Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Chapter 34

Fur Flies

Miss Midnight Louise and I are enjoying an extended eavesdropping session beyond the flimsy French doors on the corner patio that borders both Mr. Matt’s and Miss Temple’s Circle Ritz digs, a floor apart.

“Well, this is awkward,” I comment.

“Yes, human breeding behavior is prefaced by many long and tortuous episodes and deep and lasting emotions.”

“I mean, Louise, that our human amateur sleuths are divvying up the list of murderous events and victims and locations into three separate investigations, and we are but two.”

I think for a millisecond, and then continue. “Of course, I am up to performing the work of at least two, but I am not able to be in two places at the same time. Yet.”

“Pshaw,” Louise spits, nailing me in the eye. “Who do you think has been Johnny-on-the-spot at Mr. Max’s residence and elsewhere for all these suspicious comings and goings ever since the Neon Nightmare impact?”

“Unfortunately, the investigations from now on focus on multiple major Vegas sites, such as hotel-casinos, the Neon Nightmare nightclub, and even the singular institution of learning in our midst, the University of Nevada at Las Vegas. Few know that Vegas is a center of learning as well as—”

“Lechery?” Miss Midnight Louise suggests archly. In other words, her whole back makes like a croquet hoop. She is such a felinazi.

I ignore what is patently a personal swipe, and she had the paw to do that with. Oops, now she has me ending my thoughts with prepositions. I am feeling very Mr. Maxlike as my little gray cells go MIA.

Quickly, I point out, “That adds up to at least three, if not seven scenes of the crime or crimes.” I have always been better at math than the female of my species.

“Then,” says Louise, “we must round up seven, or at least three of the Cat Pack to shadow our human friends.”

“Now you make sense. I will take my Miss Temple. She is in need of objective yet steadfast male support now that her two beaux are both back in town.”

“Bow? She has two bows? You make her sound like a Yorkie fresh from the groomers.”

“Obviously, as with the sad case of Miss Kathleen O’Connor, you suffer from a stunted upbringing and have never had reason to learn that language so vital in show circles of our kind, French.”

“Oh, can it, Pop. Preferably with three-day-old tuna fish in a garbage bag. The airs you put on sometimes smell as bad as a card-counting scam at a Laughlin casino. The last time I saw you cozying up to those pampered Persian sisters in thrall to Miss Savannah Ashleigh, they had been assaulted by an electric fur trimmer and looked more like weasels than supermodels.”

“You should know that a deal may be in the works to revive my commercial career with the modishly restyled Divine Yvette and Sublime Solange.”

“Hmph,” Miss Louise sniffs. “I will believe that when I see it.”

“Meanwhile, you can visit Ma Barker at the police substation near the Circle Ritz and see how many likely Cat Pack members she has in her clowder. She always cottons to you better than to me.”

She does not waste time arguing with me, but turns tail and rockets away. I must admit that the kit has a gift for tailing, whether it is Mr. Max or giving me the brush-off.