Cat in a Vegas Gold Vendetta Read online

  I will even show my mug on the front passenger seat of Miss Temple’s red Miata. Usually I hitch a ride on the dark carpeting of backseats, unseen and inhaling a lot of foot odor and the scent of all the ugly things a human shoe can stomp on. Unlike we of the superior breed, humans never clean their soles but reuse them unwashed again and again.

  On the bright side, this filthy habit does make the human kind much easier to track.

  “Why, Louie,” Miss Temple says as I slip in the open driver’s side door and hop onto the passenger seat. “You want to ride shotgun?”

  After an exasperated look and a check of the large dial of her wristwatch, she caves. “If this were an airport run, I’d kick you off the leather seat, but it’s only the Crystal Phoenix, and I suppose you want to arrive at your old place in style. Remember. Velvet paws. No claws on the leather upholstery, not even if I have to brake suddenly. The floor carpeting is all right, though.”

  I do like the way my Miss Temple acts as if I am totally conversation-worthy, although I would never deign to talk back to humans.

  I blink my agreement to her terms and prepare to enjoy what some of the commonest dogs do—a spin in the car.

  Las Vegas is offering a warm spring day, so my Miss Temple has donned lots of lightly scented sunscreen that helps ban any offensive human odors. She is a red-cream kind of kitten with sun-sensitive face and body leather.

  Of course, my glistening black coat shines like wet tar in the sunshine and even under the Crystal Phoenix’s front canopy of mirror and tiny crystal lights when we shortly arrive there, sans sudden braking.

  I jump out when the doorman opens my side and wait politely for Miss Temple to precede me within while tourists gawk. They do not know my long history here as hotel cat and unofficial house detective before I linked up with Miss Temple and the Circle Ritz bunch.

  Before we can enter I am upstaged, however.

  Out of the row of brass and glass doors rushes one Fontana brother.

  Just one. What a disappointment! There are ten in all, and Nicky, the youngest, owns the Crystal Phoenix. Out comes Aldo, the eldest. The fickle tourist cameras turn toward his five-star looks and high-style, pale-mango Italian suit and the petite redhead on his arm who embraces my Miss Temple and does kissy-cheeks.

  Those of my breed do not deign to do kissy-cheeks. It would disarrange our magnificent, delicate vibrissae, aka whiskers. We do sniffy noses. Wait! That is not as off-putting as it sounds.

  “Temple,” the former Miss Kit Carlson, her maternal aunt, says. “We are just back from abroad and were heading to the Circle Ritz to see you.”

  I stare rebukingly at the new Mrs. Aldo Fontana until the searing burn of my regard forces her to look down.

  “To see you and Midnight Louie, of course,” she corrects herself.

  By now, Aldo is doing the kissy-cheek thing with Miss Temple. Continental, I am told, but it strikes me as unsanitary.

  “How was Italy?” Miss Temple inquires, it being impolite to baldly ask how these post-wedding flings called “honeymoons” went, which is, of course, what everyone really wants to know.

  “Divine,” Miss Kit replies.

  I do not abide by human conventions. I do not care if Miss Kit Carlson is married; she is still a Miss Kit to me. Missus is such a déclassé word.

  “How are things going here with you?” Miss Kit adds with an amiable smile.

  “You would not believe,” my Miss Temple answers. “Meanwhile, I’m late; I am late for a very insignificant date. May we catch up later, please?”

  “Of course,” Miss Kit says. She is a thirty-year-older version of Miss Temple, and her prime state of preservation for an old dame should cheer up my now-distracted roomie.

  I am not about to miss a word that these two exchange about the Current Crises, for they are more gal-pals than aunt and niece. Since Miss Temple has only older brothers in Minnesota, it is fortunate she has a hip, ex-Manhattanite aunt on the scene to help me provide aid and comfort in the coming end of days.

  We bustle inside. That is, my Miss Temple bustles, slinging greetings to bellmen and other passing hotel staff. I follow her in slink mode so she will not have to answer awkward questions about my ability to heel like a dog if I so choose.

  My breed is not expected to trot docilely along, and Bast forbid that I should let my breed down. Besides, I know that Miss Temple is headed for the Crystal Court, so I race to install myself discreetly before her arrival. She will think that I have headed to the rear pool area to drool over the nearby koi pond.

  Soon my baby greens are peering through the indoor greenery to the cocktail table for two where Miss Savannah Ashleigh has arranged herself.

  Being five-foot-nothing, Miss Temple favors high heels, but they are usually the classy three-inch designer kind. Miss Savannah goes for what are called “hooker shoes,” high-rises of four or even five inches. She also wears inflated blond hair (extensions) and inflated lip and chest parts (collagen).

  I can understand the human urge to supplement their scanty hair, but not to emphasize skin devoid of fur.

  I examine the bulky purse thankfully concealing the Ashleigh footwear at the moment. A pair of small shiny black eyes peeks out. Or is that “Pekes” out? I know the fickle actress has forsaken her Persian cat beauties for mere pip-squeak canines these days. Recalling my recent undercover gig as a “purse pussy,” I am in sudden sympathy with the pathetic pooch. The front paws and full head are now visible, and it is too small for even the tiniest Chihuahua.

  I pad over to inspect and sniff. Dear Predatory, Bountiful Bast! It is vermin of some kind! Barely have I realized its, ah, composition, than it slithers out of the designer bag, runs out of sight behind me, and hitches a ride on my terminal member.

  Spinning, I discover it is clinging there with all four tiny paws, like a quartet of staplers. I cannot whip around fast enough to dislodge the furry little imp, and I am soon dizzy and in danger of making an exhibition of myself, which is the last thing an undercover operative wants to do.

  On my final spin I lose the unwanted “tail” and spot its face once again peeking out from the side pocket of the blasted bag. Surely such a savage little thing is not housebroken. The mind boggles at what it must be doing in Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s purse all day.

  Behind me I hear the crisp approach of Miss Temple’s Stuart Weitzman petite-platform ankle-strap shoes. Rats! I need to dive back under cover. Rats? Why would Miss Savannah Ashleigh have a pet rat? One that is not even an attractive laboratory-white but plain dumpster-brown?

  I had been planning to make a sentimental journey back to my old PI office near the poolside canna lilies out back—back by Chef Song’s koi pond. Now, I must guard Miss Temple’s platform-and-ankle-strap from some street vermin playing footsie with her.

  I settle onto my haunches for a long eavesdropping session, when a low hiss at my rear tells me we are not alone.

  “I thought I smelled a rat,” says Miss Midnight Louise, all narrowed gold irises and fluffed black fur, nosing her obnoxious way alongside me so close you could not slip a piece of onionskin paper between us, “but it is just you.”

  “Most amusing. If you will keep an eye on Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s bag, you will spot a real rat.”

  “No! Has purse poochery come down to this? At least, the underground link to Gangsters has been certified rat-free by the health department, and the Neon Nightmare access has been cemented shut.”

  “That case and the secret tunnel may be closed, but more crime in the making is brewing somewhere. Just keep watching and listening.”

  Something more than mere vermin is afoot, and it has peroxided hair and mighty high arches.

  Chapter 3

  Violets Are Blue

  “I want to hire you,” Savannah Ashleigh told Temple, after their ordered drinks had arrived.

  “I’m strictly Las Vegas–based,” Temple said, although that might shortly become Chicago if Matt’s career break materialized. “Yo
u … work out of L.A., I would think.”

  “You would think wrong. I’ve relocated to Las Vegas because my precious Captain Jack is not allowed to be maintained in the style to which he is accustomed in California.”

  “Your ‘precious Coco,’ isn’t it? I saw during the Red Hat Sisterhood convention that you’d retired your Persians, Yvette and Solitaire—”

  “Please. Solange.”

  “—and Solange, in favor of a small dog.”

  “Coco is a papillon, but he too is retired. Too much piddling.”

  “So Captain Jack would be—?”

  Savannah reached down to probe her designer bag, which carried enough clanking brass straps and buckles to outfit an ancient Roman soldier. She lifted out something lean, long, brown, and crew-cut furry that resembled no minidog or -cat Temple had ever seen.

  A small face masked like a raccoon’s peered over Savannah’s thin, veined hands.

  Words like weasel, mink, and wolverine—wait! chinchilla or sable—darted through Temple’s mind, but they were hardly domesticated. She decided to find out.

  “Well, Captain Jack seems to have the eyeliner concession down for the role. Is that a baby raccoon?”

  “Of course not. A raccoon is a wild animal. Captain Jack is just wildly darling.”

  Savannah reached a dagger-nailed hand into the side pocket and pulled out a long supple creature that reminded Temple of an animated blond mink from the bad old days when women flounced around with a posse of full animal skins flagellating their shoulders.

  Captain Jack ably escaped his mistress’s clutches to circle her neck, run down and along the boosted ledge of her bodice, then cradle himself on her forearm.

  Temple studied the close-set, bearlike ears, the ratlike pink nose, and clawed toes. She now saw the rhinestoned harness fastened around the lean and furry body. A pet that some states might allow and others ban would be a …

  “He’s a ferret?”

  “Not just any ferret,” Savannah cooed. “He is his mumsy’s adorable little mischief maker.”

  Watching Savannah’s seriously over-collagened lips making kissy-face with a ferret had to be high on anyone’s Ick List. The actress chattered on.

  “Captain Jack is a daring and brilliant rascal. Did you know, Temple, that ferrets are among the most popular pets in the country, and members of the cat family?”

  “Nope.” Temple, dumbstruck, doubted Savannah’s extravagant claims but forgot them when she felt a feathery agitation at her bare ankles. She gazed down at a creeping carpet of glossy-leaved indoor groundcover to spot two bewhiskered black furry faces with narrowed eyes of green and gold.

  “What are the predators for this sort of creature?” Temple asked, worried.

  “Coyotes, great horned owls, golden eagles, prairie falcons, badgers, foxes, and bobcats,” Savannah answered proudly from some guidebook, probably Ferrets for Dummies. “But that’s in the wild. We’re in Las Vegas.”

  “I’ve known plenty of coyotes, badgers, foxes, and bobcats in Vegas,” Temple said. “Birds of prey, not so much.”

  “Whatever, nobody is going to get Mama’s little oochum-moochum. Really, Temple. May I call you that?” When Temple nodded, she rushed on. “You must consider dumping that misbehaving alley cat of yours for one of these darlings. They can even be vasectomized, as I so kindly—if accidentally—provided that service for your Twilight Toby, or whomever. So they have the cutest fuzzy little—”

  “Ouch!” The agitation at Temple’s ankles had developed claw tips.

  “Oh, my dear,” Savannah said, “you mustn’t personalize ‘fixing’ our little boys. The surgery really doesn’t hurt. Don’t be so … tenderhearted.”

  “I’m more tender-ankled at the moment,” Temple said. “And my cat’s name is Louie, Midnight Louie.”

  “Don’t be grumpy either. It can’t be good for your business to contradict clients.”

  “You’re not my client yet.”

  “I will be.”

  Temple sincerely doubted that, but sipped her wine spritzer, giving Savannah time to take a huge gulp of her mint julep before continuing.

  “You see, Temple, you do remember Yvette and Solange. Who could forget my silver and golden Persian beauties? My apartment in L.A. was too crowded for them when I got Captain Jack, and I travel so much, so … I left them with my aunt Violet here in Vegas.”

  Temple noticed the groundcover at her feet shifting as if a huge, hungry boa constrictor were slithering beneath it. She guessed that Midnight Louise was restraining Midnight Louie from going for Savannah’s ankles for real.

  He had performed in TV cat food commercials with Yvette, and Solange was no stranger to him, either. Hearing they’d been dumped for a dog, for a purse pooch at that, and dumped so near to his own doorstep and he’d never known, would not soothe the savage feline soul.

  “I don’t understand,” Temple said, glancing at her watch.

  The half-wine, half-sparkling-water drink was not settling the butterflies in her stomach, and she had a lot of driving to do this afternoon and tonight. Granted, distances around the Las Vegas Strip were short, but they were traffic jammed too.

  “You want me to dream up another commercial gig using the ferret?” Temple asked.

  “Captain Jack is not an ordinary ferret, but this isn’t about him or your Midnight Moocher. It’s about my aunt Violet’s yardman being found dead in some kind of … sinkhole at the back of her property. I find the incident most suspicious. Violet lives alone and has collected a lot of nice things. She’s been harassed by phone calls and e-mails. She’s reported some of her suspicions about neighbors to the police, but they brushed her off like a case of dandruff, so Violet doesn’t want to involve the cops any more than they have to be after the death she is certain was meant for her. I need a PI to look into things.”

  “Not a PR?” Temple asked, joking. That was on her business card: TEMPLE BARR, PR, with the words PUBLIC-RELATIONS SPECIALIST below.

  “Why would I want a Puerto Rican?” Savannah wondered aloud. “My cousin lives near a Mexican neighborhood.”

  Temple shook her head, knowing Savannah was too ditsy to grasp the concept of political correctness, much less the name of the cat she had once falsely accused of fathering Yvette’s first and only litter.

  On the other hand, Temple was a teensy bit flattered. This was a legitimate offer to investigate.

  “Why me?” she asked.

  “Oh, you are always around when bad things happen in this town, and I figure you wouldn’t want anything fatal to befall Yvette and Solange, since your Chewie or Chewbacca or whomever is sweet on them. My aunt Violet is a pretty smart ginger cookie, but she does have her little ways. She won’t give me the cats back, and I’m afraid if her yardman was murdered, like I think, the evil will seep into the house pretty soon.”

  Temple nodded. “I have some business that will take up the rest of today, but I could look into this tomorrow. Where does your aunt live?”

  Savannah passed over a letter the aunt had sent her in L.A. before she’d moved. The return address was one of those small printed rectangles that comes on an adhesive sheet from places where you’ve once donated money; and your name and address aren’t forgotten until the Apocalypse.

  VIOLET, was all it read, in capitol letters flanked with violet bouquets, and then the street address. Touches of gold foil decorated the tiny label.

  “How long has your aunt lived in Vegas?” Temple asked.

  “Oh, years. I take the gigs here that I do so I can look in on her. Not that she doesn’t resent that. She’s quite set in her own way, always was. We haven’t been in touch that much through the years, but now…”

  “Now what?”

  “She has terminal cancer, and her only daughter died six years ago, so…”

  “Violet’s daughter died? How?”

  “Drugs,” Savannah intoned dramatically. “It was very sudden and shocking.”

  “She must have been … y
oung.”

  “A late-in-life only child. Just twenty-something. Violet was shattered.”

  “The young woman’s father—?”

  “Long gone, along with husbands one through three. Who even knew who the father was?” Savannah rolled her eyes.

  “What kind of cancer does Violet have?”

  “Something deeply personal people do not discuss.”

  That set Temple’s speculations running amok. Enlightened people weren’t reticent talking about even terminal AIDS anymore. But then, they weren’t dealing with Savannah Ashleigh.

  “I’m so sorry about Violet’s diagnosis,” Temple said. “And you say she’s at home? Alone, and frightened?”

  “She’s had a daily woman come in for years. Doesn’t believe in doctors. Crystals are more her treatment of choice.”

  “As her niece, can’t you—?”

  “All she wants from me is for someone to look into Pedro’s murder. He’d worked for her for years and was in her will. She’s made it clear that no relative will inherit any of her money or belongings. This might sound strange, Temple, since you seem to be the family-dependent type, and if you don’t have any around you find them, but Violet was my youngest aunt and she ran away from our home and family. I finally did, too, and found her when I came out to L.A. We did … cling together a bit in our younger days for security’s sake, but after Violet had Alexandra, I couldn’t believe how she’d doted on that ugly infant. She left the world of glamour in which I was making my way to have no greater ambition than be a single mother and a successful real estate agent. She once was gorgeous, of course. She could have had it all, too. After Alex died in Tucson, Violet moved her daughter’s cats to her home here and then started taking in more stray cats to dote on. As you can see, I’ve moved on.”

  Captain Jack said Aye, aye, by climbing her shoulder, his little clawed “hand” presenting a tiny diamond ear stud he’d found loose in the depths of her bag.

  Temple had to admit that the clever ferret and his not-so-clever mistress had certainly distracted her from impending doom, or at least high anxiety. In honor of these unpleasant states, she checked her wristwatch and noted that time had flown.