Cat In A Vegas Gold Vendetta

“It’s bizarre,” Matt said, “that Rowdy’s homicidal pursuit of you after he’d knifed Jayden made Alexandra’s candle tip over and catch his clothes on fire. Almost like … her revenge.”

Molina snorted. “Don’t go ghost-y on me. Many extremely rational people run when they discover their clothes are burning, even though they know they should drop and roll. It’s not surprising that a delusional, vendetta-fueled killer would run from the flames climbing his body, and, of course, everything in that room but the walls and ceiling was highly flammable, and those Barbie tinderboxes surrounded the doorway.… The fire investigators will lay out the exact trail of the flames.”

She bent to bat fruitlessly at the horizontal band of cat hairs on her pants legs, reminding Temple of how Rowdy had caught fire, and then stood.

“That’s all for now, folks. I’ll have more specific questions for Miss Barr when she comes in for her official statement. Larry had done some sharp figuring out about his stepsister’s attack being connected to the Barbie doll killings later. He wanted to stir up a Vegas detective to pursue the case, and indeed he did when he planted that Barbie doll in Mariah’s bedroom, but I doubt he’s behind any other incidents on my home front.”

Molina exchanged a long, simmering look with Temple.

“Resignation and relocation are in his immediate future. Also retraining for another line of work. He’s burned out, anyway.”

Molina absorbed her last sentence a second after it was delivered and firmly folded her lips. “I don’t want to hear another word right now from anyone. Adios. Alch.”

She started out of the room then paused. “The place is crawling with cats. Who’s going to deal with this? I can call Animal Control.”

Alch was staring at Violet’s empty bed. “There’s a black one. It isn’t—?”

“No,” Temple said as fast as she could. “Too small, longhaired, and delicate to be Louie. We’ll get Violet’s friend Freddie to deal with the cats.”

Molina and Alch were moving on and out of the house as Temple and Matt looked at each other.

“But it could be Midnight Louise from the Crystal Phoenix,” Temple told the vacant air.

Molina could never accuse her of less than full disclosure.

Chapter 48

A Black Mood

Max ambled over elaborate inlaid marble floors in Renaissance patterns, under a lofty blue sky edged at the horizon with a lace of pinkish-gold clouds, either sunrise or sunset and perpetual.

It happened to be late morning after the night the serial killer had been revealed and struck by the lightning of justice. Max had played a minor role in that, but that act of that play was over. He was here because he had nowhere else to be.

The Forum Shops at Caesars Palace was among the most venerable of Las Vegas Strip high-end shopping arcades, lavished with marble statuary and fountains to echo the ancient Roman theme. Grandiose suited his mood, poised to see past and present but not future.

What was he to do here? Or anywhere?

He could count his blessings. He was alive to wander these commercial palace gardens. At this leisurely pace, his gait was steady. No limp. He was far from becoming a trotter, though, or a racehorse. He could also count his recent sins. Using Temple to investigate Teresa’s situation had been irresponsible, even though it had led to a resolution. Everyone who had known him in Vegas before his memory went AWOL was safe and satisfied, even the vengeful Dirty Larry, who hadn’t known him.

Max listened to the many shoes echoing on the vast, marble-lined concourse. None paced him. If his mortal enemy was tracing him, she wasn’t here now. He had no doubt she would reveal herself soon in her own sinister and psycho way. And he’d be ready.

Meanwhile, he supposed he would finish what Garry and he had begun: untangle the years-old schemes and crimes that created the magicians’ club known as the Synth and left a stockpile of guns and money undiscovered and unclaimed by the authorities.

He paused to eye his reflection in a store window. Tall guy slouching in midnight-moss-colored European clothing. He eyed the faceless male mannequins behind the invisible shop-front window glass imprinted with the ghosts of the architectural glory that was Rome, whose gods now lodged in Las Vegas.

Without even looking up to the name above the display windows, he walked in. He didn’t care if it was Burberry or Dior, or Fendi or Versace or Gucci.

He was intercepted in the suddenly quiet, carpeted store by a tall, slender charmer of maybe twenty-six wearing impossibly high platform heels and a magenta metallic short pencil skirt and strategically lacy top.

“Welcome,” she said. “Before I ask about your needs, may I get you a Sock-It-to-Me-tini?”

“It isn’t noon yet.”

“Like the man sang, it’s five o’clock somewhere. Bombay Sapphire and pomegranate? Quite healthful.”

Max checked the Patek Philippe watch she had eyed on his wrist the moment he’d walked in. “You’re correct. I must have been reading the second hand. Of course, you may get me anything you wish.”

She smiled and vanished to the rear of the store, which was divided into women-and menswear. His old clothes, the shreds of which now inhabited trash bags in the house on Mojave Way, had been tailored to fit his lean six-four frame. This may be a fool’s errand, but it was nice to talk to someone.

She was back almost instantly, offering a martini glass with a Picassoesque wavy stem.

“Pardon me, but you look like you could use this,” she said.

“I was up all night.”

“Big winnings?” she asked.

“You could say so. It was certainly … exciting.”

“And what can I help you with?’

“If you can fit me, I need a lightweight silk T. I wear the sleeves pushed up, so their length would be no problem.”

“No, our fitting problem would be the shoulders. Luckily, the few things we have in your size range are slow to sell. What else, sir?” She led him among the sparsely populated built-in racks.

He really had to focus on how she balanced on those stilettos on the deeply cushy carpeting. That meant noticing her Gold’s Gym–shaped rear. He was back in Vegas, no doubt.

Max sipped the drink. “I wear silk or silk blends.”

“We also do some featherweight clothing in microfiber, and naturally any trousers will be fitted and hemmed to your length.”

“A blazer?”

“More than an old Burberry blazer. Cutting-edge sharkskin fabric and cut,” she promised. “Think subtle motorcycle jacket. You, of course, wear the sleeves pushed up. Retro–Miami Vice is so in now.”

“That’s so necessary for me with store-bought clothing.”

“New in town, then.”

“You could say so.”

“There’s only one hitch,” she said.

“Which is?”

“Anything I’ve got in your size is only in … black. It does coordinate with your hair.”

Max nodded. Maybe it was time to claim his territory back.

“Perfect,” he said.

She gestured to the rear fitting rooms. “An expert sales associate will bring the options and the fitter to you, and he will total your purchases.”

He nodded, glancing that way.

“My card,” she added, holding out a slick, oversize business card embossed with the store name, her name, and various phone numbers in smaller print.

“Thank you … Vikki.”

He felt something underneath, and his fingers traced the ring of an attached … condom.

“A token for guests of the store. Be safe while you’re in Vegas,” she said with a pleasant smile.

“You bet.”

Apparently he’d wandered into a den of high-end hipness. He lifted his glass in a farewell toast as he ambled back to try on his old self and see what adventures happened to it.

Chapter 49

All’s Swell That Ends Swell

Now that the major excitement is over, I can recollect in tranquility.

Am I glad I avoided a close encounter with the local fuzz! I do not think that Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina could bear to give due credit to yet another Vegas PI.

At least my Miss Temple has been recognized for her nimble mental gymnastics in a serial-murder case that involves years and multilocations, not to mention for her first-class physical exertions to save herself from said serial killer and to help save another human—and a big, heavy man, too, although flaky and somewhat light in the Earth shoes.

In fact, I was horrified to hear all the details of her ordeal while I concealed myself in Miss Violet’s kitchen and made sure the returning feline nation broke their necessary desert fast with lots and lots of Free-to-Be-Feline.

I do not want any leftovers of that stuff coming home with Miss Temple.

I could see a climax coming in the harassment of Miss Violet Weiner and her indoor clowder of thirty-some descendents of Great Bast. So Miss Midnight Louise and I have been treading through the sand and dirt and young mesquite-tree thorns in dark of night as well as daylight to round up the “released” felines and herd them away from danger.

There was more trouble afoot than the secret avenger inside the house, now revealed. Face it. These were a bunch of domestic slaves with not a clue how to live outside on their own. They were in danger of falling into the flood channel, like their beloved caretaker, Mr. Pedro Gomez. They were in danger from coyotes because of the undeveloped land of the retention basin all around the house. They were in danger of people who take potshots at critters in the dark just for the fun of it.

So Miss Midnight Louise and I managed this what-they-call-a “Diaspora,” where a whole gang of the same stripe is forced out into the wilderness. It sounds too much like “diapers” to me, but it is one tough assignment.

You may have heard of the difficulty of herding cats. I consider it a slam on my kind for being smart and independent, but some insensitive humans will have their little jokes about the feline kind, since most of those who do that are one—a joke, that is.

Actually, since I now have been in the herding business, I must admit that saying has a point.

I cannot claim I was anticipating the peril of a fire within Miss Violet’s house, but it was indeed good to clear the premises of these endangered residents. Naturally, I am most unhappy with myself that I was not by Miss Temple’s side when she had to scramble for her life.

I am searching diligently for a way to make it up to her, and, peeking in as she and Mr. Matt prepare to leave Miss Violet’s house forever, I see Miss Midnight Louise on her hind feet, doing a claw-over-claw drag on the mattress side of the abandoned hospital bed, sniffing doggedly.

I am mortified! I do not doubt that a sickbed may have certain, shall I say “earthy” smells, but unlike we superior species, humans are fanatical about hiding, nay, denying that their noses are good for anything other than powdering or having changed to suit their face.

I rush over to stop Miss Louise’s rude behavior, when Miss Temple cries, “Oh, Matt. Louie is here.”

“Down,” I instruct Louise in a low growl. “You are giving the firm a bad name. We use our brains and claws, not our noses. At least not in front of impressionable humans.”

“Your nose is always out to lunch,” she says. “I am on a paper trail.”

“Paper is for the use of young and uncontrollable dogs, Louise, not seasoned and sophisticated sorts like us.”

“Not newspapers, Daddy Densest! The paper everyone is so concerned about around here: the will.”

Oh. The will.

I must confess I have never heard of any sensible feline leaving a will, although I know some have been left things in a will, which sounds like it is a form of litter box. At this moment, though, I watch one of Miss Louise’s foreclaws snag something white that is not a sheet. I jab out my own paw to help snag it and work it out and down. With the addition of my power and pizzazz, this long, thick sheaf sticks out like a triangular flag.

My Miss Temple and Mr. Matt are there before you can say “Captain Jack,” showering our little ears with heavy praise.

“Louie, Louise,” Miss Temple coos, like we are mourning doves, “you are so curious. You have found the missing will. Poor Violet must have heard the commotion and stuffed it down under the mattress with Father Hell’s magnets.”

“Temple, are you raving, too?” Mr. Matt asks.

“I will tell you later. Meanwhile, look at who the second witness to the will is.”

“Sylvan Smith. Does it still count now that he is dead?”

“Probably. He was known to be here, even if they have to prove it with fingerprints or DNA on the ashes. And … that explains why he went so berserk. He was forced to play along and see someone else get everything Violet treasured, which was the one thing he could not stand.”

“Who did get the estate?”

My Miss Temple uses her whole, bandaged right hand to flip awkwardly through the twenty-some pages. I watch with sympathy. Now she knows what it is to have no opposable thumbs, even if only for a few days.

“I cannot believe it,” she says finally, looking up at Mr. Matt.

What! What can she not believe? I am down here. With Louise. Look at me!

“Matt,” she says, with eyes only for him, the ingrate. “The whole shooting match, cat and caboodle, goes to Savannah Ashleigh.”

I do not get it. There was not a gun involved.

And I would not give Savannah Ashleigh a used whisker.

Chapter 50

Done and Gone

Temple walked out of St. Rose’s Nursing Home, knees and finger joints working, if still a little pink and scabby.

She stood under the portico and gave a final sigh. Her first case was officially over.

The machine-gun rat-a-tat behind her didn’t make her jump. She knew the source.

“Wait up a minute,” a light voice called.

Pretty soon the noisy gladiator-style ankle-high platform boots were teetering beside her kitten-heeled mules.

“That was pretty amazing,” Savannah Ashleigh said, catching her breath from tottering along like a geisha girl.

“Violet seemed a lot better.”

“She sure does get around on that scooter thing. Of course, she has to wear those awful scrubs and flannel slippers I wouldn’t be caught dead, much less terminal, in.”

Temple refused to be riled by Savannah-ese. “It’s remarkable that Violet found Teresa’s room and sits and talks to her every day.”

Savannah raised a painted, taloned, forefinger nail, not so different from one of Temple’s, albeit longer and falser, and made a rotating gesture in front of her chandelier-earring-accoutred right lobe.

“If she thinks that’s Alexandra, I guess it’s as good as a belief in Father Hell’s magnets,” Savannah chattered on. “I can’t believe she named me the heir.”

Neither could Temple.

“Once she was ensconced here, Violet told me the news and said she was much impressed by my maturity and faithful care of the cats. And she loves my ‘little pet rat.’”

Captain Jack popped up from the status purse and seemed to wink at Temple over Savannah’s shoulder. Then she realized that was because a tiny patch over one already masked eye gave him a bit of a leer.

“Naturally,” Savannah said with an eye-roll of her own, “I’ll have to keep up all that cat care and visiting Violet here. Still, a girl can use a financial cushion down the road.”

A girl? Temple smiled and shook her head.

“By the way, Temp, I suppose you solved Pedro’s murder along with a few others. We never did decide on a fee.” Pause. “Now don’t go getting stratospheric, because I have that old house to keep up and only a couple hundred thousand that you only know about because you sneaked a peek at the will without my permission.”

“Here’s my fee, Savannah: give yourself a break and find good homes for all Violet’s cats.”

“Oh. Well, that’s easy.”

“It is? It’s hard to find a home for one adult cat, even if it’s fixed. What makes you think you can place thirty of them in good homes?”

“Easy. You just don’t get it. I am a cel-eb-ri-tee. I will just do a charity event for some shelter, and since I’m in charge of the cats now, everyone will rush to get a pre-owned Savannah Ashleigh pussycat.”

“What about Yvette and Solange?”

“Poor itty-bitty babies.”

Savannah hoisted her huge designer bag on her shoulder.

“I have them back, safe and sound. They’ve both had ‘lion cuts’ to remove the knots,” she said. “They look so ferrety and cute shaved, so I cut a cat-and ferret-food TV commercial deal for all three! ‘Captain Jack and the Persian Pirates’ for Fishy Feast Ahoy.”

Savannah leaned down to whisper in Temple’s ear. “I’ll make out like a bandit. You could have asked for real money, but I’ll be sure to tell all my H-wood friends about your PI work. Ta-ta.”

Temple watched Savannah and ferret clatter to the Sky convertible and glide away.

Temple’s cell phone played “Hallelujah,” and she got it out to read a text message.

“Howd ur 1st solo outing sans scabs go?”

“Supr. Home 4 suppr.”

“Xpct gourmet.”

“W/pillos?”

“W/everything.”

Temple smiled at Matt’s message and was about to close her cell when it hailed her again. Hallelujah.

“U kild that case. Gd t C U smlng n th sunshine. Mx.”

She looked up and around. All she saw was a lot of Las Vegas sunshine.

Right.

Chapter 51

Hanging Out

I stare through the window, hoping to spot a friendly face.

Heck, an unfriendly face would be welcome.

If I thought that clinging to a mesquite tree eight feet up was a risk to life and limb—my limbs, not the tree’s—I have never been more wrong.

I am now on the twelfth floor of an ominously named high-rise, having inched along a ledge barely wide enough for a squirrel, much less a dude of size.

So it is with more than hope but sheer desperation that I tap my shivs on the double-paned glass, longing to see a familiar face, but willing to greet the Wicked Witch of the West if she will but let me in by the hairs of my chinny chin-chin.

I tap out an SOS. I even look skyward for a handy, lost California condor I could hitch a ride on.

At last! My window view fills with not one, but two lovely faces.

They make sexy French moues at me, their green eyes as round as flying saucers as their spidery whiskers flatten against the glass that separates us.

With eye rolls and head nods the Persian sisters manage to indicate a balcony about twenty feet farther along the ledge.

Well, it is a toss-up if the balcony or retreat is nearer. I inch along, losing sight of my motivation. When at last I squeeze my middle through the iron bars, I discover the balcony is only a foot wide. It has curtains over a sliding glass door, all right, but is not meant to be stepped on by human feet.

Luckily, mine are much daintier by those standards. Yet I do not confront the easy-opening French doors on my Miss Temple’s condo, and on the second floor.

I hunch in a funk, safe behind prison bars, but with no way of entrance and my only egress requiring more pussyfooting than I can manage at this point.

The sound of the door sliding open has me pasted against the hot glass. I slither along it to the foot-wide crack, about to duck in when a sudden snowfall covers me in flakes the size of … dust bunnies. A mop is shaking them down onto my head.

I sneak around the opening and hide behind the inside curtains before you can say “sneezing spell.”

Luckily, the maid is moving on to another room, and I am following in her footsteps.

“Louie!” a sweet mew greets me in double-time when I reach the main living area, which is full of overstuffed furniture in floral tones of pink and lavender.

I turn to meet the aforesaid green eyes, but my own grow wide with disbelief as I view lean torsos of yellow and gray.

“Yvette. Solange. You have turned … squirrelly since last we met.”

“Are you saying we are lacking in the little gray cells, Louie?” Yvette huffs with attitude.

“I am saying you are all tail fluff with the skinny torsos of the breed know as Sphinx.”

“Those cats have no fur at all,” Yvette sniffs. “We have kept the best parts.”

Well, I am always interested in best parts, and I see on longer inspection that only the torsos and the tops of their legs have been shaved to the skin, giving the girls a Puss-in-Boots look with fluffy lower legs and furry tail tufts on the end. And an Elizabethan ruff of hair around their faces.

“No wonder they call it the ‘lion cut,’” I exclaim. “I am not sure it is flattering.”

While Yvette hisses and spits at my last word, Solange smoothes her ruffled, golden-shaded feathers … er, fur.

“The style is light and comfortable in this Las Vegas heat, Louie,” she says.

“You are under air-conditioning most of the time,” I point out.

“It will be hot,” snaps Yvette, putting on airs despite a ludicrous lack of hairs, “when we go before the cameras for our new cat-food commercial contract.”

I have heard of this deal and well know I have been omitted in favor of a piece of vermin.

Speaking of which, I hear the maid scream in the other room, “A rat, a rat!”

I race to the scene of the crime, sensing the Persian girls hot on my tail. There is no breed better for the merciless pursuit called “bugging.” I have seen the Divine Yvette take down a moth faster than the Jaws shark swallowed a fishing boat.

The maid has her eyes squeezed shut and stands atop a boudoir chair, embracing her mop like it was Ashton Kutcher.

I bound onto the foot-wide concrete ledge. Hanging from it between the bars is a pair of long-clawed feet. One swipe and my usurper would be a flying squirrel for twelve stories down. Then … history.

No one can see past my large muscled torso to see what I actually do.

The possibilities are tempting.

Then I sigh. I have been on rescue duty at Violet’s house for too long. I stick my kisser through the bars and down, snag Captain Jack by the furry nape of his neck, and toss him over my shoulder to firm ground.

He is unsinkable. He scampers to his feet and heads straight for the maid’s chair.

Meanwhile, the resident dames prepare to get grateful.

“Oh, Louie,” Yvette and Solange simper, making me the meat in a purring, shaved Persian sandwich.

“You have saved our careers,” the Sublime Solange says with a very effective ear lick.

“I am yours, body and soul,” the Divine Yvette says, flipping down to curl up with her furry front boots under her dainty shaded-silver chin.

Then her gorgeous green eyes widen and stare above and beyond me.

I turn as she takes off like the Silver Streak train.

Yup. There is a moth on the ceiling at twelve o’clock high, as the fighter pilots used to say.

Solange has gone mothing, too.

I turn and make my way to the apartment’s front door, hunkering down behind a gold-leafed wastepaper basket.

Either Miss Sue-Anna Weiner will walk in, or the maid will get up the courage to go out and I will be on my way … to the bigger and better things that await a dude of swashbuckle and savoir faire.

Savvy?

Tailpiece

Midnight Louie Deplores the State of Things

I must say that this case has given me pause.

Previously, I thought I had a pretty good grip on the ways of the world, especially my special turf in Las Vegas and the art of crime solving.

It is no secret I was born on the streets and came up the hard way. I am a self-made dude. I may even have looked down my black nose leather at those of my kind who settled for being people-dependent “pets.”

I know that I could lose access at any moment to Miss Temple’s bed and, more important, that lumpy bed of Free-to-Be-Feline nuggets topped with shrimp, salmon, scallops, what have you—and she has plenty of those—and still eat.

Only the koi pond at the Crystal Phoenix could keep a large and lusty fellow like myself going indefinitely. What is the old saying? “Give a cat a fish and he is a happy cat. Give a cat a chance to fish and he is an independent contractor.”

Midnight Louie’s Koi Emporium would hold up nicely next to Chef Song’s five-star restaurants at the Phoenix, and I would attract a better class of clientele.

But my entrepreneurial spirit is not the matter at hand. Or paw. Until this case, I had no idea that these willing domestic slaves could be so helpless and so abused if something happened to their loving masters.

Apparently, there are Cruella De Vils lusting to harm cat kind of all stripes as well as the spotted canine kind. (I still am not sure if Cruella De Vil is an actual person or a model of Cadillac.)

OK, pet is a politically incorrect word these days, and I quite concur. Call me a “pet” and I will staple your clothes to your epidermis for a couple feet.

“Animal companion” is more like it, putting us on equal footing with humans, even if “we,” the animal part of that expression, can come as close to vermin as a, ahem, black-masked ferret of my acquaintance.

Anyway, I have become convinced that our human companions, if we so choose them, are obligated to plan for the dread day when they are no longer available to serve us.

Look at the sad case of Miss Violet Weiner’s beloved cat clowder, at the mercy of whomsoever entered her home in her days of illness and weakness, none of whom could love her animal companions as much as she did, and some of whom harbored hatred of the helpless, whether human or animal.

Take nothing for granted, folks. We have cast our lots with you people since we became “domesticated” four thousand years ago. All we are asking is a little forethought of what dreadful fates might await us when the Grim Reaper starts tapping on your particular shoulder … say, when you are born! Do not get mad at me for saying so.

Remember, my kind’s first so-called “masters,” the ancient Egyptians, valued our vermin-catching ways and venerated us as gods. You can do no less, as you are four thousand years more evolved than those bewigged pyramid-builders. So they tell me.

Therefore. I will let my sometimes useful collaborator give you all the dull particulars. My role is to mount the soap box and pontificate. To agitate. To play the gadfly and annoy. To bask in the roar of the crowd and the approving purrs of Miss Great Bast Herself, cat goddess of ancient Egypt. I do not know why Bast is a she.

Her only flaw, but even gods are not perfect these days.

Very Best Fishes,

Midnight Louie, Esq.

If you’d like information about getting Midnight Louie’s free Scratching Post-Intelligencer newsletter and/or buying his custom T-shirt and other cool things, contact Carole Nelson Douglas at P.O. Box 331555, Fort Worth, TX 76163-1555 or the Web site at www.­carolenelsondouglas.­com. E-mail: cdouglas@catwriter.com. Facebook: Carole Nelson Douglas.

Tailpiece

Miss Carole Nelson Douglas Sighs Heavily

Midnight Louie is such a seasoned diplomat … if you define diplomat as one who insults all sides equally.

He is right, though, that this note is going to be dull. Still, animal lovers need to think early and often about how to safeguard our surviving animals.

In most states, that will take a living trust, which sounds scarier than it is.

First, we as pet owners—and that’s how the law regards us and our charges—need to designate relatives or neighbors to step in and take custody of any animals in the event of our sudden deaths.

The pet owners’ dream is that some wonderful animal-loving soul would want to be an heir of their estate, move into their desirable house, and keep the environment stable until each of the surviving animals dies in turn. Say in, oh, fourteen years.

Good luck. Only the very wealthy have estates worth enough that it pays other people to forsake their homes and life situations to babysit the estate owners’ babies until they shuffle off this mortal coil. Many a comic mystery plot has been set around these circumstances.

The fact is, the situation is always more tragic than comic.

So, unless you want your animal companions to fall into the clutches of a Cruella De Vil, you will designate the veterinarian who will see the animals and be a temporary expert in their ultimate disposition and whose facility will be a temporary boarding place in case of your incapacitation or death.

Owners have choices, all hard. Realistically, relatives and friends cannot integrate all your pets into their homes and lives as one unit. If you’re lucky, you have enough of both so that all your animals will get a chance to join another household. But most people, even your best-intentioned nearest and dearest, are not experts at integrating multiple households.

You can assign a shelter to evaluate the animals and place them in loving foster homes and ultimately new homes.

You can decide to employ the “kindest cut of all”—a visit to the vet, like any other, after all—that will put them “to sleep, perchance to dream.”

Or, you can set up a living trust, designating a person who will inherit an appropriate amount of money to supervise all this, often a lawyer. And who trusts lawyers? Enter again the comic mystery plots, which are not really funny to the suddenly homeless but beloved animals involved.

One option is interesting. Leave your animals to a deserving established shelter, which will essentially pet-sit them in your house until their deaths, at which time the shelter will get the house as an asset to do good animal works. Well, you better have a really valuable house. Also, such shelters run on volunteer workers and they have turnover, and sometimes suddenly run out of funding, not a very stable situation for your pets.

Oh, Louie, you did leave me with the most ungrateful job…!

The bottom line is that we need to look into these options NOW. Meow. Me too.

I was first sent a book on this subject several years ago by Lisa Rogak, author of PerPETual Care: Who Will Look After Your Pets If You’re Not Around? It’s available online.

Here are some other books and online sites that can help get you started:

When Your Pet Outlives You: Protecting Animal Companions After You Die, by David Congalton and Charlotte Alexander

All My Children Wear Fur Coats: How to Leave a Legacy for Your Pet, by Peggy R. Hoyt, JD, MBA

NOLO Legal Solutions: “Providing for Your Pet After You Die”: http:­/­/­www.­nolo.­com/­legal-­encyclopedia/­article-­29534.­html

VeterinaryPartners: “Planning for Your Pets in Your Will”: http:­/­/­www.­veterinarypartner.­com/­Content.­plx­?P=A&­A=1674&­S=4

By Carole Nelson Douglas from Tom Doherty Associates

MYSTERY

MIDNIGHT LOUIE MYSTERIES

Catnap

Pussyfoot

Cat on a Blue Monday

Cat in a Crimson Haze

Cat in a Diamond Dazzle

Cat with an Emerald Eye

Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

Cat in a Golden Garland

Cat on a Hyacinth Hunt

Cat in an Indigo Mood

Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Cat in a Kiwi Con

Cat in a Leopard Spot

Cat in a Midnight Choir

Cat in a Neon Nightmare

Cat in an Orange Twist

Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit

Cat in a Quicksilver Caper

Cat in a Red Hot Rage

Cat in a Sapphire Slipper

Cat in a Topaz Tango

Cat in an Ultramarine Scheme

Cat in a Vegas Gold Vendetta

Midnight Louie’s Pet Detectives (anthology)

IRENE ADLER ADVENTURES

Good Night, Mr. Holmes

The Adventuress*

(Good Morning, Irene)

A Soul of Steel*

(Irene at Large)

Another Scandal in Bohemia*

(Irene’s Last Waltz)

Chapel Noir

Castle Rouge

Femme Fatale

Spider Dance

Marilyn: Shades of Blonde (anthology)

HISTORICAL ROMANCE

Amberleigh†­

Lady Rogue†­

Fair Wind, Fiery Star

SCIENCE FICTION

Probe†­

Counterprobe†­

FANTASY

TALISWOMAN

Cup of Clay

Seed Upon the Wind

SWORD AND CIRCLET

Six of Swords

Exiles of the Rynth

Keepers of Edanvant

Heir of Rengarth

Seven of Swords

* These are the reissued editions.

†­ Also mystery

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

CAT IN A VEGAS GOLD VENDETTA

Copyright © 2011 by Carole Nelson Douglas

All rights reserved.

A Forge® eBook

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ISBN 978-0-7653-2746-8

First Edition: August 2011

eISBN 978-1-4299-7864-4

First Forge eBook Edition: August 2011