Cat with an Emerald Eye Read online

  "Ooh, this is going to be such fun! Too bad your aunt Kit isn't here; she'd love it."

  Temple wasn't at all sorry Kit wasn't present; Kit was a worse influence than Electra. "Oh,"

  she said, peeking into Electra's dim inner rooms. "What a neat cat statue. Is it new?"

  "No, old as the hills, and not a cat statue."

  "I could swear ..."

  Electra rattled her boxy purse. "Got to get going. One doesn't wish to keep the spirits waiting. They might start rapping their toes without us. Might get up to some mischief. Now, shoo into the hall and I'll lock the door"

  Temple shooed, then waited until Electra had secured her door, still peering inward.

  "If you have got a cat in there, you're well advised to keep it locked up until the Halloween tricksters are history. Louie is pacing and howling, but he's confined to quarters until the streets are safe again for black cats."

  "What makes you think I've got a cat? Honestly, Temple. I think your grip has slipped a bit since Max came back."

  "Nothing has slipped except my patience. Men are more bother than they're worth, anyway.

  I imagine you figured that out with your--how many?--husbands."

  "I don't believe I've ever mentioned the exact number of my past spouses, dear, and I'm not about to do a body count now. I suspect that we ladies only say men are a bother when we're bothered by them, or they're not bothering us as much as we might wish." Electra pushed her half-glasses down her nose and regarded Temple quizzically. "Who's not bothering you now?"

  "Everybody except creepy Crawford Buchanan! Let's go."

  "But Electra remained firmly planted, an appalled look on her face.

  "You have . . . objections to Crawford Buchanan?"

  "Doesn't everybody?"

  "Well, no. He's joining our seance tonight."

  "Awful Crawford? Why?"

  "He represents a television program that has done some worthwhile features on spirit phenomena before--"

  " Hot Heads do anything worthwhile? Especially if Crawford Buchanan is involved?" An even more dreadful eventuality occurred to her. "You mean I'm going to be filmed in this outfit? I'm going to be seen by somebody besides ghosties and goblins?"

  "Now calm down. Mr. Buchanan has agreed to abide by a strict set of rules. Nobody will be photographed who doesn't want to be."

  "Does that apply to any spirits who drop by?"

  "The camera will be discreet, so as not to spook them. Some of the most respected mediums on the West Coast are participating; they wouldn't allow anything that didn't meet their standards."

  "Promise me one thing," Temple said.

  "Anything, dear, within reason."

  "That I won't sit next to Crawford Buchanan under any circumstances. If I'm going to be hand-holding and knee-nudging somebody, it had better not be him."

  "Of course. I'll sit on one side, and we'll find somebody completely trustworthy for the other. I know or have seen most of these psychics speak, and they are so wonderful! We can't have unhappy participants and discord at that table; the spirits would refuse to come."

  "If the spirits have any smarts, they'll stay miles away from Crawford Buchanan. He just may jinx your seance."

  "Oh, don't say that!"

  "What? Jinx?"

  "Not again! It's vital to have a completely positive attitude when attempting to reach the spirit world. The more disorder among the gathered mortals, the more likelihood that we could raise something ... not so nice."

  "Really?"

  "Indeed. I am simply an amateur at these things, but I know that."

  "What if Houdini comes back and he doesn't like what--or who--he sees?"

  "He won't come if the atmosphere isn't right."

  "It won't be," Temple predicted. "If I had a chance to come back from the dead, and the condition was that Crawford Buchanan would be one of the first faces I'd see, I'd take the endless sleep."

  "I hope you're wrong." Electra stood still, even her hair--despite * its fortified Bloody Mary-red hue--wilting slightly. "But Karma has been unusually agitated the past few days, and that isn't a good sign."

  "What about karma?"

  Electra blinked, then spoke quickly, drawing Temple down the hall to the elevators. "I said the karma seems agitated lately. Bad vibes. We must meditate on the way over so we are calm.

  Can you drive and meditate, Temple?"

  "In my sleep," she swore.

  *************

  Temple was glad she'd checked out the haunted-house site ahead of time. She knew the best place to park, not too far from the light thrown by the attraction. She knew just where to go, and which ghoul to wave her pass at.

  The shapeless, rubbery vision of vivisection-in-progress eyeballed her outfit, then nodded solemn approval, shaping the huge hand into a circled thumb in the "okay" sign.

  "Rhadddikkell cahstooomb, laaahhdee," it moaned as they passed.

  "What did ... it say?" Electra wanted to know.

  "An ancient Theban password to the Minotaur."

  "Really? Have you considered where Houdini might have been all these decades, waiting for the right call back? I have an idea it could be Atlantis!"

  They were forced to wait as a lump of costumed clients clogged the door.

  Temple eyed Electra. "I thought you were going to finish your award-winning romance novel proposal and submit it; Sun City Sweet Pea, or whatever."

  " San Antonio Sunflower. And I am."

  "You sound like you've been delving more into the paranormal than the hormonal."

  "Oh, pish. I've always had a psychic streak. Goes back to my uncle Titmouse."

  "Uncle Titmouse?"

  "That's just what we children called him. His real name was Thaddeus, and he had some major stories about the family's occult past. Besides, the paranormal romance is all the rage. I'm thinking of adding a reborn Egyptian princess to my plot."

  "In San Antonio?"

  "It's warm there, and they have palm trees."

  "But do they have sunflowers in Egypt?"

  "I don't know. Do you think it matters?"

  "Obviously not. Come on, get this line moving!"

  Temple's exhortation must have worked, because thirty seconds later everyone funneled into the swallowing dark.

  "We're with the seance," Electra told a seven-feet-tall Frankenstein's monster just inside the door.

  He lifted a four-feet-long arm and pointed to a young woman wearing a cobweb body stocking, dewed with the occasional rhine-stone and spider.

  "I'll take you ladies right up," she assured them in a solicitous voice, as if they might trip on their muumuus.

  Temple clumped up the stairs behind the would-be Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, as Electra, Mistress of the Lark, lifted her floral hem to keep from tripping.

  Temple's watch dial glowed in the dark, so she brought it close to her face. Eleven forty-five.

  In an hour and fifteen minutes it would all be over and she could race over to the Crystal Phoenix with Electra and tell them all about it.

  Chapter 11

  Home Alone... Not!

  I am sitting in my empty condominium, lashing my tail and cursing my bowl of Free-to-be-Feline, when I feel itchy all over again.

  During my street days there was never any question what feeling itchy all over meant. I had fleas all over. Now that I lead the sweet life, however, there is never a reason to itch, scratch or behave in an inelegant manner in public or in private.

  So I leap up, further out of temper. Not only am I left behind and locked in, but I am infested with pests.

  Then I stop, sit down and think the matter over calmly.

  Where would I acquire this circus of flying fleas all of a sudden? Have I not led an exemplary life of late? Am I not a polite son, patient father and gracious, protective roommate? Who would give me fleas, the Divine Yvette? Not bloody likely.

  No, what I suffer from is a flea in the ear, and this allover itch is merely a barrage of psychic nagg
ing. So I hunch over into as tight a ball as I can make, tuck my toes under my tummy and wait.

  If Karma wants my attention, she will have to cook up something a bit more spectacular than spectral itching powder.

  At first I notice nothing. Then a kernel of Free-to-be-Feline pops out of my banana-split dish and rolls across the kitchen tile. This allows me to meditate upon the truly unwholesome appearance of this health food, each nugget of which resembles a dried spinach spitball. My saliva will not be found at the scene of this culinary crime, not unless I am abandoned here for days and forced to resort to actually eating the stuff, instead of batting it off the baseboards in a game of Ping-Pong.

  When a second grungy-green nugget pings like corn before hitting the floor, I sit up and take notice. I did not know that Free-to-be-Feline offered snap, crackle and pop along with nauseatingly superb nutrition. Or could the stuff be self-destructing from the pressure of so much perfect balance?

  Then again, this is Halloween.

  Has a gremlin possessed the unprepossessing foodstuff, pitching it to and fro to unnerve me?

  It would be ironic if Miss Temple had confined me to quarters for my own protection, and ended up locking me in with some anti-cat demon.

  Whatever has gotten into the Free-to-be-Feline has one thing in common with me: it wants to be out. Each kernel pops higher, until the exploding beads almost hit the ceiling. I watch with my customary vigilance, but can detect no human intervention. When I gaze up at the white ceiling, though, wondering how Miss Temple Barr will like it with polka dots of Free-to-be-Feline splattered all over it, I view an eerie phenomenon.

  The old-fashioned round fluorescent tube is glowing distinctly blue, or at least two spots of it are, and as I gaze the halo of light glows so bright that I blink.

  Has a UFO landed on Miss Temple Barr's ceiling?

  Are little green men coming to take all the Free-to-be-Feline back to some small green planet where they have no taste buds?

  By now the light has reached spotlight intensity, illuminating every nook and cranny, including a few sheltering dust balls. I feel the hair lift all over my body and arch myself into a defensive posture.

  Do not be afraid.

  The disembodied voice does nothing for my composure. I spit furiously.

  You know me in other form, Louis. My name is Karma. I will help you.

  No one has called me Louis--and lived--since my dear departed mama. Now this alien light ball is claiming to be my upstairs neighbor, who never forsakes her digs.

  "I do not need help."

  So say those most in need. But it is true, although you face danger, others face greater foes and you are needed to help them.

  "No can do, swamp-gas. I am a prisoner. I suggest you glow on over to some other dude's pad and play with his food."

  While I watch, the light dims. Maybe I hurt its feelings. But as it cools, it takes on the image of a feline face, and one of my acquaintance. I kid you not! The apparition on Miss Temple's kitchen ceiling is the face of the Sublime Karma. Aglow with a plump Buddha-like serenity, Karma almost seems to be smiling. Though her lips do not move, I now hear her dulcet tones.

  Louis, you lay about! Do not send help away. You are needed elsewhere.

  "I would love to be elsewhere. Confinement does not agree with me. But I am locked in."

  Are you? Sometimes we ourselves are our own prisoners.

  I hate this soupy pseudo philosophical guff! But it is true that I have not yet tried to break out, so I suppose I could give it the old street-side try.

  Besides, this "abandoned for days" possibility begins to gnaw at my stomach. I have not had a snack in hours. So, with a last look at Her Serene Highness on the ceiling, I rise and reconnoiter.

  The more familiar a terrain, even a domestic one, the more one is likely to take it for granted. I am so accustomed to easing out the open bathroom window that I have used no other means of entrance or egress for weeks.

  First I sniff along the French doors. I like their easy-opening levers, but this method requires easy-giving locks, and a few trial jump-and-pulls reveal that Miss Temple has corrected laxity in this department.

  I visit the obvious, the solid mahogany front door, though I have little hope here. It was always built to hold off the Mexican army. Nevertheless, I run my sensitive pads under the door, feeling for any weakness.

  Next are the bedroom windows. These are the original 1950's models, metal frames and puttied panes of glass. The only way through these babies would be "beaming" elsewhere, as on the Good Ship Enterprise when the crew dissolved into sparkling arrays of atoms that are reassembled in some other place.

  Alas, I am far too corporeal to harbor illusions of subatomic transference, although a Star Trek Classic episode did feature a player of my species and color, if not gender.

  While at the window in my roommate's bedroom, I stare out on the twinkling lights of the Strip that warm what passes for Las Vegas skyline with a wavering neon glow similar to nuclear meltdown in certain grade-B movies.

  It is clear that mere brute force will not spring me from this well-intentioned trap. I run certain scenarios through my mind. Leaping up to the counter to eyeball the Touch-Tone phone, I picture knocking the receiver off the hook. Then I could dial out for a pizza, but once the delivery dude found the door locked, he would vanish, and there would go my snack too. I think some more. I could dial Mr. Matt Devine at work. If ConTact has caller ID, he would know Miss Temple's line was calling and, alarmed by the silence on the line, race back here to investigate, breaking into the unit and thus freeing me.

  Great scenario, Louie. But... what if a ConTact counselor who doesn't know Miss Temple is a friend of his answers? What if ConTact does not have caller ID in order to preserve its clients'

  privacy? There is always 911, and a snap to punch in, too, even with these big paws of mine.

  They would send someone to break in, what with Miss Electra and Miss Temple both gone.

  My stomach growls. I am in no mood for long leaps of logic, much less lengthy bounds through solid glass.

  My only hope is the long line of French doors in the living room. The French are always most accommodating when approached in the proper fashion. I jump to the floor and patrol the perimeter, trying each door with my weight. They creak but do not crack open.

  I select the middle one, and sit before it, subjecting it to my secret weapon, 'The Stare."

  Every feline knows that if one sits before a door, and stares at it long enough, with sufficient concentration, that circumstances must eventually bow to the feline will, and someone will come along, in time, and open it.

  I am hoping, however, not to have to practice 'The Stare" until Miss Temple returns in the very wee hours. I realize that this is a last resort, that my Stare is out of practice and that there is not one human about to answer my needs, anyway.

  Still, in desperate circumstances one relies on elder lore and magical formulas. "The Stare"

  has served my kind well for centuries. Perhaps it will again.

  That is right, Louis! You have unthinkingly touched an ancient power. Continue to concentrate and I will soon be able to, to... oh, it is exhausting. Keep it up! In only another moment, I shall be in the proper position to--

  My concentration wavers. Karma's instructions sound alarmingly like the usual female demands that are guaranteed to send dudes of my persuasion fleeing to the high ground.

  Then I see a tiny spark twinkling on the brass lever that operates every French door I ever knew. At first I think the lever is reflecting the night-lights Miss Temple thoughtfully leaves on in every room for my convenience. Then I see that the light is too bright and that it twinkles.

  Yes, Louis, yes. Another moment and I will be able to move the mechanism and the door will explode open.

  It is hard to concentrate with a feline Tinkerbell tweaking the door lever in front of your very eyes. I feel an overwhelming urge to blink and run before I discover that someone is
filming this interlude for a blue movie. I keep "The Stare" on at full force, though, and watch the lever swivel toward the floor as if the fuzzball of light upon it weighs a ton. Come to think of it, Karma in corporeal form is a pretty solid piece of pussycat.

  The lever dips to its lowest possible level and the door pops open an inch, admitting a sliver of cool night air and the distant sounds, of the city.

  Aaaah!

  The light snuffs out, and so does the uninvited sound system. I am alone again. I hope.

  I paw the door open and edge into the cool dark, my pads shrinking at first from the chill patio stones. The full moon is beaming over the silhouette of the Circle Ritz's one, rather shabby palm tree. I do not know if the midnight hour has arrived yet, but I know where I am heading.

  I leap upon the rail, inhale a lungful of dry, cold air and sail onto the palm's bent old back.

  Then I am running under the light of the moon, down, down into the shadows that know me as well as their darkest deeds. The night is mine to make of it what I will, and that will be a mad dash to the place where my lovely roommate and her landlady play with spirits. If anything like the Sublime Karma is abroad tonight, they are in for the surprise of their lives, and I must be there.

  Landmarks rush by in the wind of my passing. Evil-doers everywhere, watch out! I am free again, free! Free to be feline.

  Chapter 12

  Temples Doesn't Give a Rap

  In theatrical circles, a green room is where performers meet before the show begins.

  So Temple found it appropriate that the stance cast should meet privately before gathering in the glass room to make a spectacle of themselves.

  She hadn't counted, however, on the likely location of a green room in a haunted house.

  This one was inappropriately painted blood-red, and it served as the haunted house's staff kitchen.