The cat's green eyes blinked, then the left one closed as it began licking a spiky forepaw.
Chapter 20
Long John Louie
Greater love hath no cat for his human, than that he should get wet in her service.
Wet? I am waterlogged in the first degree.
At least it is an artificial body of water, so my own torso is not subject to fish-nips, leeches and other things that go glub in thedeeps.
Much as I like to give my finned friends the occasional love-nip, the truth is that they do bite and my terminal member looks much like a black caterpiller fallen on hard times.
So I sit in the semi-dark atop this somewhat wooden, naked and truncated lady known as a figurehead (why a head when her most prominent figure feature is somewhat lower, I do not know), tending to my grooming. I am relieved that Miss Temple has finally gotten her wits about her and noticed both my heroic actions on her behalf, and my long, slow recuperation afterward.
How I got here and did what I did is simple. When Miss Temple Barr leaves the scene of the crime these days--and these days the scene of the crime is my beloved alma mater, the Crystal Phoenix, sad to say--she is off on errands of a peculiarly repellent nature: looking for love in all the wrong places, such as a shoe store.
I do not know what the big deal is all about with my little doll and the two dudes at the Circle Ritz.
The solution is simple, as my old friend Sassasfras would say to her many suitors: You got the dime, I got the time.
I do not understand why humans are so addicted to the notion of exclusivity. If we felines followed that creed, we would be on the verge of extinction. True, I have been wounded by the darts of that Persian enchantress, the lissome Yvette. But this does not mean that Midnight Louie is off the romance shelf and stamped "Expired." No, siree. I am free to come and go, and do a good bit of both.
It seems to my beknighted mind that Miss Temple would do better in her relationships with the opposite sex if she would adopt a feline point of view. Obviously, the Mystifying Max is a roamer who should be taken on his own terms and enjoyed when he is in town. Mr. Matt Devine is more domesticated, although he is unaccountably persnickety about the rules and regulations for activities that are best pursued in an improvisational frame of mind. So Miss Temple can have her cupcake and eat it too, if she would only see that it takes two to tango, and they are often both asking her to dance.
However, I am not about to meddle in these complex human hormonal matters. Where I hope to lend a helping hand, so to speak, is in a smaller area of operation: Miss Temple's devotion to footwear.
Although I myself eschew decorative accessories, far be it from me to sneer at another's obsession, especially when it is a leather fetish. Yum-yum. I like nothing better than a good chew now and then, a long-standing masculine pleasure, and Miss Temple has the leather goods to keep my habit humming.
(Although she does wax indignant when I slobber on her suede.)
Now that I know that a master of the shoemaker's art has been enlightened enough to use an image reminiscent of me on some of his creations, I can only extend all the powers at my command in assisting Miss Temple to obtain these rare objects.
This is why I followed her from the Crystal Phoenix, this is why my lightning-swift brain immediately surmised that her interest in things nautical had more to do with greed (as is usual with pirates then and now) than with wanderlust. This is why I risked body and soul by boarding the pirate ship. Who else could run so neatly over the rigging? Could cling so doggedly to the treasure chest, until all its tawdry contents had been exposed and dropped to deck?
Who else could face the burning deck without getting his whiskers singed? Who could be the last man ... male ... to desert ship? Who could paddle through the dark, disgusting water until he made shore safely, then find a high and dry refuge in plain sight of my distraught roommate, who by then had, to her credit but my underestimation, presumed me dead?
Only Midnight Louie is equipped to handle these kinds of crises. Please do not try these feats in your own home. There could be consequences and an investigation by the Federal Communications Commission.
Chapter 21
Opening Knights
"Here."
Kit thrust a fistful of printed matter into Temple's hand when she opened the door to her hotel room.
"What are these? Membership papers for the Hare Krishnas?"
"Mug shots."
"They are not." Temple shuffled through the array. "They're . . . the back covers torn off romance novels! I suppose the prose is provocative: 'He was wild as the wind, a whip-lean man of uncommon strength and fierce independence who would bow to no beauty's way, but whose proud heart longed for the sweet torment of the right woman's love.' Several titles right there: Wild as the Wind . . . Bow to No Beauty . . . Beauty's Way . . . Proud Heart . . . Sweet Torment . . . The Right Woman's Love. The whole blurb is a series of bloody titles!"
"Now she's getting it." Electra looked up from the dressing table mirror, where she was performing curious rituals with mousse, an electric brush and cans of washable hair color.
Kit shook her head. "Bow to No Beauty and The Right Woman's Love are too mainstream, kid. But I didn't rip the backs off perfectly good paperbacks just so you could wax cynical about the copywriters who blurb our books. Turn over the covers and you'll see your lady rogue's gallery of author suspects."
Doing as instructed, Temple inspected the smiling faces of several naturally (or unnaturally) attractive middle-aged women. "They look like accountants' wives dressed up for New Year's!"
Kit's face squinched up. "Ooh, unkindest cut of all! We dump our eyeglasses, buy some ritzy outfit we can't afford and a new hairdo, even go to Glamour Shots to get that soft-focus, wrinkle-erasing look for our book cover photos, and you compare us gloriously dramatic romance writers to accountants' wives?
I take exception. I am not married."
"You and I are exceptions," Electra murmured from the mirror, where she was frowning at the green and blue stripes in her hair.
"What does she mean?" Temple asked.
"She's right," Kit said. "Most romance writers are disgustingly married. For years and years. To the same man. I could honestly describe them as an unprovocative lot, despite their spicy reputation in the press, which is inaccurate, as usual. We are middle-aged, middle-America, middle-of-the-road."
"And sometimes Middle-Earth," Electra added while spritzing lavender into her elfin coiffure.
"Hmmm." Temple nodded at the black-and-white faces fanned in her fingers like a hand of playing cards, all queens. "That could mean that these women all have straight-arrow husbands who might take violent exception to macho models, especially now that women authors are touring with them."
"An arrow does seem like a man's weapon," Kit agreed.
"Why?" Electra stepped away from her hair preparations, looking like an interrupted rainbow.
"Anybody can stab something, and women get lots of practice with the Sunday pork roast."
"Unless," Temple pointed out, "these are modern households where hubby does the chef work.
That's a good question, though; why an arrow?"
"It was there?" Kit looked pleased with herself.
"Yup, the arrow indeed came from Cheyenne's own quiver, but this murder must have been premeditated. Was using Cheyenne's arrow more than just handy? Was it symbolic?"
Kit's glance consulted Electra. "Is she always so existential about murders?"
"I think Temple is asking, did someone really want to stick it to him? Was it personal?"
"Murders usually are, aren't they?" Kit said. "What else would they be?" She looked shocked, which was a shame, since the expression clashed with the ultra-chic, silk-faille dinner suit she was wearing.