Cat in a Red Hot Rage Read online

  “That’s important in Las Vegas,” Temple said.

  “That’s why they and the hotel want Temple keeping an eye on things,” Electra said proudly. “She’s got a knack for spotting killers.”

  “Only I don’t want any killers spotting me,” Temple said, “so we were trying to figure out how I could go undercover as a member. You hide a leaf in a forest, and here you’d hide your presence in a hat.”

  “I’d certainly like this matter settled as soon as possible,” Jeanne said. “I’m Queen. I’ll name you an honorary member, Temple.”

  “And my aunt too? I could use a partner.”

  “And Miss—”

  “Carlson,” Kit said.

  “Ah. And Miss Carlson too.” She ushered them to one of the registration stations and whispered her instructions to the wearer of the red hat there.

  “This would be wonderful,” Jeanne Johnson said as she turned back to them, “if a woman and an honorary Red Hat Sisterhood member found whoever killed Oleta Lark.”

  She glanced at Electra’s name tag with sudden concern. “A relative?”

  “Once removed.” By a murderer.

  “No wonder you want your crime-solving friends present and accounted for, Electra! Carry on, Hatters, and do us proud.”

  The royal audience ended with Jeanne Johnson grinning as she produced two enameled pink-hat brooches with the Red Hat Sisterhood logo. She dropped them into Kit’s and Temple’s purple canvas convention bags filled with informational sheets, convention programs, and favors from bars of soap to decks of playing cards.

  “Good luck on your serious quest, but remember to have fun!”

  “That’s an order everyone would like to take,” Temple commented, but Kit looked a bit chagrined.

  As they left Electra at the registration desk with her Red Hat friends, Kit caught Temple’s elbow in a death grip to steer her out of hearing range.

  “Aldo must never hear of this,” she said, pulling Temple aside from the crowded registration lines. “That I’m really qualified to be a Red Hat.”

  “Yes. I mean, no! Never. But he knows that you’re my aunt. I don’t buy the dumb hunk thing. Can’t he do simple arithmetic?”

  “Aldo is an emperor of enterprise. He just thinks you’re as old as you look, sixteen, and that I was your mother’s youngest, hippest, most not-Midwestern sister.”

  “This whole Red Hat Sisterhood movement wants women to be proud of their lives and ages and futures.”

  “Right. Meanwhile, I got myself listed in Actors Equity as ten years younger ages ago and I’m not going to lose that edge now. Not even for you, niece, would I go undercover as an over-fifty. You or your landlady, the old darling.”

  “You and Electra are probably about the same age, Kit, although you don’t look it.”

  Kit sighed her deep relief. “There is some advantage in short stature and a slight frame. You are going to inherit it, dear niece, so honor my position now because someday you’ll be here.”

  “I hope so, because you’re a pretty cool lady. If you want to think Aldo digs you for the age on your Actors’ Equity card, fine.”

  Temple was a legitimate Pink Lady, but not the youngest. She spied a few twenty-something daughters accompanying their mothers. For her trouble, she’d scored a truly darling name tag: a hot pink miniature straw hat with feathers framing her name on the front: Temple.

  Kit’s shorter name fit her miniature pink hat much better, but she was cheating. In every respect.

  “So we are both Pink Ladies,” Kit noted, “for the record. Lord, every time I hear that phrase I could use a drink. How do we do this undercover sleuth stuff?”

  “We’re registered, but first we must find the proper hats to disguise us and announce our status.”

  Luckily, the convention store, called the Hatorium Emporium, was mostly set up. Temple and Kit trolled the aisles, trying on hats and giggling like five-year-olds until both had suitable chapeaux, wide-brimmed for purposes of disguise.

  “Short women aren’t supposed to wear wide-brimmed hats,” Temple told Kit.

  “Pink Hat women don’t worry about silly fashion rules.”

  “Is mine too . . . bridesmaid-y?”

  Kit stepped back to assess. The hat was pink with a lavender touch, both colors permitted the under-fifty Pink Lady member. Temple had figured she might actually wear the hot pink straw hat later, after removing the pale pink cloud of marabou feathers and cluster of silk lavender flowers around the crown.

  “It’s utterly charming, Temple,” Kit said. “You look like an angel. And I’d say it was more bridal than ‘bridesmaid-y.’ ”

  Temple felt her cheeks pink to match the marabou. She hadn’t announced her marital potential to anyone yet.

  “Well, yours is a showstopper,” Temple told Kit in turn.

  The front of Kit’s wide-brimmed pink straw was a huge, rhinestone-dotted organdy bow anchored with pink satin roses and wisps of ostrich feathers.

  “The hat! The hat,” Kit intoned in a Broadway musical style as she spun to display the back. “The hat is nothing ratty. The hat! The hat! Is that which makes us all look batty!”

  “Batty is beautiful,” Temple interrupted. “Golly, I’m glad I’m still a temporary blond. Pink would do nothing for my natural red hair color, and vice versa.”

  “Speaking of blond and unnatural,” Kit said, stopping in midstep. “What or who is that?”

  “Oh, Lord. I hope it’s not another of Electra’s husband’s ex-wives. That would be too much of a coincidence to bear.”

  “The whole entourage is too much to bear,” Kit murmured, pulling Temple aside so the oncoming parade could pass.

  It was led by a woman on hot-pink stilettos, crowned by a hot pink hat with a brim so wide it would suffice to shade an elephant. Even so, it barely shaded the cleavage on her Pamela Anderson–size enhanced Hollywood breasts. The woman was pulled along by two tiny pink-dyed Chihuahuas on rhinestone-studded leashes.

  She was trailed by an assistant attired in pink checks who toted two pink canvas pet carriers and was followed by a large brass luggage trolley that had been mugged by a pink polka-dot matched set of baggage.

  Temple let her jaw drop in horror.

  Kit eyed her sagely. “You know her.”

  “To my everlasting regret. Surely a former actress like you has heard of Savannah Ashleigh.”

  Kit pulled her red-framed reading glasses off her nose to stare at the entourage in naked disbelief.

  “She makes Pamela Anderson look like Oscar material. And all that pink. She’s no more under fifty than I am! Oh!” Kit cupped her mouth and looked around, but no Fontana brothers were lurking to overhear her confession.

  “That woman,” Temple said, “has made this town headquarters for the rotten actress retirement home. She’s the one who wanted to slice the balls off Midnight Louie.”

  “No! Well, those pink Chihuahuas looked pretty neutered.”

  “I’ve got to find out what Savannah Ashleigh is doing here. Could you amble over and grill her, Auntie? She kinda really hates me since I took her to People’s Court and won.”

  “This will be like grilling an unzipped banana,” Kit promised. “I’ll smash her.”

  She skittered over on her low-heeled slides to stand in the registration line behind the lady in question.

  Not that Savannah was content to wait in line. Oh, no. Apparently Temple hadn’t needed an undercover agent aunt. Savannah was broadcasting live from the Crystal Phoenix lobby.

  “I do not do lines, unless they’re waiting for my autographs. I am the celebrity emcee of this shebang and should have a prestige suite waiting for me, and mine.” She beamed upon the yappy pink Chihuahuas. “Taco! Belle! Hush, babies.”

  Taco and Bell? Temple thought, cattily. Are we angling to be a fast-food commercial huckster as well as an over-the-hill Paris Hilton wannabe?

  Kit came skittering back. “What a bad name that woman gives airhead starlets. You heard, I p
resume. Her voice has the projection quality of a buzz saw.”

  Since both Kit and Temple had been blessed with arresting, slightly raspy voices to counterbalance their petite size, that was saying something.

  “Hey, Kit. I just realized that I’m a dumb blonde now, just like Savannah. At least she might not recognize me.”

  A shriek erupted at the front desk area. Savannah was prettily perched atop her hot pink luggage trolley as if she’d seen a mouse.

  Actually, Temple saw, she’d just glimpsed Midnight Louie sniffing around the pink canvas pet carriers, which must contain Savannah’s Persian cats, Yvette and Solange. The Crystal Phoenix was a favorite hangout of his.

  “That cat is a criminal!” Savannah shrieked. “Arrest him. He wants to rape my babies.”

  Bellmen came running over, but Louie had dashed under the cart. He wasn’t there when the bellmen went on their knees to look (and possibly to look up Savannah’s miniskirt). He’d pulled a disappearing act under everybody’s noses. That made Temple think of Max. She began patting down her tote bag for the lump of her cell phone.

  Meanwhile, Savannah opened the fancy pet carriers with maternal panic. Out pussyfooted the shaded golden Persian, Solange, wearing a red hat with purple flowers, and the shaded silver Persian, Yvette, with a red marabou boa around her neck and edging her purple cape and a red pillbox hat tied to her silver-platinum head.

  Camera lights sparked as Red Hat Sisterhood ladies circled around, taking dozens of photos of Savannah and her red hat cats and pink-dyed pooches, who also wore pink hats, one a fedora (must be the boy, Taco) and one a beret (the putative girl, Bell). Or Belle, rather. Bell-whether? Temple stood unmoving, dazed by the possibilities.

  But never underestimate an alley cat born and bred. Into the sea of red and purple dashed a flash of solid black. When it disappeared, Taco was whimpering and sitting on his tail, hatless as well as hairless.

  Temple let her mouth drop open.

  “Who was that masked cat?” Kit asked.

  “All I can say is that Louie was forced to wear a flamingo-pink fedora in a cat food commercial when we were in New York last Christmas. I think Taco’s semi-sombrero is dog meat.”

  “What a nuthouse. No wonder the second Mrs. Lark was killed with no one caught red-handed at the scene. With everybody wearing a red or pink hat, who’s to say who did what to whom? It’s like costuming; if it works, nobody can see past it.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Kit. It’s even possible the wrong victim died.”

  “Now that’s a thought. That would clear Electra lickety-split.”

  “Nothing about crime solving is lickety-split.”

  Even as they spoke a wave of cool neutral colors washed into the tide of red and purple. Nicky’s brothers, calming and charming the troubled waters.

  Emilio bent and came up holding Taco and Belle, while Armando captured Yvette and Solange. Julio escorted Savannah to the elevators, color-coordinated pets in tow. Giuseppe and the second youngest, Ralph, were doing duty as community photographers. Their impeccable Italian tailored suit coats hung with a half-dozen instant cameras as they obligingly photographed groups of Red Hat ladies posing naughtily for the camera, knees cocked and hands on generous hips. In Italy, women of substance were considered sexy, so Red Hat lady and Fontana brother had met their match.

  “Ridiculous,” Kit sniffed, no doubt worrying about Aldo amid all these happy hussies. “Women my age and older preening like fading chorus girls in front of the entire world.”

  A solo Fontana brother waltzed up to Temple; no lavish, wide-brimmed hat could fool a fine Italian eye. Besides, he’d inadvertently spent some recent time around her, so she recognized him immediately.

  “Our difficult guest,” Aldo told her, “is assured that Midnight Louise will no longer trouble her purse pooches. Any ideas how I can indeed ensure that?”

  “Of course!” Temple said. “The Crystal Phoenix is Midnight Louise’s beat now, not Louie’s. Funny, even I took that black speed-ball for Louie. He was framed!”

  Mixing up the two black cats also underlined Kit’s point that everybody in the Red Hat Sisterhood was inadvertently in disguise.

  Aldo had other things on his mind than cats and hats.

  “Where, my lovely Miss Temple, is your delightful aunt? I seem to have lost her in this parade of feminine fripperies. Never have I seen so many bright, and large, hats.”

  Kit, hidden by her huge pink brim, turned sheepishly to lift her face and also admit her membership in the silly sisterhood.

  “Bellissima! Is this you under that charming chapeau? Such a blazing pink is certainly your color.”

  “Hot pink,” Temple corrected him.

  Aldo’s dark eyes grew mock-rebuking. “I did not wish to compromise your adorable relative’s reputation in a public place, but it is indeed a very . . . hot . . . pink.” On the last word he touched his forefinger to Kit’s lips.

  Well, Temple thought, she’d swoon right there and too-dignified-to-preen Kit was blushing the same color as her hat. It was nice to know the older woman was still capable of blushing, although a dreadful facial flush called rosacea was another thing Kit had mentioned the aging belle had to fight.

  “Go and have a Pink Lady with Aldo, Kit, in the Crystal Bar. I’ll snoop around here and head back to the Circle Ritz once I can pry Electra from her volunteer post.”

  Actually, Kit looked terribly smart in her hat as she ambled away. She didn’t walk off “into the sunset” with Aldo, because, thanks to the hat, she was the sunset.

  Temple spared a couple minutes to take in the scene.

  It looked as if the giant blown-glass blossoms from the huge Chihuly chandelier at the Bellagio had drifted down to cover every female head in sight.

  If the advance guard of six hundred Red Hat Sisterhood members could command such a presence in a Las Vegas hotel lobby, then the incoming five thousand should really take over the old town. The press was sure to giggle at this overblown convention of aging women refusing to be invisible, but Temple felt a sinister chill.

  It reminded her of the Father Brown mysteries (which she’d quietly started reading a year or so ago in honor of meeting an ex-Catholic priest). Luckily, the modest, often-overlooked British priest-detective (no Red Hat candidate in any context, he) bore not the slightest resemblance to a certain modern American ex-priest, Matt. Her Matt. That thought felt so right.

  But the Father Brown stories were philosophical, even metaphysical and often metaphorical. She remembered one about “where would you hide a leaf?” The answer was “in a forest,” only, in the story, the leaf was a murdered body and the forest was a battlefield.

  The Crystal Phoenix was a different kind of battlefield now, against aging, not death itself. But the issues and motives could be as desperate. Every woman attending the convention had lived long enough to have a story, to be the heroine or villain of one. Maybe it was all jovial girly celebration, but loss and heartbreak had to be lurking in the background.

  And Temple was one who didn’t believe that murder had a gender, despite all the dead lovelies on the crime-show autopsy tables.

  Women could kill as well as die, and she knew her bubbly landlady had firmly landed in the unpleasant police category labeled “under suspicion.”

  Chapter 9

  No Kitting

  I have decided to take a small detour from the lobby, since my natural territorial urges have caused a stir.

  No dog crosses Midnight Louie’s path unpunished, even if it is the size of an English muffin and dyed pink.

  My step is firm and my heart is high, for I have seen the Ashleigh sisters all togged out in felt and feathers and buttons and bows and know that I can pursue both this case and my personal interests.

  Right now these interests are invested in the Delightful Solange, she of the honey-blond hair. Since her sister, formerly the Divine Yvette, now busted down—in my book—to the Supine Yvette, snubbed me for being common and possibly havi
ng an alley cat for an ancestor and a daughter, I have reconsidered my preference for the shaded silver over the shaded golden Persian.

  Solange is sweet and affable where Yvette is sour and demanding.

  I will always choose sweet over sour.

  I am making my way to my former office, the canna lily stand by the koi pond, when a bolt of cold black lightning knocks me over near the hotel service entrance.

  Bolt lightning may be cold, but this particular edition is hot, and bothered.

  “Traitor!” it says, hissing and spitting and thoroughly dampening my impeccable shirtfront. “Lazy, self-serving, koi-sucking, no-good, overweight layabout, poor excuse for a partner, tail-chasing son of a—”

  This is getting serious and I raise my dukes. Also my mitts. And my tail.

  “Nobody disses my esteemed dam, Ma Barker.”

  “I was about to say ‘lazy, self-serving, koi-sucking, no-good son of an overweight layabout’ at Lake Mead.”

  I let my guard down. “When did you hear about my old man, Three O’clock Louie?”

  “When I had a little heart-to-heart with your old lady, Ma Barker.”

  I sit down and restore an eyebrow to its usual pasted-down suave state. “Louise, Louise, Louise. You have got to do something about that hot temper of yours.”

  “I am hot? When you’re easing on through to take over my spot at the rear of the Crystal Phoenix? I am the house muscle here now.”

  “Your spot was my spot once. I am merely taking the opportunity to survey my old stomping grounds.”

  “Well, prepare to get stomped. I thought you were going to help me nail whoever engineered Mr. Max’s fatal fall at the Neon Nightmare. I guess you do not care that your so-called Miss Temple is missing one major boyfriend in action.”

  “My Miss Temple has plenty of action to handle these days. Our esteemed landlady, Miss Electra Lark, is suspected of murder one in this very hotel on this very day.”

  This news forces Miss Midnight Louise to sit on her highly haired tail to think things over for a change.

  “So that is why you are here. Hmm, two disasters in two days, both connected to the Circle Ritz. You might want to think about relocating, Pop.”