Cat in an Orange Twist

by Carole Nelson Douglas

Well! Am I not sufficiently riveting even when comatose that an unbiased observer would give me a second glance?

  The figure is slim and surmounted by a curly fall of matte black hair. The person is apparently staring at the vignette now between me and it, a snazzy Art Deco design that I heard Miss Temple say was the work of the late and very lamented Mr. Simon Foster.

  There have been no more footsteps approaching but suddenly I spot another person arriving on the scene.

  The woman who has the toe-tic suddenly senses his presence, but not mine, and turns. She has pale narrow features set in a perpetual sneer.

  “Jerome! You startled me.”

  Jerome does not look like he could startle a gerbil, but I see he wears those thick-soled tennis shoes, so he certainly could pad around as soundlessly as I do.

  “Just carting your latest accessories to the model room you wanted to revise.”

  “Good. Maybe you can tell me who switched these Erté prints again.”

  “It cannot have been Simon. He is dead. I figured you had done it.”

  “No! I made sure they were the way I wanted them as soon as he was dead.”

  Silence greets this confession.

  “Uh,” she says, “they were never hung right and I caught that nosy PR woman switching them, so I, um, thought it only fitting to rearrange them as a final memorial.” She frowns as she turns back to the ersatz wall on which the prints under discussion are displayed.

  “Cannot leave even the dead alone, can you, Beth?”

  “Jerome. You are pushing it.”

  “At least I am not pushing daisies, no thanks to your continual carping. You have no right to boss me around. You have no official authority over anyone in this store.”

  “The worm wiggles, but it does not quite manage to turn, poor thing. Maybe I do not need official authority, Jerome. Maybe I have a better kind of authority.”

  “What? Blackmail? I never thought you could sleep your way up, even at a Hell’s Angels rally. Blackmail. You would be game for that, but I can’t see who or how. Everybody knows that half the staff is gay, so you cannot ‘out’ anyone. Or can you?”

  Okay, I am trying to put this modern parlance into play on the crime scene here. I did not know half the staff was gay, although I have known a few gays among my own kind. That gets to be a very gray area for catkind, because sometimes the most heterosexual dude is so high on testosterone that he would mistake a fun fur for a romantic target. This has never happened to me, I hasten to reassure. I am thoroughly fixated on the female of the species . . . er, any species. That is just the way I am, as others are another way. We all live in the same skins, after all.

  “Maybe it is Simon’s ghost.” Jerome is staring at the Erté prints. “He never did like you messing with his design layout. Maybe he has come back to switch prints just to spite you, Beth.”

  She is quiet a heartbeat too long.

  Jerome goes on: “It is weird how all the artwork on the walls keeps changing around here. I really think we have a dead decorator in residence. What do you think?”

  “I think the world is ‘designer,’ schmuck, and that you had better tote that ugly clown painting where I told you to, and shut up. You are right. One word and you will not have a job.”

  “A hollow threat. Maybe someday the Maylords ghost will hang you up to dry, although I doubt your hide would do much for the walls.”

  “You—”

  Jerome glides away on his Reekboks, i.e., smelly, rubber soles, so the only person to hear the end of her epithet is me.

  “—asshole.”

  That is when I join the entire staff in taking an eternal dislike to Miss Beth, despite my usual tendency to revere and assist her gender.

  “Ghost!” she harrumphs out loud.

  And steps up to the wall to reverse the position of the prints. This is one obsessive-compulsive lady.

  The next set of footsteps are firm and readily detectable.

  “Beth. What are you doing?”

  “Mr. Maylord.”

  “Well?”

  “I was changing these prints.”

  “Why? They look fine the way they are.”

  “Simon would have preferred—”

  “Simon. Yes. Poor fellow.”

  I study a man in his early thirties, well dressed, with an air of eager authority. Eager authority never cuts it, I have found. If you have true authority, you do not need to be eager for anything. He who can wait, rules. Observe the humble housecat.

  And I can outwait any of them.

  “You know, Mr. Maylord, I merely want the showroom floor to be as perfect as possible.”

  “Yes. Well. I have heard that your methods have riled some of the employees, including the late Simon Foster. We are looking for employee synergy here at Maylords, Miss Blanchard, not controversy. Perhaps you had better leave the walls designed by others alone. You have your own space, do you not?”

  “Yes, Mr. Maylord.” Her tone is insolent. “I suppose your brother would have the same philosophy.”

  “My brother—? He has nothing to do with this location. Nothing. Surely there is something you could do elsewhere. Sales to be made, perhaps.”

  “You mean clients to be enlisted.”

  “Right. Carry on.”

  And he leaves the field to her. She glances around, a bit nervously, her eyes skimming past me as if I were Dumpster fungus. Then she steps up to the wall and reverses the prints despite everything.

  Still, she looks a little unnerved, so I loose a hiss beneath my breath and escalate it into the faintest, ghostly wail.

  “Stupid!” she tells herself just as harshly as she berates others. “Nothing haunts this place but blind fools it is a pleasure to make bigger fools of. Simon, see what you got for blowing me off and messing with my adjustments? Burn in hell!”

  And she stomps off like an army of Jimmy Choos on parade.

  I am so relieved that I have not had to explain myself to my Miss Temple (although I never would or could; I am a firm believer in the Sphinxlike expression as the best course in touchy situations), that I do drift off to sleep upon my Donna Karan leather sofa. Everything is designer-something nowadays. Perhaps I need a corporate logo for Midnight Inc. Investigations. Maybe a tie-in reality TV show: Las Vegas MSI: Midnight’s Scientific Investigations.

  This is but a dream. I wake to the limpid tones of a heavenly host.

  No, I have not joined the late, lamented Simon in the afterlife. It appears that I have been “discovered” by a shopper possessing true taste.

  “Goodness! I had never seen a more ingratiating and lifelike stuffed cat. Well, ‘stuffed cat’ hardly fits this magnificent faux feline. This is a work of soft-sculpture art. I must have it!”

  “Uh, ma’am.”The unprepossessing Jerome is back and glancing around nervously. “I am not a sales associate. I just do . . . windows.”

  “You do? Young man, I may have a part-time job for you.” The speaker is a woman of that certain age and weight that permits her to be described as a “matron.” Since the only “matrons” I have run into are keepers of female prisoners, I am a bit disconcerted. Does this woman wish to remove me to a place on incarceration? I think not.

  “Display windows, ma’am,” Jerome says with surprising firmness. Apparently even a professional jellyfish may develop a spine. “Let me find a sales associate.”

  “I only want to know how much this handsome fellow is . . . Funny, there is no tag around his neck.”

  Right on, lady. Collars are for dogs and sex slaves.

  “Perhaps it is on the rear. We should turn him over.”

  What?!

  “Sometimes they put a little satin tag there, just where the . . . well, you know, would be.”

  I discern that Jerome is as appalled by this shocking lack of sensibility as I am. “I do not know, ma’am. Let me get you a sales associate.”

  “Sales?” She arches a penciled eyebrow. “I understood Maylords shied away from such commerci
al terms.”

  “Well, ordinarily, ma’am. I will find an . . . article placement person for you. No doubt this, uh, soft sculpture is listed on a computer, along with its price.”

  No way, José. I have no price and no computer record either, thank you very much.

  “Oh, this lovely beast is priceless,” the lady proclaims, resting on my head a chubby hand with the fingers swelling against several carats of large, obvious diamonds. “No wonder there is nothing as obvious as a price tag on it. He is the Eternal, Mysterious Black Cat. I must have him!”

  Would that the Divine Yvette felt so strongly! Oh, well. I cringe as Jerome skedaddles in search of some crass commercial agent. Obviously this dame would pay plenty for me.

  I daydream what the computer might turn up. Six hundred dollars. A diamond collar to go? I may have a day job here.

  The lady has turned to view Simon’s vignette. “Art Deco! He was such a fabulous designer! I love everything he does. I had no idea Maylords employed him. Now where did that rabbity young man go? Imagine not tagging a wonderful accessory like a black velvet panther.”

  She waddles off and I take the opportunity to hit pad to pavement—cool polished travertine, in this case, not parboiled Las Vegas asphalt—and get myself out of this madhouse.

  At least I have not run into Miss Temple, but I have plenty of things about Maylords to consider, including the fact that they could use a Midnight Louie signature accessory line. Amelia Wong, watch out!

  Gainful Employment

  Temple couldn’t believe what a quick Tuesday afternoon stop at May-lords had netted her: Rafi Nadir cruising past before she’d made it out of the atrium and dropping several typed sheets into the Black Hole of her ever-present tote bag.

  What a smooth snitch!

  Temple had some free time. Perfect! No Wong events were scheduled until the arts council reception in the Maylords atrium tonight to celebrate Maylords’ support of local cultural issues. Now if only nothing scary and violent and worthy of a CS1: Crime Scene Investigation script happened. . . . No shot-out windows, no stabbed sales associates.

  Even a seasoned PR person like Temple found it hard to believe the week’s schedule of events, with slight adjustments for murder and mayhem, just kept rolling along. A bunch of UFO fanatics had trespassed at Area 51, which swept Simon’s murder to a few short paragraphs inside the newspapers. A pop tart girl singer had French-kissed a boxer dog onstage at the Oasis, which pushed TV film of the murder Murano to a fifteen-second flash at the end of the news. She found Kenny Maylord happily watching Amelia Wong and assistants presenting one of their daily feng shui demonstrations to a standing-room-only crowd in the small auditorium off the café area. It was as if Simon Foster had never been part of the hoopla, as if he’d never been here, excited to debut his vignette designs, eager to adjust every picture frame and fluff every silk-tasseled pillow.

  Even the Murano no longer stalled at stage center in all its gory orange glory. Kenny had wanted to replace the impounded vehicle with a new one, but the dealer wasn’t about to take back a murder car, even though the police said that Simon had been stabbed elsewhere and placed in the Murano long after blood had flowed. Temple had convinced Kenny to bring in an equally new and hot orange model: the Cadillac CTS.

  Changing out vehicles didn’t shut out reality. Temple closed her eyes. This was all about Simon. The viewing was tonight. She’d have to leave the party, abstentemious, and rush, uh, drive safely to the funeral parlor. Matt had asked her, gingerly, about when and where the visitation would be and had offered to escort her. Temple had declined. Mostly because he looked too much like the dear departed, from the back.

  Had somebody been after Matt all the time? Hard to believe, but then who would have believed he’d have attracted a homicidal stalker either. Although in that case he had only been a handy substitute for the real prey, Max.

  Just then Matt’s seminary friend, Jerome, came shuffling by, toting something as usual, looking like a total flunky. Temple caught a glimmer of distaste in his expression as he passed her.

  Why pick on her? She was nice to people. Oh. People included Matt. Strange places, those seminaries. Male clubs, really. Even though token women were now finally admitted, they couldn’t aspire to any real power. Matt had admitted as much.

  In a sense, Matt had rejected Jerome. Would that merit a knife in the back, even if it was the wrong back? Underdogs could show surprising nerve . . . especially if the counterattack was cowardly.

  Temple shook her head. She’d check out the ex-employees on Rafi’s list before speculating further. Someone who’d been let go so soon might have an even bigger grudge against those who’d stayed, and especially those who’d stayed because they were gifted at their jobs, like Simon.

  God, she dreaded tonight.

  Temple drove off the Maylords lot and stopped the Miata at a curb two blocks away in a pittance of shade under some overgrown oleander bushes.

  She dug out Rafi’s papers, her fingers clumsy with excitement. Maybe someone on this list would have a clue as to why murder had become a key accessory at Maylords Fine Furnishings.

  Jubilation was her first reaction when she scanned the list. It was blessedly thorough: name, address, phone number—even e-mail address—for each employee. Every newsie, every PR person’s heart rejoiced to see hard facts marshaled like little tin soldiers in black type on white paper.

  She frowned at the cryptic words after each name. Avatar. Genji. Mongrel. Bebe. Whipped Cream.

  Some names had been crossed out, with dates penciled next to the Xes.

  Okay, she’d just have to ask . . . ”Caesar,” “Grandview,” and “Saltlick,” three of the former employees, what the nicknames meant.

  Let’s see. Who was closest?

  Temple pulled out her map of greater Las Vegas, and triangulated on the first target.

  ”‘Grandview’ it is.”

  There had been an Art Deco-vintage movie theater in St. Paul by that name. Temple chose to regard this fairly remote coincidence as a good sign.

  She put the Miata in gear and shot off to the Granada Apartments. Surely a recently unemployed person would be at home, sending résumés via the Internet.

  The Granada Apartments were thirty years old, not quite antique enough to be chic. Lord, Temple hoped that description did not describe her! Then she felt an instant pang as she recalled Danny Dove’s enthusiasm for moving into the Circle Ritz with Simon.

  One moment, a stable happy life. The next, history. She tried to imagine how she’d have felt if Matt had fallen victim to his stalker. Do not go there. Or if Max had lost to Molina, and was facing decades in prison on some trumped-up charge. Do not go there.

  It did occur to her to wonder why all the men in her life . . . well, both. . . well, the one man in her life and the runner-up . . . faced mortal danger so often. Was she possibly an unlucky omen?

  Do not go there.

  Temple pulled onto the cracked concrete parking lot of the Granada Apartments. Three stories. Beige stucco. Ticky-tacky tiny balconies just big enough for a discount-store fold-up chair and a geranium planter. Genteel getting by.

  Temple checked her list. “Grandview”—Glory Diaz was the name—had been fantasizing if she’d come up with that word while looking out from her balcony here. Who could blame her for dreaming, though?

  Temple hustled out of the Miata (newest car on the lot) and hurried to the second-floor unit.

  The unit’s doorbell didn’t give when pushed, so Temple knocked. And knocked. Until her knuckles stung. From inside came the strains of ’40s swing music, which Temple normally liked, when it wasn’t interfering with her pursuit of a victim, witness, or suspect. Listen to her: Nancy Drew on Xenadrine.

  Finally, she heard the chain lock scraping open. The doorknob turned.

  There stood Glory Diaz, a bottle blonde wearing dead-hooker black Maybelline eyeliner. Makeup caked in the furrows of her face despite the glamour look: her chorus-girl height
was enhanced by strappy high heels from Wild Woman cheapo shoe store in the mall. Platinum hair and leopardskin-print spandex skimpy in all the wrong places finished the look, and how!

  Temple felt “Grandview” didn’t have much of a future vista.

  In fact, she couldn’t imagine Maylords hiring this hard-edged dame in the first place, despite her very passing resemblance to a worn-out chorine. Still, one had to make the best of a bad deal.

  “Hi! I’m Temple Barr. I’m doing publicity for Maylords. Some bizarre things have been going on there. I thought that you, as a former employee, could clue me in on a thing or two.”

  “Honey, have I got news for you! Come on in. Would you like some Pernod?”

  “Uh, no.” Temple had never figured out what exactly Pernod was, so she decided she was best off avoiding it at all costs. When in doubt, don’t fake it.

  Glory Diaz, who must be brunette under that Marilyn Monroe coif—was it a wig?—tsked like a grandmother, then licked her exaggerated lips. “Lime Kool-Aid, then?”

  “Cool.” Temple stepped onto the orange shag carpet. Ick. Whatever marketing guru had decreed orange temporarily chic again had been temporarily insane.

  Temple took the offered seat on a long, terminally floral sofa. It made Electra Lark’s Hawaiian muumuus look restrained.

  Glory sat, her own floral sheath shifting well above her bare, Mystic Tan-tawny, albeit knobby, knees.

  Her shoes were Plexiglas spike platforms that Temple had never seen outside of a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue. Hey, everyone has a secret vice or two. Hers were catalogues and fairly adventuresome shoes, so she couldn’t be too hard on Glory’s fashion sense.

  Glory was busy pouring limeaid from a plastic pitcher on the coffee table into clear plastic glasses with paper cutouts of butterflies embedded between two clear layers. She either kept it ready for company or had been drowning her unemployment sorrows in a poison-green sugar OD.

  “So you’re the PR gal. Aren’t you the cutest thing?”

  No, Temple thought. I’m not. Not a “gal,” or a “thing” and not cute! But these darn butterfly glasses sure are!