Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

A Fine Kettle

of Fish

It is hard to realize that I am best out of the way for the moment, and that the others are probably better off for it.

Perhaps Mr. Max Kinsella and I face the same quandary.

We are soul mates in several ways. (Now that he is not here to joust me for bedspread room I am finding more and more that we have in common.)

Like a master magician, I set my assistants about their appointed tasks. Some may not even know that I am pulling their strings. Or whiskers, in my case.

It is better I stay upstairs so that Miss Satin and Miss Midnight Louise, who are virtual twins (if not mother and . . . shudder . . . daughter) can roam the downstairs area like mobile bugs. Not the big, many-legged roach kind of bug, I hasten to explain, but as furry listening devices.

They are much larger than the real thing, but also as easily overlooked. If you are perceived to be “mute,” you are also considered “dumb.” This is where the phrase “dumb animal” originated. A big mistake, but your average Homo sapiens are experts at that kind of underestimation.

I also realize that the axiom Out of sight, out of mind pertains here.

While everyone downstairs hustles, tattles, lies, and dodges as my Miss Temple investigates their motives, means, and opportunities, the dead woman lies in a tawdry, disheveled state up here behind a guardian accoutered in Ermenegildo Zegna tailoring and Beretta and Rolex accessories, a high-end combo she had likely never seen in her brief life.

I shiver. They have lowered the air-conditioning to preserve the body. Even my luxuriant hair is not proof against chills.

Mr. Max also lies in a forgotten state in some people’s minds. I know my partner is not letting the mystery of his possible fatal accident lay unexamined, but even she recognizes that we must ride to the rescue of Mr. Matt, who is not mysterious at all and firmly on the suspect list.

A pity his sterling scruples and blind Justice have put him in a perfect frame: too noble to peer at a nearby, possibly sleazy sex scene and therefore an ignorant and useless witness. Too compassionate to forgo saving a possibly dead person, and therefore caught red-handed performing the Kiss of Life on the body. Thus leaving DNA traces all over it.

Such behavior is likely to look suspicious, if not downright psychotic, to the police professionals who will soon descend on our parlor play of the moment.

It strikes me that Miss Temple, who spent most of the past year defending Mr. Max from Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s relentless suspicions, has traded one fiance for another, and for the same outcome. She must now defend Mr. Matt from Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s relentless suspicions.

At least, it occurs to me, Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina likes Mr. Matt Divine, maybe more than she realizes.

Hmm. Sad to say, but it might best serve our cause (Mr. Matt Devine) if said homicide lieutenant got her size nines out here and took over this messy, confusing crime scene straight out of that movie musical, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

Brother! I am sure glad that we feline dudes do not do matrimony.