. How can this be? I admit that I have never bothered to check out the inside of the MGM Grand Hotel, but I did expect it to at least be indoors.
In fact, the unexpected presence of water outside and the scene of impending downpour inside have an unforeseen effect on me. I suddenly remember how long it has been since I performed any actions of a deliquifying nature. Luckily, dead ahead I spot a gentle grassy knoll suffering from a measles of red poppies, so I sprint for relief.
Even more fortunately, a man's voice booms from the gondola of a balloon tethered nearby. (This is not one of your dinky helium objects so prevalent at birthday parties, but the Mother of All Balloons, big enough to serve as transportation.) Every human eye is craned upward to the gesturing figure and the scowling sky beyond, green with oncoming storm. Of course it is really a ceiling, though it is high enough to pass for a sky. In contrast, the so-called grass is barely tall enough to shelter a midget mouse, say Mickey or Minnie (though they are not MGM properties). Furthermore, the blades have a distasteful plastic feel, and as for scent--if you favor privies perfumed with polyethelene, you are in the perfect spot for happy-ever-aftering, but not in Cam-el-ot. So much for the musical interlude. I do not like Muzak in my bitty and I am not very invisible in this ersatz poppy field. While here, though, I sniff the notorious blooms for signs of harvest. Great place to hide an illegal patch of real poppies. No such luck in this case.
A wood that affords more privacy and some real dirt looms beyond the poppy fields' ever-blooming condition. I dash into its welcoming shadows and camouflaging color, earth-brown. In a wink, I have hidden behind an aluminum garbage can someone has thoughtfully plopped down between two trees.
From my vantage point I survey the poppy fields. Against the bilious sky, the crusty old dude in the balloon gondola harangues the attentive crowd while laser-green lightning boogies across the boiling clouds above. Beyond the gathering storm glows a serene, celestial expanse of gilt stars in a Midnight-blue sky, the exact color of my coat's glossy highlights when it is groomed to black satin. I recognize that odd artifice known as wallpaper when I see it, even when it is on the ceiling. Yet I remain thoroughly confused. Apparently the MGM Grand lobby has chosen to combine the worst of indoor and outdoor worlds.
Then I nearly leap into the next county when the silver garbage can beside me starts creaking into motion and begins sounding off. I dodge behind a tree ... made from another foul-smelling unnatural substance. The crowd edges my way, oohing and Ozing.
Only then do I spot the solution to my confusion: a motionless quartet--five if you count the shrimpy canine--stands frozen amid the plastic poppies. They are not collecting for the Veterans of Foreign Wars, believe me, but posing. Even from the rear they are recognizable: that miserable Cowardly Lion who has given cathood a bad name; the twin of my nearby orating garbage can, the Tin Woodman; young Dorothy Gale from Kansas in her checked jumper and red-sequined pumps (Miss Temple would shudder at wearing pale blue anklets with such spiffy shoes); and the Scarecrow who fell down on the job.
Of course that wretched, flea-bitten, cute-as-a-cupcake black mite Toto is there, too. I am in full agreement with the Wicked Witch, who appears to have won their last confrontation after all: stuff him and put him in a theme-hotel vignette.
At least I sniff genuine dirt beneath my feet and am able to scratch up a few thimbles full so I can attend to my emergency needs. Public buildings are always short on rest rooms, although casinos are usually generous in this department. The last thing the management wants is eager gamblers distracted from the siren call of snake eyes and a natural by any calls of nature.
Relieved in all departments, I tippy-toe through the ersatz woods and out into the chiming, glittering casino beyond, where I can dart unseen among the shadows of slot machines and blackjack tables.
And dart I do, until I can catch up with the proper trio of shoes: Miss Temple's pink metallic sneakers, Miss Electra's earth sandals and Madame X's air-cushion white tennis shoes with purple and lime-green accents. As I slink under the long, rainbow archway into the casino proper, I feel a bit like that little windup pooch Toto, who spent most of The Wizard of Oz fox-trotting behind the principal players.
This is not Kansas anymore. I am not even sure that it is Las Vegas.
Chapter 10
Pirates Ahoy
"Where are we headed?"
Electra wistfully eyed empty tables spreading into the casino from a dazzling variety of restaurants.
"Look at the fabulous boutique!" Kit gazed left toward display windows crammed with wearable glitz that bounced an acquisitive glint from her eyeglass lenses.
"We are here on business, ladies," Temple reminded them. Her brisk trot did not slow to match their dawdling, window-shopping pace. The enterprise she had in mind was shoe biz.
"Where do we conduct this so-called business?" Electra huffed to catch up with her. "We've been walking for ages. I had no idea the MGM Grand was so misnamed. It should be the MGM Gargantuan."
"Theme park out back." Temple wasted no words as she hustled past gaudy neon game arcades toward the pale horizontal slit of glass doors leading to the great outdoors. "It's just about to open."
Electra groaned. "That means a lot more walking."
"Good for us," Temple sang back, hopping on a down escalator.
Soon their weary feet were beating the merciless cement that was carved into pseudo-flagstones.
Sunshine as warm as drawn butter poured down on the crowd massing behind chain barriers while a troupe of spritely teenage entertainers bid them a tuneful welcome, with acrobatics and dancing. After they posed and froze for the expected applause, two clowns parted the chains. The camera-hung mob surged like misplaced souls in a Twilight Zone episode into an empty townscape of picturesque storefronts housing shops, eateries and amusement rides.
"Reminds me of H. P. Lovecraft's Innsmouth," Kit mused with ominous emphasis. "All quaint and picturesque on the outside, yet who knows what inbred spawn lurks behind the Williamsburg colors and the blank blackness beyond the polished window-glass?
"Actresses!" Temple complained to the world at large, none of whom stopped rushing past to listen.
"Everything is a stage set for you. This is Disneyland on the desert. What could be more wholesome?"
"Exactly why I suspect the worst," Kit said.
"Oh!" Electra was transported, foot discomfort forgotten. "Look! A wedding chapel. Got to dash in and check it out."
Kit and Temple edged into the tiny foyer while Electra dove through a doorway toward the nuptial mysteries beyond. They loitered nervously beside a window framed by peach organdy curtains not seen in such poufy array since Mr. Blandings Built His Dream House.
Wedding paraphernalia--miniature caketop couples, silk flower bouquets and boutonnieres, white satin garters--decorated several shelves of a built-in display cabinet.
Kit lifted the tiny tag trailing from a massive bouquet, then dropped it like a hot petunia. "Pricey! And that's just for Insty-Prince Charming-type weddings. Imagine what a full church ceremony must cost!"
"You ever do it?"
"What?" Kit looked alarmed and eyed the crowded foyer.
"Get married."
"No. I didn't mean not to, but it didn't happen."
"Hmm."
"What's the matter, kid? Feeling like an Old Maid? At your age?"
"Well, you were my age once, and unmarried. Maybe Old Maid-ism runs in families."
"It's called being single nowadays, and it's not so bad, especially in New York City, which is crammed with places to go and people to go there with."
"So is Las Vegas." Temple flattened against the display case as an i
nflux of gawkers brushed against them. "I wish Electra would hurry. I don't want to miss the next show."
"Aha! So we're here to let them entertain us. That should be interesting."
"Not up to Broadway standards, I'm sure."
Kit made a masque-of-tragedy face as she studied Temple. "We're sure down at the kissy corners today." Her features reversed into a grin, and Temple found the corners of her mouth perking up despite herself. "Man trouble, huh?" Kit diagnosed.
"Men."
"Men. I'm impressed. Plurals always impress the shallow at heart, such as people who own two Mercedes. You're more of a vamp than you look."
"Not really. We're talking serial heartbreakers here." Temple felt obligated to explain her situation.
"Max--he's ... he was a magician--and I lived together for more than a year, then he vanished just as Matt showed up at the Circle Ritz. And we got along, more or less, but now Max is back--so I'm caught in the middle of two relationships that don't amount to much. Because how can I trust Max again after he pulled his vanishing act? And Matt, being a hotline counselor, is much too polite to trespass on what he now sees as Max's territory ... so, as far as I'm concerned, they're both welcome to join the French Foreign Legion and I'll just shack up with Louie forever."
Temple's contemplative focus on a petite wax wedding couple lifted to see her aunt's eyes as round as blueberries and tiny, gawking convex people reflected in her oversize lenses. Temple turned to face an audience. Her scattershot recital had stopped spellbound tourists in their tracks.
"What is this Louie-guy's occupation?" asked a woman in a Padres cap and tortoise T-shirt.
"Er, house sitter."
"Stick with the hotline guy," she advised, "steadier job."
"The magician." Her husband, a tall, beak-nosed man with sunburned forearms was no less definite.
"He'll always surprise you."
Temple blushed as lobster-red as the man's arms and turned back to the bridal display.
"You hadn't mentioned any Louie before." Kit produced an auntly frown. "House sitters can be a shiftless lot."
"So is Louie," Temple whispered. "He's a cat!"
"Oh. Good choice. Do you think he'd wear a pink carnation for the wedding?"
Temple giggled with Kit's accompaniment. They were still lost in laughter when Electra stormed out of the inner sanctum.
"Standard stuff, and way too country for my taste. Enough dried flowers to give Dorothy's Scarecrow hay fever. Folks are getting married, not emigrating to the Waltons set for a honeymoon. Why are you two snickering at the tools of the trade? Cynics! You don't think I make my dough from officiating, do you? No, it's the 'options' and 'accessories' and Video albums.' " She turned on Temple. "All right, Little Miss Marcher, where do we really have to go?"
"It's 'Little Miss Marker, '" Kit corrected, turning Temple away from the display and hustling her down the few wooden steps to the ersatz street. "I thought you'd be old enough to know that," she chided Electra.
"I am! And I'm even old enough to remember it wrong sometimes. Where are we going?"
Temple consulted the glossy folded map of the attraction.
"Down this street and to the left. I want the 'dueling pirates' show."
Kit shook her head. "Why ever for?"
"What do pirates have?" Temple asked in turn.
"Swords," Kit replied.
"Sashes," Electra suggested.
"Tattoos." Kit's eyes danced behind her lenses as she envisioned an ever-more-lurid scene.
"That's sailors," Electra objected. "Pirates just have solo earrings and bare chests."
"Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of tanning lotion. I can dig that," Kit answered.
Temple interrupted before the senior citizens in the party turned truly bawdy. "Chests. Dig. What do those two words suggest to you?"
"Lots of fun?" Kit's expression lifted hopefully.
"Treasure," came Temple's wet-blanket response. "We are not attending the cover-hunk pageant yet, ladies. We are out and about on serious business. We have priceless shoes to find. Where could they be hidden in plain sight?"
"Ah." Electra nodded sagely. "A chest of pirate treasure. But wouldn't one of those be buried to the hinges in sand, dear?"
"Not if it's a prop in a theme-park attraction. Come on."
"Are you certain that this 'dueling pirate' show uses a treasure chest?" Kit followed Temple even while she objected to the expedition's direction.
"No, but I have a hunch it might."
Electra nudged Kit's ribs. "Temple's hunches are A-one, especially in the murder department."
"Ooh, do you think we'll have a murder while I'm here?" Kit waxed instantly rhapsodic. "I was in
'Inspector Hound' once, but I've only seen stage corpses. Do you suppose a dueling pirate might do away with a fellow buccaneer?"
"Over hidden shoes?" Temple was indignant. "Hardly. Listen, I've had enough of murder as well as of men."
" Of Murder and Men." Kit paused to envision a marquee. "That has a ring. You should write a play."
"I want to see a play right now."
Temple circled behind the pair to herd them toward a souvenir shop, wherein she purchased three tickets to the pirates, then spurred them into the line outside the attraction. The pointed masts of a sailing ship bristled above the entry roofline.
Kit, a true actress, plunged into character. "Brace the mizzen-mast, me lads, and we'll make home port by dawn," she urged in a disconcerting basso.
"Do they brace mizzenmasts?" Electra wondered.
"Well, they ought to."
Temple, meanwhile, shuffled forward in line, feeling a moth eating a hole of excitement in her stomach. Was she right? Were the glamorous black-cat shoes tucked amongst swags of pirate pearls and Spanish silver? Would she hit the jackpot on her first jaunt? For once she was out to solve an innocent mystery, and a personally rewarding one. No dead pirates, she promised herself.
Once inside, she quickly eyed the setup. A pool masqueraded as a lagoon, with a pirate ship anchored at the rear. The audience sat opposite the ship in a steeply raked amphitheater, open-aired except for a sun-shading roof.
"The higher we go the better we'll see," Kit suggested sotto voce, as if passing on the secrets of the ancients.
"Too high, and I won't get a good look at any treasure chest," Temple said.
"Which may or may not be here," Electra pointed out.
After much vacillating, aisle-blocking and whispered consultation, the party settled on seats four rows up. By then, quite a crowd had entered. They were forced to shuffle into the row, off center to the empty pier area facing the water.
"Don't you think the actors would make off with the shoes if they found them?" Kit asked
"No, they'd probably be in on the scheme." Temple pursed her lips and knotted her eyebrows to match. "Or they don't know. I doubt the shoes will be obvious, but they should be ... reachable."
"For who?" Electra jeered. "The Seven Dwarves? Or the Giant in the beanstalk?"
"Wrong play," Temple said just as a swashbuckling figure shot from the top of the seats to the waterfront below on a rope and a reel instead of a wing and a prayer.
Enter stage left a band of pirate scum, fair maiden in hand.
Actually the fair maiden rode in a chiffon-curtained sedan chair, with the pirate scum toting the poles thereof. When she left her shelter, the chiffon collapsed to reveal the real object the poles supported.
"Yes!" Temple barely restrained herself from leaping out of her seat.
The pirates set down their treasure chest, its suggestively agape lid spilling ropes of pearls and glitter into the bright sunshine.
The action below resolved into a comic opera musical interlude for the pirate scum, who were led by a villainous but impressively muscular first mate, bare of shirt, chest hair and tattoos. Had he heard about the Incredible Hunk contest at the Crystal Phoenix?
Our hero was the pirate captain who had shot from the sky in wide-sleev
ed shirt, sash and head bandana. In the course of rescuing the maiden, defending his ship and treasure chest and quelling a mutiny, the entire cast ran, skirmished, swung on ropes and cavorted from the platform before the audience to a tower to the ship and another tower. Tension ran high as the audience waited to see who would plummet into the lagoon and get wet first.
While all eyes ogled the athletic action at home and aboard, Temple stepped over the seatback before her and slid down into the next row.
Twin gasps from the rear indicated that Kit and Electra had noticed Temple's unconventional change of seats. Luckily, the lusty action below kept the rest of the audience unaware.
Temple settled into the vacant seat like a slowly sinking ship, then sat immobile until the pirate crew cavorted from pier to the ship's deck and masts.
She again rose, stepped down into an empty seat in the lower row and sat. Only two rows below reposed the treasure chest, set aside and forgotten at what amounted to stage right.
Meanwhile, the cast was engaging in frantic swordplay at stage left. Luckily, Temple was on the fringe of the seated audience. She had only to make her way down two more rows, and the treasure chest would be hers, all hers. At least for the few seconds a look required.
At closer view, the chest was unpromising, even disappointingly tawdry. The gilt paint streaking its exterior was thin and hastily applied. Like some eternally gape-jawed village idiot, it sat lolling its tongue of cheap pearl ropes at the audience. None of the contents thus revealed were worth more than fifteen cents. Temple glimpsed the foot of a gilded goblet. A string of plastic red beads. Swaths of red, green and gold glitter mired in glassy slicks of yellowing glue.
Stage props, like the actors themselves, were designed to appeal most from a flattering distance.
Would Temple entrust a delicate, expensive pair of Austrian crystal-studded shoes to such a lowly container? No, but the least likely the looks, the better the hiding place.
Shrieks from her right made Temple jump like a thief in a spotlight. She glanced to the playing area.
Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle Page 9
