“Some men are so worthy of it,” Temple answered.
“I’ll conduct this interrogation,” Alch said. “First, Mr. Lark. Do you need medical attention?”
“Sure. Those cats’ claws are like an arpeggio of needles. Mainly, I hit my head going down after they ambushed me. So I got nothing to say until I reach my lawyer in Reno.”
Temple watched the two officers escort their broken-down Red Hat lady out of the ballroom.
Alch was shaking his head.
“Here we have Keystone Kops and on the stage we have a Wax Museum of Horror. We can hold this goofball for unlawful entry and false impersonation, I guess. I want custody of that hatbox, but not the cats. The department can only handle so many silly elements at once. I think we can sort all this out unaided. You and the Pussycat Patrol are outta here.”
Temple didn’t object as another officer took her arm and escorted her to the now-gaping double doors to the ballroom. The Ashleigh girls, herded by Louie, wafted alongside her ankles like overgrown marabou bedroom slippers.
High-intensity lights and crime scene investigators were flooding the lobby outside.
Temple hadn’t even had a chance to fully explain Natalie Newman’s motives, which now that she had been murdered, were moot. She certainly hadn’t had a chance to read everypage of Oleta Lark’s book manuscript, but she would now, in what was left of tonight, before Alch discovered the dummy book in the hatbox lid.
Hat. Lid. Box. Dummy.
Temple’s mind was in freefall as she passed a shrieking Savannah Ashleigh at the doors.
“Yvette! You’re covered with common turkey feathers! And Solange! I thought you were missing. Mummy was so distraught.”
The overdone actress squealed with a strange combination of delight and distaste when two put-upon officers lifted an overexcited Yvette and Solange into each of her beseeching arms. Then all four clawed feet windmilled, slashing their mistress’s clothes. Savannah began shrieking again. For real.
Louie was no longer making like a wreath around Temple’s ankles; he probably had other things to attend to, as did she, and had vanished into the crowd of onlookers.
Temple sleepwalked to the hotel entrance, numbed by the unexpected death and the spectacular public failure of her attempt to set a hatbox trap for a murderer. Elmore Lark looked like a vain jerk for falling for her stupid stunt, but if just being in the ballroom after hours made someone Natalie’s murderer, then Temple herself was a prime suspect.
She was so puzzled and upset she wondered if she was up to driving her Miata home.
Outside the hotel the air was hot and still, like warm soup, despite the late hour. The parking valets were inside gawking at Elmore Lark’s debut as a Red Hat Sister in drag.
Then a low black car purred under the porte cochere and paused. The passenger door opened. A pale-clad arm and an inviting baritone suggested she needed a ride home.
Temple fell into the leather seat.
She sat speechless, thinking, watching the lights of the Strip speed by like long, electric strands of neon taffy.
Chapter 58
Dude with Hattitude
A gentleman always escorts his ladies home for the night.
I am pleased that my Miss Temple recognizes that my first allegiance is to my species, especially to the vixen-clawed hellcats who took down the individual who fell into her hatbox trap.
Imagine. A fully grown human male tripped up by a hatbox and a pair of Persian Mixmasters. Do I know how to pick my associates, or what?
Unfortunately, Miss Savannah Ashleigh comes to her senses as she enters the elevators and notices my presence.
“Out, you foul alley cat!” she screams. “My poor darlings have blood all over their enameled nails, thanks to you, some of it mine! Out, out, damn inkspot!”
I have never been dismissed in such Shakespearean termsbefore, so I pause to preen while the elevator doors close and sever me for the nonce from my little razor-nailed fluff puffs. Well, for the night, at least.
But, never fear, sharp-edged femme fatales are never far from Midnight Louie’s front, rear, or side view.
“Some excitement at the Crystal Phoenix!” Midnight Louise notes from behind me. “While I am absent following up on your roommate’s affairs, you manage to turn a whole division of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department loose in my hotel.” I turn, quickly smoothing my ruffled bib. “I was only discovering another murder victim and unmasking a transgender impostor. All should be hunky dory and the usual peaceful by morning.” Louise sits, shaking her head. “How unfortunate that restraining orders do not apply to rogue male cats.”
Hmm. I rather like that “rogue male” soubriquet. Reminds me of an elephant. Something big and imposing and good at crushing impediments.
“Do not get your whiskers in a self-congratulating twist. You can tell me what you think went down here later. I have news from the front.”
I swallow. Above all, I am my Miss Temple’s sworn defender. I know that she remains perplexed by the absence of her former beloved. She does not like to leave any mysteries unsolved, particularly her own.
“Yes, Louise?”
“That house might be a police department training course. When I returned for another exploration, I found that since the dustup with Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina there, another person has been on the premises. In fact, two.”
“This is interesting.”
“One is an apparent insurance investigator. He was rather like you: middle-aged, short, somewhat overweight, otherwise nondescript.”
“I say, Louise–”
“The other was like me: smooth, silent, slick, and, lamentably, unlike me. Also a human male.”
“This is all you have to report?”
“The first man came by day. The second by night. The first I do not know from Asphodel. The second I have seen with Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina.”
“Detective Alch?”
“No”
I am forced to wrack my brain, which is pretty wrecked by now. “I cannot guess. Like yourself, Miss Lieutenant Molina does not have a lot of friends of the male persuasion.”
Louise taps a foreclaw on the marble tile of the floor. It makes a sharp, impatient sound.
“Anyway,” I say. “I have no time to sit around luxury hotels and speculate. Ma Barker’s gang is back at the Circle Ritz, wondering where their headwaiter is. I need to get home to feed the homeless. Chef Song here at the hotel wouldn’t have any tidbits suitable for starving relatives?”
She hisses at me. “You know that Chef Song does not do takeout. I will retum with you to the Circle Ritz and help you distribute nuggets of your unwanted Free-to-BeFeline to your poor relations.”
That is not exactly how I would describe my charitable endeavors, but at least I will have company back to the Circle Ritz, where my Miss Temple is no doubt breathlessly awaiting my company and insights. Or maybe I mean Mr. Matt’s company.
Chapter 59
Curb Service
Ralph, the youngest Fontana brother next to Nicky, was just as dreamy-looking as the rest, but somehow his all-American name didn’t convey the same mystique.
However, he was every bit as eager to oblige, which is an excellent thing in a man.
After dropping her off at the Circle Ritz, he promised to return shortly.
Temple had barely trundled upstairs, changed into a bellbottomed jumpsuit, ditched the red headgear, and settled down again with Oleta’s manuscript, when her doorbell rang.
Ralph awaited without, bearing equipment. She could run the DVD disc on her computer, but wanted to see the video on the bigger living-room TV screen. In no time he’d replaced her outdated VCR (that only Max had heretofore managed to program with a bit of magic). Then he ran her through the new DVD player’s workings, particularly the pause, fast forward, and reverse. Finally, he opened the hideously expensive bottle of wine he’d brought, poured the first glass, and put the bottle on a coaster on the coffee table.