Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Terrorizing Trio

Now that my crime-solving bed partner has arrived, all thought or notice of me has been shoved farther back than a no-name tie-up oxford in Miss Temple’s shoe closet.

I cannot blame her for wanting to find and interrogate her latest significant other, Mr. Matt Devine, since he is up to his late-night golden tonsils in suspicion. I believe the least serious charge would be “interfering with a corpse,” which has very gruesome and twisted connotations.

But Miss Temple has not even registered my presence, so I sulk downstairs after hearing all the good stuff. I spot Miss Satin sitting in the foyer and am heading for some ego-rebuilding strokes from a female of my kind, when I stop halfway down the stairs with a swallowed hiss of surprise.

The waiting Miss Satin has turned her head to reveal the old-gold eyes of my feline partner in crime solving, Miss Midnight Louise.

I cannot count on having my wounded pride massaged by her, so I stop three steps farther on at the ghastly sight of another pair of black shoulder blades, these as sharp as a Swiss Army knife, cruising into sight and stopping beside Miss M. Louise.

Eek! That rangy, lived-in, scrawny form can only be that of my newfound materfamilias, the Mother McCree of the street cat world, my own dam, as they say in the horse world, Ma Barker. Damn!

I cringe against the wrought-iron banister and take deep calming breaths, intoning my mantra, Kaaaaar-maaa. Kaaaaar-maaaa. What can the so-called fruit of my loins be doing associating with the fruited loins of my maternal creator? And I do not mean Bast Herself!

Midnight Louise and Ma Barker in cahoots? This is not good! It is as bad as a Fontana brother bridesmaid and a brothel inhabitant canoodling.

While I sit transfixed between one story and another (and my own story for explaining my presence and keeping these opposing female forces from sinking tooth and claw into my unblemished hide), I witness something even more horrifying.

Along comes the latest lady of my acquaintance, totally unrelated to me by blood, at least . . . the cathouse cat, Satin.

Oh, great. I am not dead, but I am like a dead body about to be revealed to one and all: a helpless object of morbid speculation, soon to be dissected in every sordid detail of my life by a trio of vaguely related snoops.

I stare down on the three generations of females in my life, my once and future queens, watching as they begin the edgy get-acquainted dance of their kind and gender.

There is only one thing to be done, and I do it.

Turn tail and run.

Emilio definitely could use some expert assistance watching that dead body.