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  PRAISE FOR MIDNIGHT LOUIE & COMPANY

  ATTENTION! All you ailurophiles addicted to Lilian Jackson Braun’s THE CAT WHO mysteries can latch onto a new purrivate eye: Midnight Louie... slinking and sleuthing on his own á la Mike Hammer.”—Fort Worth Star-Telegram

  “[Perhaps] there should be only two categories of mysteries: those with cats and those without. This is a ‘with’, big time. Midnight Louie [is] one of my favorite hep cats. Douglas has always written strong women characters and has always been before her time... Several thumbs up.”—Mystery News

  “After garnering considerable acclaim for her delicious Irene Adler historical adventures, Ms. D. reveals yet another brilliant facet of her amazing versatility in this equally delightful contemporary puzzler.”—Melinda Heifer, RT Book Reviews

  “Carole Nelson Douglas takes anthropomorphism to elegant heights as Midnight Louie, a tom who’s a private dick, harries Las Vegas malefactors.”—Publishers Weekly

  “MIDNIGHT LOUIE IS ONE HEAVY DUDE. Gourmand, ladies’ man and world-class dog-baiter, this feline detective attacks crime tooth and nail. But if he lays a paw on my lasagna, he’ll tangle with a real heavyweight.”—GARFIELD, as told to JIM DAVIS

  “Move over, Koko and Yum Yum (and Sneaky Pie too): Midnight Louie’s back, prowling the sin-soaked streets of Las Vegas once again.”—The Purloined Letter

  “Midnight Louie’s off his leash for the first time since CAT IN AN ALPHABET SOUP with his own superbly funny side of the tale...”—Mystery News

  For Anne Perry, phenomenal mystery and fantasy writer and cat lover,

  for her support of my fictional worlds

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Back Cover

  About the Midnight Louie mysteries

  Copyright

  Start Book

  Cat in a Blue Monday preview

  About the Author

  Also by Carole Nelson Douglas

  CHAPTERS

  Prologue: The Life That Late He Led

  Chapter 1: Electraglide in Black

  Chapter 2: A Crummy Encounter

  Chapter 3: Dial “M” for Matt

  Chapter 4: Crawford Sees Red

  Chapter 5: Sick to Death

  Chapter 6: No Love Lost

  Chapter 7: The Cookie Crumbles

  Chapter 8: Dance of Death

  Chapter 9: Perfect Recall

  Chapter 10: Vamp of Savannah

  Chapter 11: The Naked and the Dead

  Chapter 12: WOE vs. WHOOPE

  Chapter 13: The Naked Nose

  Chapter 14: Kitty City Nitty-Gritty

  Chapter 15: Little Girl Lost

  Chapter 16: Crime and Punishment

  Chapter 17: Official Abuse

  Chapter 18: A Roommate to Die For

  Chapter 19: A Kinky Cat-tail

  Chapter 20: The Sweet Smell of Success

  Chapter 21: A Walk on the Wild Side

  Chapter 22: Golden Girls and Boys...

  Chapter 23: Nursery Crimes

  Chapter 24: Poster Boy

  Chapter 25: The Kitty City Connection

  Chapter 26: ...All Must Come to Dust

  Chapter 27: Louie in a Jam

  Chapter 28: Louie Takes a Powder

  Chapter 29: Born to Be Child

  Chapter 30: A Stitch in Time...

  Chapter 31: ...Saves Nine

  Chapter 32: Louie Bows Out

  Chapter 33: Electra City

  Chapter 34: Little Cat Feet

  Tailpiece: Midnight Louie Lets His Hair Down

  Carole Nelson Douglas Untangles Some Snarls

  CAT IN AN AQUA STORM

  (formerly titled Pussyfoot)

  THE MIDNIGHT LOUIE ALPHABET SAGA CONTINUES . . .

  Follow the clues from the foundation “Alphabet” novel through a colorful kaleidoscope of crimes as the bestselling cat mystery series moves to A to Z

  Cat in an Alphabet Soup... Cat in an Aqua Storm... 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... Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit... Cat in a Quicksilver Caper... Cat in a Red Hot Rage... Cat in a Sapphire Slipper... Cat in a Topaz Tango... Cat in an Ultramarine Scheme... Cat in a Vegas Gold Vendetta... Cat in a White Tie and Tails... Cat in an Alien X-Ray... Cat in a Yellow Spotlight... Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

  CAT IN AN AQUA STORM

  (formerly titled Pussyfoot)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Since Midnight Louie’s mystery adventures began in 1992, the soon-to-be 27-book series in a retro-modern saga that portrays twenty-five years of amazing Las Vegas Strip reinvention from the early 1990s to today. Yet, the foreground story only covers a couple of years in the characters’ lives. Think of the vintage movies that filmed a couple walking on a treadmill against a constantly changing background.

  So be warned: you will see “dead people” in the pop culture references, and also see how the Las Vegas Strip, cell phones and recent technologies evolved as they happened. And even the irreverent rascal, Midnight Louie, will become politically correct in one key department.

  Previously in Midnight Louie’s

  Lives and Times

  The Life That Late He Led

  Even the darkest day begins with a dawn.

  This one starts with me lounging on the second-story patio of my pied-à-terre as the sun rises over Muddy Mountain. Clouds shift against the distant peaks like Sally Rand’s famous ostrich fans teasing the notorious, apparently naked foothills of her form.

  Fading shades of pink and blue reveal the sun’s naked red eye opening to scorch the already-browned sands. Good old Sol has been up all night, just like the folks on the Las Vegas Strip, only he did his usual disappearing act while smiling on the other side of the world. Smart fellow.

  It is early July, and soon the sands will be hotter than a sizzling lucky streak on a craps table. I allow my eastward-gazing mind to picture Lake Mead as a bright London-blue topaz in its dusty desert setting. Hundreds of carp glitter like sunken gold along the shoreline, carp a-pant for the daily influx of tidbit-bearing tourists. I have never seen this treasure hoard of panhandling carp in person, but I hear plenty about them. I share the tourists’ fondness for carp, although my tastes run more to feeding on than feeding to.

  I expect a tranquil day. Miss Temple Barr, my doting roommate and a freelance public relations specialist, is between assignments. While I dream of vistas of wild game, my civilized heart awaits the grrrr of the can opener. This happy sound precedes the dollop of some rich aquatic concoction into the banana spilt dish that my little doll has deemed fitting for, and large enough, to accommodate my healthy appetite.

  It is not a bad life I lead of late, during this age of Aquarius. Much is to be said for domestic bliss, especially by one who not four weeks ago languished on Death Row in the local animal pound. It is true that my presence there was by design: I went undercover as a common homeless dude, a transient as the sociologists put it, in order to solve a murder at a booksellers convention. Yet this environment in which I now bask—a ray of not-yet-searing sun, a dry desert breeze and Miss Temple Barr hovering with the can opener—appeals far more nowadays than the edge-treading loner’s life-style I have been wont to lead.

  So I slip into the languid snooze my kind is famous for, a happy laid-back dude expecting no more at the moment than the attentions and comforts I have earned over the course of several of my lives.

  My personal sun-spot has shifted into shade when I next come to, awakened b
y the click-click of two dainty high heels arriving at my side. Gastric juices begin doing a tap dance on my rib cage as I lazily cock open one green peeper. I do not wish my famous, devastating stare to bedazzle my little doll before she is completely awake.

  But Miss Temple Barr is more awake than I think, or than she should be at this early hour.

  “No breakfast for you, Louie,” she announces with puzzling cheerfulness.

  My still-drowsing senses are then jolted by yet another out-of-custom shock. Something thumps down beside me. Before I can open my other eye to study the phenomenon, Miss Temple Barr's long-nailed hand (she has irresistible attractions for a fellow of my sort) scoops under my midsection.

  "Come on, big boy. Whew, what a handful.”

  While I enjoy the personal contact, and before I am fully awake, I am prodded into an ambience I know all too well: four bland-blond walls that reek of plastic.

  A silver grille snaps shut on my blinking, disbelieving eyes. I have been herded into a portable cell. All I can see through my steel meshwork is Miss Temple Barr’s shapely ankles, today propped atop a pair of deep purple pumps. (Some so-called experts claim that my breed is color-blind, but what do they know? Certainly their conclusions are not based on personal testimony.)

  I know that I see pure red as the reality of my situation impresses itself upon me... mostly it is the grille that is impressed upon my body hair as I turn frantically in the cramped space. I also express my opinion in words not fit for the company of a lady, but then Miss Temple Barr’s entrapment scheme is less than ladylike.

  “Hey, no growling, Louie. It won’t be so bad.”

  My portable cell is swooped aloft to the accompaniment of Miss Temple's anguished oof. Then I am swaying helplessly beside her as she trots into the condominium, pauses to grab her tote bag and car keys and vamooses out the door. Some say that ocean voyages produce seasickness. I say that bouncing about like a captive clapper in a molded plastic swinging bell is worse.

  At last I am slung onto the sun-warmed front seat of her Geo Storm car. I feel like last week’s refuse being heaved into the belly of the trash truck. Miss Temple Barr hops behind the wheel and starts the car. Moments later the air-conditioner grilles spurt a stream of hot air directly into my big green beads.

  I sigh, turn my posterior to the door of my cell, and settle onto my stomach, which has now joined me in making soft, intermittent growls of protest. The aqua Storm darts through the early-morning traffic like the winged insect known as a darning needle. It was a knitting needle that iced the book dude, I recall, as I contemplate using that weapon on Miss Temple Barr. Is this the thanks I get for solving the ABA murder and getting her tat (what little there is of it—she is more than somewhat petite) out of the fire?

  At last the car stops and Miss Temple Barr leaps out. I am extracted in my cage and taken into a low building that smells of disinfectant, indiscretions of a liquid nature, and dogs. I cannot believe my nose! I have been returned to Death Row, although the betraying scents seem muted now.

  “Oooh, he's a hefty one,” a feminine voice chirps as I am flung atop a counter, case and all. “A real heavyweight."

  “Yup," Miss Temple Barr admits with little concern for my feelings and the truth.

  I am solid, that is true, but this is all muscle and bone.

  "What is his name?”

  “Midnight Louie.”

  “Cute. Is he black all over?”

  “I think so. I haven’t looked everywhere.”

  "Then you do not know if he is fixed or not."

  “Er... no.”

  I have never heard my little doll sounding so uncertain, and a trifle guilty.

  "Last name?” the chirpy chick prods.

  “His... or mine?”

  “Yours is his now.”

  "Oh. Barr. But Midnight Louie Barr doesn't sound right.”

  “It is just for the records. We had better weigh him,” Miss Chirpy suggests.

  At last! The grille swings open and I am swung out in my little lady’s loving arms. Not for long. I am swiftly deposited like an errant hairball on a black rubber carpet.

  "Eighteen—nineteen. Nineteen point eight." Miss Chirpy’s tone drips with syrupy admonition. “Time for an improvement in diet.”

  This ambiguous statement suggests that some chow is headed my way, at least. I growl approval as Miss Temple Barr lifts me again with a graceless groan, and follows the white-coated female into a private chamber.

  I have heard of such places, though I am not sure if this is the kind of joint that arranges forced assignations between two individuals of the opposite sex who have never before met. I have not been party to such shenanigans in the past, being perfectly capable of finding my own lady friends.

  “I am sorry, Louie,” Miss Temple Barr croons while chucking me under the chin. I have never known it to fail that a person chucks me under the chin when playing Benedict Arnold, or is it Roseanne Arnold these days? And didn’t her last name used to be Barr?

  I only have time to scan the ceiling for spiders, study a cabinet filled with bottles and boxes of a pharmaceutical nature, and observe that I am sitting atop a slab with a monolithic base not unlike a sacrificial altar. (I have seen my share of old movies when the TV remote and I are the only active things in the living room.)

  The hair on the back of my neck rises as the door opens, then closes just as quickly. I glimpse another white lab coat.

  “Dr. Doolittle,” a second strange female announces herself. I am feeling surrounded. I look up and would blanch, were that possible. I am staring up at an exceedingly thin, tall doll with a face that would do a hatchet man credit. I have never before seen such a personage, but it is clear that Midnight Louie has joined the vet set, not by his own inclinations.

  “Is he purring or shaking?” this female Dr. Death inquires, laying a bony hand upon my shoulders. I do not think much of her diagnostic skills. Any fool could see that the frigid air-conditioning is giving me an ague. This doctor doll reminds me of every villainous or supposedly expert human female known to man or tomcat.

  "I doubt he has seen a vet before," Miss Temple hazards, rightly. "He is a stray I found. He used to be unofficial house cat at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel on the Strip.”

  “Hmm.” Dr. Cruella flicks back my eyelid so that all I see is her hairless hand before my eyes, then pulls my jaws open and leans forward to inspect my teeth. "This big guy is lucky that he was not picked up and sent for a three-day stay at the Hotel from Hell—the animal pound.”

  My tail lashes while I weigh the benefits of sinking a fang into the vet’s disgusting, white nose so temptingly within reach. Miss Temple Bar would no doubt find such behavior, however much an act of self-defense, embarrassing, so I restrain myself. I permit myself a low, warning wail, however.

  "Eight, maybe nine years old, I would say.” Dr. Imelda narrows her eyes. "Nice shoes," she adds approvingly, glancing at my erstwhile friend's feet. She presses my palm until my digits spread. “Nails could use clipping. You ever do that?"

  "Only my own,” Miss Temple answers.

  “Well." The vet sticks a cold hand under my nether parts and pulls me to a standing position. I have never been so humiliated in my life. “He will need all his shots, of course. He is a bit old for declawing, but we could neuter him at the same time. Do you let him outside?”

  “Actually, Louie lets himself out."

  “Oh?”

  "I leave a small bathroom window open. If I do not, he has been known to unlatch the French door to the patio.”

  “Quite a talented scamp,” Dr. Frankenstein’s smarter younger sister says with a feeble laugh that I do not like. “And he will have to go on the latest scientific formula diet, of course. The out-of-shape senior variety."

  I twist angrily out of her grasp and berate her with a few choice words, which she ignores as if they were Urdu.

  Miss Temple Barr forlornly strokes my head. “I do not want to overwhelm Louie,” she says with
the wisdom and sensitivity I have come to expect from her superior sort of person. “Just the shots and the food today.”

  “But if he wanders, you cannot want him impregnating all the female cats.”

  "No, but maybe he has slowed down.”

  Fat, excuse the expression, chance.

  “I really advise you to at least fix him," Dr. Ruth suggests with a cheerful leer. “If he goes out, he might need his claws, but he certainly does not need his procreative powers with four out of five kittens born doomed to die within a year.”

  "No...” Miss Temple is waffling.

  I huddle, preparing to hurtle atop the cabinet. When the two shout for help in retrieving me, I will bound down atop the rescuer's head, and be out the door before you can say "sold downriver.”

  “At his age he could get pretty badly beaten up in a fight with another tom,” Dr. Demento says.

  Name one! Or even a Dick or Harry who could cream my corn!

  Miss Temple regards me in sad perplexity, even her perky red curls drooping.

  “I have never seen him injured,” she says. “Maybe he is too big to get hurt.”

  “Now that you have brought him indoors, he could spray the furniture. Males are messy, you know.”

  Here I cannot restrain a snarl. I do not deny that I am a gentleman of the road, but my indoor manners are impeccable. Even outdoors I am a model of civic responsibility, and go out of my way to make my deposits beside, rather than on top of, the flora.

  “Spraying...? He has not done that yet,” Miss Temple murmurs in my defense, but her tone is troublingly indecisive.

  Clearly, some unmistakable action is required, and I take it. I yowl plaintively and rake my front fingernails across the gray Formica.

  This protest shakes my little doll out of her funk. “Just the shots, please,” she says. “I will see about getting some special food on the way out.”