Cat on a Blue Monday

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  Or was Peggy Wilhelm shredding slowly through the years? Did she blame the church and her aunt for her disgrace and loss of self-esteem, especially now that attitudes were becoming more enlightened and less censorious?

  The last question Temple confronted was the thorniest. She had been confided in. She had, in a sense, received a confession. She had promised not to tell one specific person; did that bar her from telling others?

  Temple hashed the matter over until it was so shopworn she could hardly tell one end of the argument from the other.

  One thing was clear: Blandina Tyler's intentions were not as cut-and-dried as everyone assumed. Another unavoidable clarity also tugged at Temple's mind and conscience for attention after the day's cleaning expedition: Blandina Tyler collected more than unwanted animals--string, stamps, stockings, maybe even . . . wills.

  At four in the afternoon, Temple rattled around the apartment one last aimless time in search of Louie. Nothing. She put on her shiny sneakers and decided that since she had snooped in a dead woman's house, she might as well compound her sin and go snoop in a live man's apartment.

  She slipped up the steps in rubber-soled silence and down the curving, dim corridor one floor above until she came to the short hall that led to Matt's door.

  She had never been here--had never been invited--but she knew from the number of his unit, Eleven, where it had to be. Right above hers. The carriage lamps beside the doors were kept on day and night, not only for a homey touch, but because there was no daylight in this cul-de-sac.

  For the first time, it struck Temple that the Circle Ritz's design, besides being forty years old and quaint, reflected the confidence of a simpler, crime-free time. These private entrances were isolated, and possibly more dangerous than desirable for that reason.

  Temple recognized the beige cardboard in the brass frame beside the doorbell as the back of a ConTact card. "MATT DEVINE" was printed on it in ballpoint in the measured block letters of someone who has been carefully taught to be legible in matters of public record.

  She rang the bell, surprised to hear the muffled yet mellow ding-dong from within; she had never heard another resident's bell, except Electra's, which was different, being in the penthouse.

  Matt answered it, looking rumpled in a beige T-shirt, Bermuda shorts and bare feet.

  "Were you sleeping?" Temple asked guiltily.

  "No, but I, ah, didn't get to bed until seven this morning."

  He glanced at his watch. "Did we have an appointment for a lesson? I don't doubt I forgot--"

  "No, no. I'm not up to making like Sue Jujitsu today Anyway, but I wondered--"

  He stepped back, opening the door and looking reluctant. "Come in. It isn't much, or rather, I haven't done much with it." .

  Temple stepped over the threshold, feeling the move was momentous. A person's rooms could tell you a lot about the resident.

  She glanced around, trying to look as if she was not. Bareness hit her like a heat wave: bare wood floors, bare French doors and windows, a secondhand sofa bare of pillows. Bracket-mounted bookshelves mostly bare of books and knickknacks. Boxes serving as tables, or simply clumped here and there as if clinging together for company.

  "I'm not used to providing my own decor," Matt admitted with a shrug, ruefully eyeing his warehouse landscape. "And then, I'm not sure how long I'll stay in Vegas."

  Temple tried not to look startled. Of course Matt would stay; she was far too interested for him to just fade away on her and move on. And of course her feelings and wishes had nothing to do with what he wanted to do, and would do.

  So her sudden pall of disappointment as she stepped into the room so exactly like her own, but so much emptier, was not because of the blank slate of his surroundings, but due to the General Unpredictability of Anyone, which led her back to her conundrum.

  "Have a seat." Matt gestured to the black-and-tan plaid sofa, wisely selected to conceal dust, dirt and wear and tear, then corrected himself, "Have the seat."

  He sat on a piled pair of wooden crates.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm disturbed about something I can't see around."

  "What's that?" he asked, instantly interested. Problems did not dismay him; in fact, they were a kind of security blanket, Temple saw. As long as he could concentrate on someone else, he wouldn't have to look too much at himself.

  "I know something about somebody nobody else does," she said, realizing she sounded slightly childish.

  "And you're trying to decide whether to go into blackmail or not?"

  She wasn't in the mood for humor. "I'm trying to decide if I'm obligated to keep it to myself--or the opposite."

  "Why is your knowledge a problem?"

  "It's about someone involved with Blandina Tyler."

  Speculation ruffled Matt's face like wind on water. "You're usually one to unearth information, not suppress it. Why does this instance bother you?"

  "It's . . . very personal, and it's sad, and the person just poured it out to me because I happened to be there at a critical moment."

  "Isn't that what crack gumshoes love?"

  "I'm not a professional, Matt. I'm not even a dedicated amateur. I can't help it if I keep . . . finding out things about people. And this is so remote, so farfetched"

  "Nothing about a possible murder is farfetched."

  "I know. That's why messing around in one can do so much damage. And this person has been damaged enough."

  Matt's brown eyes grew as distant as such a warm shade can manage. "We're all damaged enough," he murmured as if thinking of someone else. "By the age of three," he added ruefully. His gaze snapped back to her, sharp and intent.

  "Look, I'm in the same boat you're in, only my silence has been invoked on professional grounds. I'm still uneasy about it."

  "Someone confessed to you?"

  "In a manner of speaking. It's not official, but ethically my hands are tied, so I guess I'll just keep sitting on them."

  Temple felt her eyes widen and her voice lower. "Matt, do you suppose we're both talking about the same person?"

  "I doubt it," he said dryly, "but you've got me awfully curious about who your confider is. You aren't bound by the confessional, Temple. You're free to serve your conscience or your civic duty or your instincts--"

  "Or my curiosity," she finished in brittle tones. "Why do people keep telling me things?"

  He laughed at her exasperation. "You don't seem like you'll harm them."

  "That could make me the most dangerous of all," she said.

  He nodded. "Let's hope none of your 'confiders' figure that out, especially if your suspicions are correct."

  "Oh, I don't know. I don't seem to be doing much of anything right lately."

  "Why do you say that?"

  Temple lifted her hand and then let it fall despondently to the sofa cushion she was sitting on. "Oh, Midnight Louie's been gone for a long time. I'm afraid that it's that Humane Society cat I brought back from the cat show."

  "You're not surprised about that?" Matt sounded shocked. "No, Louie wouldn't like that. Cats are very territorial."

  "But she's such a little darling, and all black, too."

  "Color coordination does not soothe the savage beast when his territory is involved. Is she spayed?"

  "Not yet."

  "Then Louie might overlook the obvious, but you could end up with kittens on your hands."

  "Just what I don't need. Poor Caviar! I don't know what to do. Maybe I can find another home for her. Louie will come back, won't he?"

  Temple's voice took a sudden, husky dive as she contemplated driving Midnight Louie off for good by bringing a rival home.

  Matt watched her for a long moment, looking shocked again. Then Temple realized how much her fears of Louie's desertion echoed her earlier desertion by a black-haired, much bigger, two-footed male roommate--Max Kinsella.

  Only this time, she may have brought it on herself.

  "I'll get the other cat out of the place as
soon as possible," she swore, already distracted from her moral dilemma.

  Matt proved what a superbly insighted counselor he was by forbearing to point out that it might be too late.

  Chapter 32

  Cross~examine Not the Cat

  I take a long, long walk while I count the follies of my youth.

  Then I take an even longer stroll while I enumerate the follies manufactured during my middle age. This brings me up to the present day, and by chance to my old stomping grounds, the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino.

  Though it is the usual hot day--say a hundred and ten in the shade--a cold chill has me in its icy grip. When the precocious Caviar, aka Midnight Louise, inquired where I was going, I told her I had business of a spiritual nature to conduct. She looked the usual dubious, so I informed her importantly that I am working on a case involving the welfare of hundreds of cats, and that I cannot be expected to sit around and chat with some wet behind- the-ears upstart.

  Perhaps I was hard on the little doll, but I had to get out of there and think. Never have my past sins come back to haunt me so unexpectedly. In fact, I have never thought of my past activities as sinful until I have seen what my devil-may-care ways have wrought: an utterly unnatural female feline. Obviously, this misguided young doll is in desperate need of a protective male influence. In the past, I have regarded a protective male influence (mine) in a completely different light. Now I am saddled with the sudden responsibility of a . . . sire.

  No doubt scads of my unacknowledged--even unconsidered--offspring run to and fro in Las Vegas. However, I have never confronted one in the flesh and fur before. This new, mature responsibility gives me the willies. It is as if I have seen my own ghost; in a sense, I have.

  I slip around the side of the Crystal Phoenix and to the lush landscape between the hotel's two embracing white-stucco wings out back. Broiling tourists turn French-toast brown around the light-dappled pool, but I ignore the roar of the crowd and the of the grease--cocoa butter--with which they are well basted.

  Under the tall calla lilies I shift like a shadow until I reach my Waldon Pond, my still, mysterious center, my place of contemplation and retreat.

  Carp glide just beneath the pond's shining surface--a golden argosy of glittering scales and tender, hidden flesh. Also orange, black, blue-and-white, et cetera. These carp are very showy fish, especially when they are called koi.

  Yet even their flashing fins do not distract me from my black mood. I think over my options and decide that the only noble course is to proceed to the scene of the crime and redouble my efforts to save the orphaned cats. When a dude is down and out due to some domestic upset, there is nothing like hard work to clear his brain and conscience. Well, there is nothing like work.

  Who knows? According to recent events, some of these abandoned felines may be my kin. In fact, if I tote the mathematical odds of my lifelong activities of the procreative sort, most of them may be kissing cousins to a carp-lover of my all-too-close acquaintance.

  Day has turned to dark by the time I arrive at the residence in question. Not only does the lack of light match my mood, but it suits my investigative m.o. This "m.o." stands for a fancy Latin phrase, "modus operandi," which I believe has something to do with computer communications and cool operators like myself.

  I am determined that these household types will not elude my incisive questioning this time, even if I have to resort to my incisors, which are sometimes called "canines," a lousy word to hang on a fellow of another species entirely.

  I have overheard a good deal about this case, one way or another. In addition, I am the recipient of the mystic Karma's confusing hodgepodge of clues. Most of these latter are closer to chopped liver than useful hints, but one incoherent bit has got me thinking. This is not always easy to do, especially when I am under a severe personal strain. I have not even had a chance to publicly spurn my Free-to-be-Feline in more than twenty-four hours.

  If my hunch is right, I am on the trail of a twisted and complex plot combining revenge and larceny that has been hatched by a thoroughly despicable, twisted and complex person. If my hunch is not right, at least I can pick up a little Midnight snack later during my investigations.

  I belly-crawl down the sandy space between the Tyler domicile and the neighboring house of holy repute in the approved U .S. Marine boot-camp manner. I am as silent as anyone whose delicate underbelly (and lots of it) is doing the equivalent of fire-walking over an emery board. Then I slip through the secret entry and work my way into the heart of the house.

  Along the way, I find the usual buffet rest stops--Tin Pan Alley with hors d'oeuvres. Once I have dined, I reconnoiter the premises. I am happy to discover that the residents are in a restless state of mind. The uneasy witness is always more forthcoming.

  Now the residents do not pooh-pooh my interest in the case, preferring to leave it to "the authorities," but bend my ears back with tales of things that go bump in the night. So many of them swirl around me, each with his own tale to tell--not to mention tails whipping past my kisser--that I do not know where to begin.

  Settle down, I tell them. I did not bring a notebook. After I swear that their testimony is for my ears only, the conjunctive caterwauling begins:

  Oh, whines a red tabby with a cream shirtfront, we have been unable to get a wink of sleep, with all the comings and goings, day and night.

  That is what you have to expect in a house that has been visited by violent death, I reply.

  But, purrs an attractive Russian Blue who has unfortunately been rendered sexless, that is the point. We have been visited repeatedly by someone who is obviously Up to No Good.

  How, I ask, does she know?

  She does not know, only has "a suspicion."

  I harbor a strong suspicion that even when Miss Tyler's dependents are willing to talk, little of any worth will be forthcoming.

  Who, I demand, has been in the house since last I visited?

  That nice old lady from next door, volunteers a petite tiger stripe.

  I ask for a description and get it: navy coat, silver head-markings, and a strange, translucent appliance sitting on the bridge of the nose.

  Apparently these benighted feline fools are unaware that they are living cheek by cowl with a nunnery. This description could cover any one of the old dolls next door, none of whom are suspects in my book, pardon the nun pun. (Anyone who is familiar with the intricacies of my first case, the Wreck of the Remaindered Editor, is aware that such homophones as "none" and "nun" can be critical clues, but in this case, they are mere wordplay.)

  A Great White cruises past me--all white, all muscle and, luckily, fully neutered--and informs me that Delicate Heels has also been back. This does not surprise me, though Miss Temple Barr's flagrant infidelity of late is getting harder and harder to take. First there is the black banshee camped in the middle of my pied-a-terre, who unknowingly claims an intimate connection to yours truly. Second, there are Miss Temple Barr's long absences while she cavorts by the pool and elsewhere with Mr. Matt Devine. I am not against some moderate, healthy exercise, but not at the neglect of family and friends. Then there is my little doll's skipping off to venues where dozens of my kind convene, such as the cat show, and last but not least, this entire house full of unclaimed cats panting for a new full-meal deal.

  So pardon me if I am not enthralled by the praise heaped upon her from several dozen honeyed throats, all with an eye on a new home, sweet home. Mine. I almost snicker to imagine them encountering the current inhabitant. Let them match switchblades and repartee with the hard-as-snails Caviar and see how well they do!

  I also hear tell of other visitors. "Birman Breath" is not highly regarded by the crew, most of whom are not pedigreed and are highly scornful of such pampered creatures and their personal pamperers. The description--grizzled-head female, portly and often leopard-spotted or tiger-striped--puts me in mind of Miss Temple Barr's hapless contact at the cat show, whose prizewinning entry was savaged by a dog clip
per.

  I perk up. I did not know that the cat with the new punk haircut was a Birman. I picture Karma shaved to the skin in a two-inch swath from eyebrow hairs to tail tip, and once around the middle.

  The effect is both amusing and demystifying. The description of the most mysterious visitor proves to be the most provocative also. The particulars vary from witness to witness, perhaps gaining embellishment with repetition, but I think that at last I am on the trail of the villain who did such violence to Peter the convent cat.

  As the residents tell it, this person is a monster indeed: dresses in my colors from head to toe to mitts, including soft soled shoes that do not smell of natural materials, such as leather. A faceless, hairless tan head. Sex undetermined.

  I favor the male, and--given the black--either a burglar or a. . . priest.

  This person has come and gone surreptitiously outside the house since before Miss Tyler's demise, a shy and elderly cream confides.

  Since her death, the Great White puts in gruffly (this ex-he is evidently boss around here), this same person has become an intruder. He seems to be looking for something.

  What of the night of her death? I ask.

  Here there is a marked difference of opinion. Most of the witnesses were sleeping. It is only since their mistress's absence that they have become nervous by night and day, and notice more. Before, the only people around out of doors were repair persons and the like.

  The quiet cream claims to have glimpsed the intruder's legs running down the stairs after Miss Tyler fell.

  I ask why this news was not forthcoming on my last visit.

  After an awkward silence, the cream confesses that the assembled residents "did not know whether to trust an outsider or not."