Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Matt had kept “his” carry-on bag, which contained mostly what Temple would carry in her tote bag were Louie not hitching a ride on her shoulder.

Louie’s claws were already doing the Swim inside the carrier but she was determined to manage the burden. Besides, she’d used tote bags in her working life before big clunky status purses were cool. Her life and interests were too diverse to be contained in the app-packed shell of a smartphone.

Nothing barred their way. Apparently the fans were content to look and eavesdrop.

Temple’s precarious peep-toe heels sounded as steady as a heartbeat on the stone floor as she and Matt trotted after their urban native guide, nodding cordially but briefly to their staring audience.

“Who’s she?” A young female voice wafted into their wake.

“Personal assistant,” her gal pal stated, disdainful of her uninformed and, in this case, unimaginative companion.

“Personal assistant,” Temple hissed to Matt between clicks of her shoes. “Apparently your fans are too nearsighted to spot my engagement ring. Your engagement ring.” Temple frowned. “What’s the correct expression?”

“Ours,” he said. “It’s not much farther. Just through the doors to the pickup lanes.”

“Great.” Temple tamped down the urge to pant. Louie wasn’t getting any lighter.

Then the weight lifted off her shoulder all at once.

She turned to Matt. “I told you I can handle—”

He’d dropped his carry-on by her feet. “Watch that,” he ordered.

Instead, she watched him race past the now-stalled driver, who looked as confused as she did.

Watch that. No “please”? Already they were acting like an old married couple.…

Oh.

“Watch that!” Temple ordered the driver, scooting after Matt and the disappearing leopard-print carrier.

The carrier strap was now hooked over the shoulder of the person carrying it—the … the … petnapper—dressed all in black, a bulky figure in a trench coat. It was already halfway through one of the automatically opening glass doors.

Just then Matt caught up and grabbed Louie’s carrier strap, slewing the thief around to face into the terminal’s interior. The kidnapper slipped the shoulder strap and bolted for the glass doors again, then onto the sidewalk outside, charging into the flow of travelers, lost behind the confusing reflections of the glass walls.

Exiting passengers dragging bags jostled past Matt, forcing a retreat. He rejoined Temple and the driver, who were guarding the other bags. Fortunately, the one Matt carried still contained Midnight Louie.

A rat-a-tat of running footsteps from an oblique angle showed a woman in uniform bearing down on the one motionless vignette in the swirl of oblivious, expressionless people coming and going. That tableau would be the obediently stopped driver, their luggage, and Matt holding the carrier while Temple crooned at the unseen contents.

“Sir. Ma’am.” The security cop was slightly breathless. “What’s in that bag? Anything valuable?”

“Just a former À La Cat spokescat,” Temple said.

“Just a cat?” was the next question.

“Midnight Louie is not ‘just a cat,’” Temple said. “He’s a particularly clever cat. He has been seen on major electronic media. He is well known in Las Vegas. He is—”

“Heavy,” Matt said.

“Yes, he is a very substantial cat,” Temple agreed. “A cat of substance in a trivial world.”

The officer frowned. “But he’s not, like, valuable?”

“To me, us, he is priceless.”

“My point, ma’am, is that given the private car waiting and the flashy bag and the way you hung on to it, the thief probably thought you were carrying valuable jewelry. Some celebrities will insist on carrying valuables and arrange for a private security check, then trot the jewelry out of the airport afterwards in their designer bags. Opportunistic thieves will try to hoist it. I’ve called in the incident and the security staff stationed along all the exit doors are on the lookout for that black trench coat. Meanwhile, I’ll escort your party to the car.”

She eyed Temple. “I might advise carrying a less high-profile bag in future, ma’am.”

She turned to Matt. “That was a lucky save, sir, but the thief could have been armed. I don’t advise personal intervention in incidents like this. Let’s move on before another opportunist preys on you.”

Temple looked around hard as they did just what the guard suggested.

She hoped none of Matt’s fans had seen all the trouble, not to mention risk, his “personal assistant” and her purse pussycat had gotten him into.

But, an upside! At least the thief had the good taste not to mistake her for a personal assistant. Her modestly priced vintage fashion sense had totally remade her into Someone Worth Ripping Off.

Chapter 5

Second City Kitty

Well, I made it here, but I am not sure I would want to make it anywhere other than Vegas after that clumsy snatch attempt in the Chicago airport.