Cat in an
Orange
Twist
By Carole Nelson Douglas from Tom Doherty Associates
MYSTERY
MIDNIGHT LOUIE MYSTERIES
Catnap
Pussyfoot
Cat on a Blue Monday
Cat in a Crimson Haze
Cat in a Diamond Dazzle
Cat with an Emerald Eye
Cat in a Flamingo Fedora
Cat in a Golden Garland
Cat on a Hyacinth Hunt
Cat in an Indigo Mood
Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit
Cat in a Kiwi Con
Cat in a Leopard Spot
Cat in a Midnight Choir
Cat in a Neon Nightmare
Cat in an Orange Twist
Midnight Louie’s Pet Detectives
(editor of anthology)
Marilyn: Shades of Blonde
(editor of anthology)
IRENE ADLER ADVENTURES
Good Night, Mr. Holmes
The Adventuress* (Good Morning, Irene)
A Soul of Steel* (Irene at Large)
Another Scandal in Bohemia* (Irene’s Last Waltz)
Chapel Noir
Castle Rouge
Femme Fatale
Spider Dance
SCIENCE
FICTION
Probe†
Counterprobe†
HISTORICAL
ROMANCE
Amberleigh†
Lady Rogue†
Fair Wind, Fiery Star
FANTASY
TALISWOMAN
Cup of Clay
Seed Upon the Wind
SWORD AND CIRCLET
Six of Swords
Exiles of the Rynth
Keepers of Edanvant
Heir of Rengarth
Seven of Swords
* These are the reissued editions
† also mystery
Cat in an
Orange
Twist
A MIDNIGHT LOUIE MYSTERY
Carole Nelson Douglas
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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
CAT IN AN ORANGE TWIST: A MIDNIGHT LOUIE MYSTERY
Copyright © 2004 by Carole Nelson Douglas
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 0-765-30681-6
EAN 978-0765-30681-4
First Edition: August 2004
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In memory
of the one and only Carole Anne Nelson,
my “twin” in nomenclature and a
friend to all people and things mystery
Contents
Previously in Midnight Louie’s Life and Times
Chapter 1:
Expiration Date
Chapter 2:
Tooth and Nail, Feng and Claw
Chapter 3:
Live at High Noon
Chapter 4:
MADD TV
Chapter 5:
Another Opening, Another Shui
Chapter 6:
Chatty Catty
Chapter 7:
Imagine Meeting You Here . . .
Chapter 8:
Hot Sauce
Chapter 9:
Power Play
Chapter 10:
Shrimp Cocktail
Chapter 11:
Dark Victory
Chapter 12:
Hot Saucy
Chapter 13:
Mad Max
Chapter 14:
Clean Sweep
Chapter 15:
Hot Car
Chapter 16:
Chi for Two
Chapter 17:
Hot Water
Chapter 18:
Auld Acquaintance
Chapter 19:
Mum’s the Word
Chapter 20:
Orange Bowl Special
Chapter 21:
Feng Shui Can Be Mudra
Chapter 22:
Slow Dancing
Chapter 23:
Life with Mother
Chapter 24:
An Officer and a Lady
Chapter 25:
Cat Crouch
Chapter 26:
Sudden-Death Overtime
Chapter 27:
All About Maylords
Chapter 28:
Trouble in Store
Chapter 29:
Undercover Cats
Chapter 30:
Swing Shift
Chapter 31:
Cheesy Decor
Chapter 32:
Virgin Sacrifice
Chapter 33:
Mumm’s the Word
Chapter 34:
Minimum Maxposure
Chapter 35:
Lying Down on the Job
Chapter 36:
Gainful Employment
Chapter 37:
Dead Zone
Chapter 38:
Pillow Talk
Chapter 39:
Hunting Grounds for Murder
Chapter 40:
Witless Protection Program
Chapter 41:
Imagine Meeting You Here II . . .
Chapter 42:
Good Cop, Bad Cop
Chapter 43:
Ottoman Empire
Chapter 44:
It’s My Party . . .
Chapter 45:
. . . I’ll Cry if I Want To
Chapter 46:
Rubdown with a Velvet Glove
Chapter 47:
Anticlimax
Chapter 48:
Dry Red Wine
Chapter 49:
House of Dearth
Chapter 50:
Ring of Fire
Chapter 51:
Rafishy Doings
Chapter 52:
Snow-blind
Chapter 53:
Blinded by the Knight
Chapter 54:
Counterinterrogation
Chapter 55:
Same Old Song
Chapter 56:
Louie, Louie
Chapter 57:
Dead Ends
Chapter 58:
Luck of the Draw
Chapter 59:
Model for Murder
Chapter 60:
Model PI
Chapter 61:
Neon Nightmares
Tailpiece:
Midnight Louie Uncovered
Carole Nelson Douglas and the Eternal Feline
Cat in an
Orange
Twist
Midnight Louie’s
Lives and Times . . .
I have always been what you might call an afishionado. Those large, fancy Asian
finsters called koi, in particular, tickle my palate. I like to snag my own. Literally.
So when I hear that feng shui is coming to town, I figure Las Vegas is getting some new variety of finned delicacy. No such luck. Feng shui, I learn, is something between a trend and a religion, and Las Vegas is always religiously trendy, so it is a big deal here.
Naturally, my lively little roommate, the petite and toothsome (even though she is of the human species) Miss Temple Barr is up to her Jimmy Choo rhinestone-buckled ankle straps in this shuiphooey business. She is, after all, a freelance public relations specialist, and Las Vegas is full of public relations of all stripes and legalities.
I should introduce myself: Midnight Louie, PI. I am not your usual gumshoe, in that my feet do not wear shoes of any stripe, but shivs. I have certain attributes, such as being short, dark, and handsome. Really short. That gets me overlooked and underestimated, which is what the savvy operative wants, anyway. I am your perfect undercover guy. I also like to hunker down under the covers with my little doll. My adventures would fill a book, and in fact I have several out. My life is just one ongoing TV miniseries in which I as hero extract my hapless human friends from fixes of their own making and literally nail crooks. After the dramatic turn of events last time out, most of my human associates are pretty shell-shocked. Not even an ace feline PI may be able to solve their various predicaments in the areas of crime and punishment . . . and PR, as in Personal Relationships.
As a serial killer-finder in a multivolume mystery series (not to mention a primo mouthpiece), it behooves me to update my readers old and new on past crimes and present tensions.
None can deny that the Las Vegas crime scene is a pretty busy place, and I have been treading these mean neon streets for sixteen books now. When I call myself an alphacat, some think I am merely asserting my natural male dominance, but no. I merely reference the fact that since I debuted in Catnap and Pussyfoot, I then commenced to a title sequence that is as sweet and simple as B to Z.
That is when I begin my alphabet, with the B in Cat on a Blue Monday. From then on, the color word in the title is in alphabetical order up to the current volume, Cat in an Orange Twist. (Yeow! I do so detest citrus!)
Since I associate with a multifarious and nefarious crew of human beings, and since Las Vegas is littered with guidebooks as well as bodies, I wish to provide a rundown of the local landmarks on my particular map of the world. A cast of characters, so to speak:
To wit, my lovely roommate and high-heel devotee, Miss Nancy Drew on killer spikes, freelance PR ace MISS TEMPLE BARR, who has reunited with her only love . . .
. . . the once missing-in-action magician MR. MAX KINSELLA, who has good reason for invisibility. After his cousin SEAN died in a bomb attack during a post-high school jaunt to Ireland, he went into undercover counterterrorism work with his mentor, GANDOLPH THE GREAT, whose unsolved murder last Halloween while unmasking phony psychics at a séance is still on the books.
Meanwhile Mr. Max is sought by another dame, Las Vegas homicide LIEUTENANT C. R. MOLINA, mother of preteen MARIAH. . .
. . . and also the good friend of Miss Temple’s handsome neighbor, MR. MATT DEVINE.He is a syndicated radio talk-show shrink and former Roman Catholic priest who came to Las Vegas to track down his abusive stepfather, MR. CLIFF EFFINGER, who is now dead and buried. By whose hand no one is quite sure.
Speaking of unhappy pasts, Lieutenant Carmen Regina Molina is not thrilled that her former flame, MR. RAFI NADIR, the unsuspecting father of Mariah, is in Las Vegas taking on shady muscle jobs after blowing his career on the LAPD . . .
. . . or that Mr. Max Kinsella is aware of Rafi and his past relationship to hers truly. She had hoped to nail one man or the other as the Stripper Killer, but Miss Temple prevented that by attracting the attention of the real perp.
In the meantime, Mr. Matt drew a stalker, the local girl that young Max and his cousin Sean boyishly competed for in that long-ago Ireland . . .
. . . one MISS KATHLEEN O’CONNOR, deservedly christened by Miss Temple as Kitty the Cutter. Finding Mr. Max impossible to trace, she settled for harassing with tooth and claw the nearest innocent bystander, Mr. Matt Devine . . .
. . . who is still trying to recover from the crush he developed on Miss Temple, his neighbor at the Circle Ritz condominiums, while Mr. Max was missing in action. He did that by not very boldly seeking new women, all of whom were in danger from said Kitty the Cutter.
In fact, on the advice of counsel, i.e., AMBROSIA, Mr. Matt’s talk-show producer, and none other than the aforesaid Lt. Molina, he tried to disarm Miss Kitty’s pathological interest in his sexual state (she had a past penchant for seducing priests) by attempting to commit loss of virginity with a call girl least likely to be the object of K the Cutter’s retaliation. Except that hours after their assignation at the Goliath Hotel, said call girl turned up deader than an ice-cold deck of Bicycle playing cards. So did he, or didn’t he? Commit sin . . . or maybe murder.
But there are thirty-some million potential victims in this old town, if you include the constant come and go of tourists, and everything is up for grabs in Las Vegas 24/7: guilt, innocence, money, power, love, loss, death, and significant others.
All this human sex and violence makes me glad I have a simpler social life, such as just trying to get along with my unacknowledged daughter . . .
. . . MISS MIDNIGHT LOUISE, who insinuated herself into my cases until I was forced to set up shop with her as Midnight Inc. Investigations, and who has also nosed herself into my long-running duel with . . .
. . . the evil Siamese assassin HYACINTH, first met as the onstage assistant to the mysterious lady magician . . .
. . . SHANGRI-LA, who made off with Miss Temple’s semiengagement ring from Mr. Max during an onstage trick and has not been seen since except in sinister glimpses . . .
. . . just like THE SYNTH, an ancient cabal of magicians that may deserve contemporary credit for various unsolved deaths around Las Vegas.
Well, there you have it, the usual human stew, all mixed up and at odds with each other and within themselves. Obviously, it is up to me to solve all their mysteries and nail a few crooks along the way. Like Las Vegas, the City that Never sleeps, Midnight Louie, private eye, also has a sobriquet: the Kitty that Never Sleeps.
With this crew, who could?
Expiration Date
“Well, as I live and breathe! Or maybe I don’t.”
Temple looked up from her trudge across the condo parking lot. Albertson’s plastic grocery bags dangled from her every extremity. She’d been thinking, however, less of cabbages and more of furniture kings, her next freelance public relations assignment.
“Electra.”
There her sixty-something landlady stood like somebody’s favorite fairy-godmother-cum-conscience, arms akimbo on broad muumuu-swathed hips.
“Let me help you with those bags before you break a fingernail,” Electra said.-
Temple stopped, happy to let Electra strip her of assorted burdens. She hadn’t seen Electra Lark in what seemed like ages, given all the clandestine excitement in her own life lately.
Apparently that was a major omission, because something was radically different about Electra. For one thing, she looked fifteen years younger.
“Electra. Your hair is brown.”
“Well, aren’t you the ace detective! Correction. My hair used to be brown.”
“And so it is again. Hey. It looks great this way. And what did you mean by ‘maybe you don’t’ live and breathe?”
Electra leaned close as they resumed plodding toward the side door of the Circle Ritz apartments and condominiums, a round ’50s building that was, architecturally speaking, as charmingly eccentric as its owner.
“It seems this old place is haunted.”
“Haunted? Oh, I don’t think so, Electra.”
“Don’t believe in ghosts?”
“Not here.”
By now Electra had tugged—and Temple had elb
owed—the door open and they squeezed through together.
Inside, the hall was cooler, but not much. Summer had not yet turned Las Vegas streets into one big sizzling Oriental wok.
“Why should the Circle Ritz be immune from ghosts?” Electra asked.
“Because I live here and I really don’t need another complication in my life right now.”
“You live here. Isn’t that amazing?’
They had reached the small but handsome lobby. Electra pressed the up button for the sole elevator with one elbow and the expertise of a longtime resident.
“I don’t live here?” Temple was getting alarmed.
Electra’s usual mode was unconventional rather than cryptic. She’d always used her snow white hair as a palette for a rainbow of temporary colors to match the vivid tones in her ever-present muumuus.
Brown was alarmingly ordinary for one of Electra’s expressive bent.
“Is this your subtle way,” Temple asked, “of trying to kick me out? You can’t. I own my place. On the other hand, you could kick out Matt Devine. He only rents.” As if anyone would ever want to kick out Matt Devine.
“Matt who?”
“Electra! You’re acting ultraweird. Maybe Miss Clairol has gone to more than your head. The moment I dig my key out of my tote bag and let us in, I’m going to fix a cup of tea or a snifter of brandy and find out what’s going on with you.”
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