Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (8 page)
Read Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit Online
Authors: Carole Nelson Douglas
So, once MissTemple is in her bedroom throwing
clothes and shoes around, I bounce open one of the
French doors to the balcony. I know this is her usual rit
ual for gearing up, quite literally, for action.
Me, I hop aboard the old palm tree leaning so conve
niently over our balcony and ratchet up the shaggy
trunk to the penthouse floor, just below the spreading
vanes of leaves.
This entails an agile leap over the wrought-iron rail
ing and a three-point landing on the plastic pad of the
lounge chair. (Three-point because one of my shiv
holders slips off the cushion.) But I am good to go as soon as I sit up and shake my coat into dapper order.
I have another rank of French doors to break
through. These have not been trained by me to open at the jiggle of a mitt under the bottom. So my entrance is
not the usual blend of speed, skill, and silence.
I find myself expected.
Karma is not hiding under the furniture, as is her
wont. (These psychic types loathe daylight.) No, this
time she is sitting there bold as a bronze statue of
Bast. The gaze she casts upon me, though as glori
ously blue as Miss Lieutenant Molina's, is pure steel
and just as caustic.
She is a leggy rangy lady, her coat a longish soft
cream shade and her mitts all gloved in pristine white.
Yet she wears the brown facial mask of the formidable Siamese martial arts expert, which only emphasizes
her blue-heaven eye color. While she is lovely to look
at, one does not wish to annoy her. The breed is
deemed sacred for defending a dalai lama against as
sassins ages ago. They have never forgotten it, nor
should they. Nor do Hence their mystical gifts, if you
believe in that sort of thing. I sort of do, despite my
street sense. But at the moment she is crooning a not
entirely welcoming song at me.
“
By the prickling of my pads, this way comes the king
of cads."
“
Oh, I say, Karma! That is harsh. If you are miffed
that we have not had discourse lately, I have been
mondo busy with various and sundry cases all across
Las Vegas, from desert to downtown.”
She emits a sound that wavers between a growl and
a purr. No wonder we dudes do not stick around the fe
males of my species. They are one tough house to
please.
I decide to play the mum dude-about-town and sim
ply polish my nails on my shiny black sleeve.
“
Oh, very well. Come in." She rises and leads the
way into the dim room where vintage pieces of uphol
stery graze like bison of yore . . . huge, dark, shaggy,
and humped. They are mostly mohair or covered in
large jungle prints.
No wonder a dude does not feel welcome in this
dark, vaguely hostile homescape.
“
Miss Electra Lark?" I inquire politely.
“
Is absent." Karma turns to give me another piercing
look. "It is just we two."
“
Somehow it is never 'just we two' when I consult you.”
“
Oh, so you have elevated me to a consultant. I
thought you had dismissed me as a flake.”
I raise a defensive mitt. "Now do not get your dander
up. I have had more than one brush with the mantic
arts."
“
Your current case is hardly in that direction."
“No. It is a silly-sounding affair. These human kits are quite playful, you know, and the females are overpampered. In fact, our kind has become the mascot of their
blooming femininity. Have you heard of the Hello Kitty
and Pinkie's Palace phenomenon? Everything pink
and frothy and marabou and glittery for girls from
three-to-thirteen is decorated with the more beauteous
of the feline species."
“
Crass commercialization. We are the superior
species. We are not clowns.”
I do not know about that. I have encountered some pretty big clowns in every species.
We are in the room where the green globe on top of
the fifties television cabinet shines like a cat's eye at
midnight.
Karma sits down again, tucks her fluffy train around
her feet like a thirties torch singer, closes her eyes, and begins to croon.
“
Very bad, Louie. I sense danger for all of the 'little
dolls' under your protection, and now they are legion.
Well, at least thirty or so. I see blood. I see many evil in
tentions. I see boiling oil. And that is just the normal
course of events when so many competitive females
are assembled together.
“
I see . . . oh, my! You will be subjected to much of
the health food that you so unwisely deplore. I see
weight loss."
“No! I need my fighting strength."
“
Not yours, alas. I see . . . hidden ways and motives
and means."
“Like what?”
The blue eyes slit open. "That is for me to know and
you to find out.”
So, fine. I do not like the sound of blood and boiling
oil, but at least they are forthright, unlike Karma.
“
You are warned," she intones in her most in
scrutable whine. "You will encounter three divine emissaries of Bast herself and an old ghost. You will find the
way of the dog your most useful weapon. Your efforts
will get no credit.”
So what is new? I offer Karma a polite bow in
farewell, taking care not to back into anything damag
ing to my undercarriage as I make my retreat.
As with all seeresses, Karma is best understood in retrospect.
Still, I have a few things to bear in mind. Particularly
the boiling oil and the dog part.
Chapter 8
Separate Lies:
The Sequel
Little Red Riding Hood put on her visiting duds, picked
up a basket, and walked through the woods to grandmother's house, only a big bad wolf was waiting for her.
That night, after failing to sleep, Temple put on her best
red Dorothy shoes, low-heeled slides with rhinestoned vamps across the toes, packed a basket full of adult good
ies like a French loaf of jalapeno-cheese bread, a bottle of
Chianti, and cinnamon-scented massage oil, among other
delicacies. She then got into her red Miata to drive to
Max's house, where a recently distracted wolf was
not
expecting her.
She couldn't explain her post-midnight raid on Max's place, except that she wasn't happy with their recent interactions, or lack of same. It was time to face the music and dance, like the song said. Or not. Either way, she'd know what the future held.
The horse knew the way, although that was from another fairy tale, the one where grandmothers' houses still lurked down rural lanes.
The Miata's hundred-some horses took her to Max's
neighborhood, all the houses decently dark. It was just
past eleven
P.M.
She parked three doors away and watched her back as she approached the familiar front door.
What she would do if he wasn't home, she didn't
know. She also wasn't sure he would be home. Max was
up to something he wasn't telling her about. She hoped
it was something she could live with if she found out
what.
No huntsmen seemed to be lurking in the vicinity, a good sign.
She rang the bell. Boldly. How else can you ring a doorbell at eleven P.M.?
When the door swung open, Granny was nowhere in
sight. Just Max in his usual black, looking surprised, then
pleased, then . . . worried.
“Temple." He immediately grasped the purpose of the basket. "On a mission of mercy. To me. I could use it. Come in."
“I'm not disturbing you—?"
“Oh, you are, but in the nicest of ways.”
He led her into the living room where a talk show she seldom stayed up long enough to see dominated a wide plasma TV screen.
“That's new." She pointed to the screen.
“This is newer." He dredged the blue velvet one-
shouldered maillot swimming suit from her basket. It was
50 percent spandex and looked just big enough for a Barbie doll. "You want to hit the spa?"
“Sort of the idea."
“
I could use it myself but . . . there are reasons. Why
don't I just open the wine. You can get warmed up in all that hot water?”
Actually, she was getting pretty warmed up without the
aid of a hot tub.
She changed into her suit in the guest bathroom, then brought the basket out to the deck where an underwater Blue Hawaii light lit the bubbling hot water from below.
Heavenly!
Temple
hadn't realized how worried she'd been about her impromptu expedition to Max's turf until she slipped under the hot water.
Aaaah.
Who would have thought the young woman had so much tension in her?
Two bubbles of glassware appeared on the drink indentations built into the spa's side. Red wine, gleaming like Burmese rubies. Max sat on the hot tub lip.
He tugged at her one blue velvet shoulder strap. "Can velvet get wet?"
“Modem miracle, spandex for water babies.”
He chuckled and offered her a cracker with cheese
from her CARE basket.
“I wasn't sure you'd still be up," she said.
He gave that remark the long pause any inadvertent double entendre deserved.
She laughed and sipped room-temperature wine,
which felt cool compared to the hot tub.
“I'm glad you came," he replied soberly, in kind.
“We seem to have been passing like ships in the night lately."
“Agreed." Max sipped from his wineglass, then spoke.
Soberly. "I'm working up a new act. It's secret. That's
why I've been so distracted. So absent."
“Ummm." She put her wet arms up to clasp his still-clothed ones, cables of steel. "No wonder you feel like Superman. That's wonderful! Why didn't you tell me?"
“
I don't know when I'll be ready to make it public.
Maybe not for . . . months. It takes—"
“Discipline. Zen mania. Max! This is great news. I thought—"
“What?"
“That you'd lost interest in . . . things."
“In magic, or you? Never you. Am I now breaking my thirty-five-year-old back to make waves in the magic game? Yes. Guilty. I can't say when my new apprenticeship will end. I have to make a spectacular comeback."
“Of course. I'm so glad. I thought you'd given up on magic."
“No."
“Well then." Temple snuggled down into the churning water. The aquatic blue light reminded her of something?
The Blue Light special at Kmart? "I have to tell you. I
may be AWOL myself for, oh, a couple weeks or so."
“So long? Really?”
She nodded, her chin dipping into a froth of bubbles.
“I have to . . . go home. Minnesota. My dad. A minor cardiac thing. A stent? Anyway, they want me there."
“
Of course." He kissed the top of her head. "I hope
your father is all right. I'll miss you," he said.
What a liar she was! She didn't deserve sympathy! At least Max wouldn't worry about her.
“I'm sorry, Temple." His voice vibrated somewhere
above her head but she felt it in her heart. "Things will be
better later, won't they?"
“Absolutely. And now . . . they're just perfect."
“Just perfect." He pulled away to lift his wineglass as
her fingers curled around the stem of hers. They drank
ruby velvet.
“Get in," she said. "You don't need a suit."
“Can't. I've got a midnight appointment."
“With whom?" She hadn't meant to sound sharp, she was just surprised.
Max trailed a hand in the warm, bubbling water. It ran up her arm. "I'm working out in secret. Using the Caped
Conjuror's home setup while he's dazzling the second-
show set at the New Millennium. I can't stay."
“But—"
“
But there's no reason you can't stay here and enjoy the
spa. The door will lock automatically on your way out."
“
I didn't come here just to enjoy the bubbles."
“I know. And do you think I'll enjoy several hours of working out twenty-five feet above a terrazzo floor on bungee cords?"
“Max! It sounds—"
“Dangerous? Yes, what I'm doing is dangerous, Tem
ple
." His blue eyes looked opaque, black against the
night's own darkness.
“But spectacular.”
Max laughed. "If you mean I could make a spectacle of
myself. . . . Comebacks are hell, Temple. You have to
give up a lot, including your dignity. And a private life." He bent down to kiss her. Her fingerprints made darker blots on his black sleeves.
“Rain check? Ciao.”
It almost never rained in Vegas but when it did, it was a
gully washer.
Temple
floated in the spa's programmed turmoil, feeling her internal boiling point mounting.
Odd. The blue lagoon waters now reminded her of
something less pleasant than tropical nights: Lieutenant
C. R. Molina's sharp, ever-watchful laser-blue eyes.
But no one they knew was here. Now. Temple let the water roll her over as she turned to watch Max's back disappear into his house on his way out.
Magicians did that. Disappeared. For a living. Sometimes lovers did that too.
Bitter disappointment made Temple rain two teardrops into the sizzling spa water. They instantly eddied away, lost in the sea of foaming warmth. Temple knew better than to feel rejected, but she did, dammit.
Selfish Temple!
She knew how hard Max worked at
both of his professions. Now, at last, he was reclaiming
the public persona of magician instead of being con
sumed by the invisible cloak of spy. Times were more per
ilous worldwide than they'd ever been and Max had been out there, was still out there, trying to prevent disaster.
A game little woman would stand behind her man,
even when he wasn't there. Especially when he wasn't
there.
Still . . . Her hand slapped the water. This time droplets
jumped up at her eyes, stinging them into blinking.
Blink. And Max had been gone without explanation. Blink. Lieutenant Molina had come asking brutal ques
tions, painting the missing Max as a likely murderer.
Blink. Enter Matt Devine, ex-priest, new neighbor, al
ways there to help or tempt through no fault of his own.
Love and fidelity were great . . . when a couple actu
ally spent time together now and then. But Temple was no
longer feeling loved, even if she was, and Matt—God, Max! Wake up and smell the latte!—was finally outgrowing all those years of celibacy and coming on to her with Intent to Commit Relationship.
Temple
laid her chin on her hands on the spa's hard-shelled rim and let the swirling eddies float her body up, up, and away.
Men! They were maddening. Eve must have wanted to strangle Adam when he'd blamed the Apple Incident on her! Temple bet Eve had missed becoming humankind's first killer by . . . this much! Justifiable homicide, in her opinion.
Like the song says: a total eclipse of the heart.