Cat in an Orange Twist Read online

  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

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  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.”