Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

After that, away from the drugs and control—and, unfortunately, his only contact, Garry Randolph—he would be stronger, his mind clearer. He could decide what to do next, and what to do about her.

For now, it only mattered what she could do about him.

A Fine Kettle

of Fish

It is hard to realize that I am best out of the way for the moment, and that the others are probably better off for it.

Perhaps Mr. Max Kinsella and I face the same quandary.

We are soul mates in several ways. (Now that he is not here to joust me for bedspread room I am finding more and more that we have in common.)

Like a master magician, I set my assistants about their appointed tasks. Some may not even know that I am pulling their strings. Or whiskers, in my case.

It is better I stay upstairs so that Miss Satin and Miss Midnight Louise, who are virtual twins (if not mother and . . . shudder . . . daughter) can roam the downstairs area like mobile bugs. Not the big, many-legged roach kind of bug, I hasten to explain, but as furry listening devices.

They are much larger than the real thing, but also as easily overlooked. If you are perceived to be “mute,” you are also considered “dumb.” This is where the phrase “dumb animal” originated. A big mistake, but your average Homo sapiens are experts at that kind of underestimation.

I also realize that the axiom Out of sight, out of mind pertains here.

While everyone downstairs hustles, tattles, lies, and dodges as my Miss Temple investigates their motives, means, and opportunities, the dead woman lies in a tawdry, disheveled state up here behind a guardian accoutered in Ermenegildo Zegna tailoring and Beretta and Rolex accessories, a high-end combo she had likely never seen in her brief life.

I shiver. They have lowered the air-conditioning to preserve the body. Even my luxuriant hair is not proof against chills.

Mr. Max also lies in a forgotten state in some people’s minds. I know my partner is not letting the mystery of his possible fatal accident lay unexamined, but even she recognizes that we must ride to the rescue of Mr. Matt, who is not mysterious at all and firmly on the suspect list.

A pity his sterling scruples and blind Justice have put him in a perfect frame: too noble to peer at a nearby, possibly sleazy sex scene and therefore an ignorant and useless witness. Too compassionate to forgo saving a possibly dead person, and therefore caught red-handed performing the Kiss of Life on the body. Thus leaving DNA traces all over it.

Such behavior is likely to look suspicious, if not downright psychotic, to the police professionals who will soon descend on our parlor play of the moment.

It strikes me that Miss Temple, who spent most of the past year defending Mr. Max from Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s relentless suspicions, has traded one fiance for another, and for the same outcome. She must now defend Mr. Matt from Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s relentless suspicions.

At least, it occurs to me, Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina likes Mr. Matt Divine, maybe more than she realizes.

Hmm

. Sad to say, but it might best serve our cause (Mr. Matt Devine) if said homicide lieutenant got her size nines out here and took over this messy, confusing crime scene straight out of that movie musical, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

Brother! I am sure glad that we feline dudes do not do matrimony.

Wheel of Misfortune

The ladies in the front parlor were still playing Game Boys. Apparently, they’d never updated to the latest techie toys.

The odd appropriateness of their choice of amusement hadn’t occurred to them, although it had certainly stunned Temple. She supposed they had a lot of odd hours to while away in their profession.

Miss Kitty was knitting, and Ms. Phyliss Shoofly was torturing the ivories on the upright piano in the bar. She was playing the title song to the musical, Cabaret.

Apparently not just life, but death, was a cabaret, my friend. Because life here clearly went on, with time to be killed as well as paid for.

Temple paused on the threshold, studying the women’s odd combination of undress and gussied up with such fripperies as fingerless chiffon gloves, garter belts and hose, teeny-tiny thongs, high heels, and low-cut mini-corsets.

The various shades of blue reminded Temple of Matt’s “Virgin Mary blue,” the pastel not-quite-turquoise shade found on Catholic holy cards of the Virgin and Tiffany jewelry boxes. That was an odd combo of the sacred and the secular.

Here the blues ran the gamut from a military navy blue speaking of bondage and discipline to ruffles of the palest sky blue, speaking of sugar and spice and everything nice. Yet it all was exaggerated, whether butch or babyish. It all went to extremes, like elaborate theater. Like a cabaret.

“I’m surprised you don’t play solitaire with real cards,” Temple remarked as she came in and sat down on one of the few free chairs.