Cat In A Leopard Spot

Louie nosed his way between them as if to join the confab.

In five minutes Temple’s cherry-amber waves of chin-length hair resembled a style and she was dressed in a two-piece knit outfit. The bunny slippers had been replaced by svelte Onyx platform sandals with clear plastic uppers embellished by silver studs.

Donning the right shoes was as magical for her as Dorothy’s red sequin numbers. She returned to the main room, her mood upbeat, to find the coffeemaker docile and her guests still rapt over the story.

In two more minutes the ritual mugs were steaming on the coffee table and Temple had retrieved her own copy of the morning paper from the hall to study the story for herself.

A silence broken only by sipping noises finally cried for a major interruption.

Matt went first. “Do you think Max Kinsella knows about this?”

The phone rang.

“He does now.”

Chapter 3

News Flush

There is nothing more boring than old news. Unless it is a group of people going gaga over old news as if it were new news.

Now I am subjected to the old “three’s a crowd” situation in my own living room.

Not only am I crowded on my sofa by Miss Electra Lark’s encroaching muumuu, but they nose me out of my morning peek at the paper too.

Much ado about nada. Nothing. Like they did not know (or could not guess in Miss Electra Lark’s instance) that the Mystifying Max had probably gone AWOL all those months ago because of death threats.

My Miss Temple surely knows that, as certainly as her name is Temple Barr and she is the most devoted roommate a guy of my propensities could have, except for a troubling tendency for getting involved with dudes of her own species when she should be concentrating on dudes of my species, specifically me.

It is true that, like fickle people everywhere, this threesome soon bustles off on their daily duties: Miss Electra Lark to tend to affairs at the Circle Ritz condominium and apartments, Mr. Matt Devine to do the sensible thing and go back to bed, as his evening shift did not end until early in the morning; Miss Temple to race over to the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino to ready every last detail for the grand opening of its newest attractions. One of its less advertised attractions is likely to be the Mystifying Max, whom I suspect she will meet en route in hopes no one will be any the wiser. Except me, of course, who is the original Wise Guy.

So there I am left alone in the wink of an eyeball, with the newspaper to myself, not to mention three mugs with congealing coffee rings in their bottoms, and not a drop of cream, or even skim milk, in sight.

I do not even have to stretch too far to pull the disheveled pages toward me. I do so hate to be the last to get to the morning paper and find it shopworn.

I use my built-in clippers to scratch out the desired article, the column in which the fateful mention of death threats was made.

Are any of my erstwhile companions aware that I have been drugged, caged, and transported against my will time and again? That I have so many death threats hanging over my head they would weigh as much as a showgirl’s headdress at the Rio?

No, no one worries about Midnight Louie except Midnight Louie.

So. The Cloaked Conjuror is working with a new cat. That is the part of the article that perked my ear, naturally, since it had to do with matters closer to home. Could the sinister Hyacinth be moving her act to another magician? That Siamese siren has a habit of showing up on the scene of the crime, including the murder at TitaniCon only a few days ago.

Time for me to find out. And this time I am not going to beard this lioness in her den alone. This time I am going to bring some muscle. To catch a thief, use a thief. To trap a tricky dame, use a tricky dame.

Now, let me see…where would a wise-guy PI like me find one of those?

Chapter 4

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

Molina felt like the wolf at the three little pigs’s door.

She was still huffing and puffing, at least, from hoofing it up three flights of stairs. Needed more time at the gym than behind a desk.

The faded stucco apartment building had no elevator, and the cheapest units were at the top. A scuffed plastic trike sat abandoned by the door. Who would let a three-year-old ride a trike on this narrow concrete balcony that ended in a corkscrew of stairs downward?

The dusty windows along the wall of the unit were covered with miniblinds, the thin metal slats crushed askew, as if the inhabitants were always peeking out.

Her outfit was more a costume than clothes, so she took quick inventory before she knocked: scuffed moccasins missing beadwork, worn jeans, a cotton-polyester shirt, and a fringed suede jacket the color of diarrhea, all courtesy of the Goodwill.

The cheap watch she had found there too read 10:00 A.M., a bit early to be rousting ladies of the night, but she wanted to find them home. Finding them sleepy and hungover as well would be a bonus.