Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Over the past twenty or so years, the house had been a white elephant, huge and impossible to reinvent. It had been a Halloween spook-show place for a while. A theme restaurant. (Middle-Eastern, with the Disneyesque Neuschwanstein castle towers appropriately repainted as minarets.) A funeral home. That was the weirdest and last incarnation. And lately, it had stood perilously empty, inviting vandals, until it had been turned into the set for a presumably hot reality TV show.

  The first time it had made media news, it had just been another sprawling tribute to big money and minuscule taste.

  Temple was one up on the other contestants.

  As a media person, she’d heard of the bizarre tragedy that had made this place the house that no one wanted to own. The builder had been Arthur Dickson, a reclusive techno-geek who’d wired it for every media known to man at the time and filled it with high-tech toys and Elvis trivia. He’d gotten married here to a former showgirl and mother of a young daughter, who reportedly topped him by six inches … . Of course, the marriage disintegrated in a haze of vindictive heat over sex and money. During the trial separation, the wife and stepdaughter got the house.

  It ended with a big shoot-out one night. When it was over, the stepdaughter was seriously maimed, caught in the crossfire; the showgirl-wife had been shot in the shoulder, her male friend had been killed, and the husband had vanished.

  Since then, no one had seen Arthur Dickson, the man who’d bought and rebuilt this mansion in tribute to Elvis. He was presumed dead. A second cousin had later brought suit charging that his body had been spirited away, because after seven years his estate had reverted to the wife and he had been declared dead.

  So Temple approached this house with the notion that it had best served its history when it had been a funeral parlor, not the set for a frivolous TV program.

  The doorbell pealed out “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog.”

  It reminded Temple that Dickson had been an Elvis nut. The place boasted a grotto outside the pool fit for a mass burial. But Graceland it was not. This house had a purely Las Vegas mystique, from the copper-domed four-story towers along the sprawling façade to the rumored wine cellar vault in the bowels of an unusual Las Vegas real estate feature, a basement.

  Temple edged into the entry hall, not knowing what to expect but ready for anything.

  At least Xoe Chloe was.

  Chapter 17

  Mr. Chaperon

  Imagine the Taj Mahal with a copper roof and a six-car garage and you have a pretty good idea of what the Arthur Dickson house looks like.

  As my Miss Temple in her new outré garb vanishes inside, its white stucco walls shimmer in the midday Las Vegas sunlight like a whited sepulcher. Wait! I have a more topical simile. It shimmers like those Da Vinci dental veneers you see on the queen of TV makeover shows, The Swan. I bet old Leonardo himself is rolling over in his sarcophagus in Italy to hear how his name is being bandied about in everybody’s upscale mouth these days. Fame is one thing; foolishness is another.

  Speaking of foolishness a wee bit closer to home, it is more than somewhat clear to me that if my Miss Temple is not acting her age, I need to be on the scene from the get-go to keep her little masquerade from turning dangerous.

  So I enter the place with the film crew, who are obligingly loaded with so many long aluminum equipment boxes that a crocodile could slink in at their ankles and they’d never notice.

  Make that one svelte black puddytat, and not even Tweety Bird would notice little moi.

  I cannot imagine how my expedition has escaped the notice of my nosy partner in crime solving, Miss Midnight Louise, my wannabe daughter, but so far I am solo on this case and relishing the peace and quiet. This joint is so grandiose that it is easy for me to slip around wherever I feel like it. The floors are all marble or wood but my tootsies come stocking shod when I want them to. I skate over the shiny surfaces like a shadow glimpsed out of the corner of someone’s eye.

  I overhear one of the tech guys joking that the place is supposed to be haunted by an Elvis imitator’s ghost.

  Better and better. Elvis and I have a noncompetition agreement when it comes to haunting. And any untoward noise I might make is likely to be taken for an unearthly phenomenon.

  I check out the kitchen first, because … oh, just because. Without Miss Louise on my tail demanding explanations for my every move, I am free to do as I please.

  Wow. This place is huge. You could hold basketball games in the kitchen, which has three huge stainless-steel Sub-Zero fridges big enough to stash a limousine’s worth of bodies. Basketball-player-size bodies.

  With the black granite countertops and black marble floors, this is not the kind of kitchen that tolerates the errant crumb. I see that I will have to do some creative cadging to provide my own meals during my stay here.

  I eyeball the back yard, which has all the comforts of your average five-star health club … pools, spas, air-conditioned exercise pavilions, distant athletic courts, none of them the sort of facility I would care to spend a minute in. Amazing how humans have to force themselves to physical action when my kind knows that sleeping twenty hours a day is the key to a healthy lifestyle.

  In fact, I stretch out in the sun for a few minutes and someone coos and the next thing I know a camera is framing my lissome figure in its single eye.

  “He must come with the property,” a camerawoman says. “This place is so big and bland, it’ll be nice to have a little animal interest to focus on.”

  “When we are not close up and personal on all these teen sluts,” a guy answers.

  “They are not sluts. This is a very life-affirming program,” she says indignantly

  Like most indignation, it is lost on her hearer, a cameraman with a world-weary attitude.

  “These reality shows are just a new network twist on T and A. You do remember T and A programming? And I do not mean Transit Authority. Back in the eighties. Jiggle shows. About the only life-affirming activity around here will be all those Ts and As getting exercised to within an inch of their lives and being uplifted into prime shape. Looks like your new pal the cat could use a little time on the treadmill, and maybe a shave and a haircut.”

  I honor the crass slob with a hiss and a glare.

  “See. He heard you! Animals are amazingly sensitive to human emotions.”

  “That was not a human emotion. That was a professional opinion.”

  A reeking boot swings at my mug. The smell almost knocks me over, though the boot never even grazed a whisker. Humans have no idea how overwhelming ground-level odors are.

  “Watch your sneaky step, kitty. If you try to steal a scene and get in the way of my camera, you will be shredded cabbage.”

  I do not deign to tell him I have kung fu moves that would make Jackie Chan look like he was standing still and whistling Dixie.

  Let them underestimate you.

  The woman coos at me and stands guard, arms folded, until the creep takes his hand-held camera and leaves.

  “Poor fellah,” she says, bending down to pat my head. “Dick really lives up to his name. He’s a good cameraman but pretty pathetic in the public relations department.”

  I hate to say it but during her solicitous gesture I get a really good view of T and A. Luckily, they do not attract in my case unless fully furred.

  I give her a short appreciative purr, rise, and go back inside while the sliding kitchen door is still ajar, exhaling morgue-cold air-conditioning on a desert world. At least there is no icky orange scent here to banish the odor of decay. Yet.

  There are four ways upstairs: the front stairs, which resemble those at the Paris Opera House for marble-paved elegance, and the back stairs, which are plain unvarnished wood, steep and twisty, and intended for servants, or at least mothers-in-law. Then there is the elevator, which is way too small for me to easily blend in with the human passengers, and the silent butler in the kitchen, a capacious box open on one side, which operates at the push of a button and has
shadowy recesses. Think of it as a large litter box set sideways and in upward and downward motion. Or a mini-elevator for domestics. Or domestic cats. I do.

  I press the button with my strong right mitt and hop aboard. Soon, it wafts upward. I press toward the back of the box, like a lizard in a mailbox (a common phenomenon in this climate). When the mechanism stops, I peek out, find the upper hall empty, and thump down to the floor.

  More wood.

  In an hour, I have made a quick tour of about thirty-five bedroom-with-bath suites. This place is built like a bed-and-breakfast for Attila the Hun and accompanying Mongol horde.

  Only once during my tour did anything untoward happen.

  It was in bedroom number fourteen, I think. I was nosing around the perimeter when I noticed some unopened high-end luggage in the room, all in pink high-denier and all bearing the cursive initials S. A.

  Of course, I naturally think of South America and wonder if Charo is in residence, speaking of T and A, or about to be. But then, as I backed away to the wall when I realized the room could be occupied at any time, I rear-ended my way into an impediment.

  A somewhat wishy-washy impediment but an impediment nevertheless.

  I whirl to face it and find myself confronting another pervasive pink canvas bag, except this one has a familiar look. And there is a familiar name emblazoned on it. Yvette.

  My heart stops and does a double-axel somewhere two feet above the floor.

  I inhale the rich, perfumed scent of the Divine Yvette. She is not here at the moment but she has been, and will be again.

  What a lucky break! I can protect my Miss Temple from fire, flood, and overexposure on national television and still pursue my courtship of Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s pampered Persian siren at one and the same time.

  I tiptoe out of the divine chamber, branding its location on my brain. Now to lay low until all the players are in place and I can be about my quiet and stealthy work … and, as it happens, play.

  Chapter 18

  Pretty Putrid in Pink

  Despite the bravado of Temple’s Rollerblading arrival at the Teen Queen Castle, she had hit the moment that made her quail: orientation.

  This was like joining a sorority in public. Not only was Xoe Chloe not sorority material in any reality, but Temple herself was known by several of the show’s officials. Was her pre-makeover makeover good enough to fool them?

  Max had always said brazen was the best disguise. She was about to find out.

  The contestants assembled in the large and impressive library, good enough to serve as a set for the mystery board game Clue.

  There, the organizers informed them that they were twenty-eight of the most promising young ladies ever assembled and would be working with the celebrity judges and coaches to bring out their true potential.

  Temple wasn’t sure if this was an all-girl version of The People’s Court or an NFL draft. In addition, Hollywood’s most hailed hair and makeup artists, personal trainers and wardrobe consultants would oversee their transformation into fully gorgeous, empowered young women.

  There was Ken Adair, the Hair Guy, and Kathy Farrell, the mousy makeup specialist in army green knit stirrup pants and a shapeless nightshirt top. Avis Campion, the physical trainer was an awesomely buff black woman with the take-no-prisoners air of a drill sergeant. Marjory Klein, the dietitian, was the oldest advisor, a spare, unadorned woman in her fifties dressed in the cheerful animal-figured loose pants and top favored by nurses nowadays.

  And, finally, Beth Marble announced, the winner, besides snaring a small role on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Las Vegas—Temple figured it would be a closeup as a corpse—would also win a date with one of two male singing heartthrobs: Aiden Rourke of Day-Glo for the sixteen- to nineteen-year-old Teen Queen winner, and Zach French of Boys Ahoy for the thirteen- to fifteen-year-old ‘Tween Queen winner.

  Thirteen unlucky girls in both categories would go away losers, Temple thought, but no one mentioned that except to say that every girl would leave with a brand-new self. The assumption being that any old self was pretty expendable. And that even a brand-new self wasn’t enough sometimes.

  Temple tapped her foot with impatience, one glitzy little mule sliding off her toe.

  Instantly, she sensed a camera zooming in on the gesture. Sure enough, one of the camera crew had his lens pointed at her foot.

  Good grief! Talk about being under a microscope. Two weeks of this would drive everyone batty.

  Not that they didn’t have a running start at it.

  As Beth Marble, the cooing cheerleader, formally introduced the coaching judges, Temple eyed Mariah, who was searching the fourteen over-fifteens for Temple. Temple was cheered considerably that Mariah was completely confused for now. Once everyone stood up, though, Temple would be the only over-fifteen whose stature belonged in the under-sixteen group.

  Beth introduced herself as a pop psychologist and self-help author who had designed the program. Aunt Kit Carlson was introduced by her pen name, Sulah Savage, as a writer of “chick lit fantasy.” Huh? Temple had thought the genre was historical romance. Spin was everywhere.

  Ken Adair, the Hair Guy, was a hip metrosexual who probably had done Matt’s quick highlighting job a couple weeks ago when Matt had impersonated a dead man for a few very weird hours. Dexter Manship was introduced last, a lanky, outspoken, and egocentric Aussie in a tartan vest who glowered at the assembled girls as if he were thinking of beheading them.

  “This won’t be a cakewalk, ladies,” he warned. “This is not some girly pajama party where you play with makeup. This is a makeover! We’re going to tear you down and build you up right. You don’t sweat, you don’t starve, you don’t bare your pathetic little souls, you don’t fight hard to leave all the other girls in the dust, and you’ll be a bigger failure than you were before. Two weeks, ladies, to become kick-ass winners. Or nothing.”

  A pained look crossed Beth’s determinedly pleasant features. Watching people humiliated on national TV had become a countrywide diversion lately. Beth must know that the shows needed brutal drill-sergeant types like Manship. Simon Cowell had proved that on American Idol. Brits appeared to do scathing better than Americans. Witness Ann Robinson’s schoolmarmish dominatrix and her terse tagline, “You are the weakest link. G’bye.”

  That was the unsaid mantra for every reality TV show.

  Temple eyed the under-fifteens huddled in an excited, scared girly mess on their side of the massive room. Mama Molina worried about some nutcase killing their bodies. But what about the process scarring their minds? Did the parents who signed the fistful of papers realize what a risk they were taking with their kids’ self-esteem?

  On the other hand, the girls who’d volunteered for this all overflowed with oodles of that bounce-back crazy-kid optimism Temple remembered from her own youth. She smiled, recalling her secret application to San Diego’s Old Globe Shakespearian theater right out of high school. She’d gotten a very nice letter—encouraging her to apply again when older—that she still had. And now look at her, starring as Xoe Chloe on TV! From Shakespeare to reality TV. Her mother, if she knew about it, would have had a cat fit either way, then or now.

  Beth had taken over the wireless microphone. “You’ll find your program kits on the library table against the wall, alphabetically by name. Your roommate’s name is also affixed, so you can meet and go to your rooms to get a great night’s sleep for the program launch tomorrow. Remember, young women, you are likely to be caught on camera at any time, so be on your best behavior at all times. We have our own public relations representative. Crawford, will you step up to the mike?”

  Temple found her fingernails driving into her palms as a small dapper man with delusions of hipsterdom headed toward the mike.

  Like many radio personalities, he’d cultivated a deep, mellow voice that was reassuring only if you liked buying swampland in Florida. He wore a lime green jogging suit and resembled a rather unripe banana. His graying hair was slic
ked back and dyed black for the visual media, with a fringe of curls at the nape of his neck, rather like an unwanted “ring around the collar” in laundry detergent ads.

  “Thank you, Beth Marble. Now, girls, if you have any questions be sure to ask me. My name is Crawford Buchanan of KREP-AM, and I’ve logged a lot of live time on mike and many on-camera miles. I can advise you on how to look and sound good, even though I’m not an official coach. So come to me any time.”

  Temple shuddered at the very idea and was distressed to see many earnestly naive faces watching him with gullible intensity.

  While she was seething about the stupidity of letting Awful Crawford loose in a harem of impressionable young girls, the introduction ended and would-be ‘Tween and Teen Queens proceeded to mingle.

  Temple shook her head to see Dexter Manship and Crawford Buchanan immediately surrounded by eager questioners.

  “Cool tattoo,” a voice said softly in her ear. “I bet they’ll make you cover it with makeup.”

  She turned to the svelte and sensuously packaged champagne blonde behind her, who was ogling the drawn-on image of a motorcycle on Temple’s left bicep—had that been a chore!—and spoke her doom again.

  “Bad Girl isn’t gonna make it in this crowd.”

  “Maybe I don’t wanna make it.”

  “That’s a new one. Anyway, name’s Blondina.”

  Temple nearly swallowed her bubble gum. Since the wad was as large as a ping-pong ball, that would have been a life-threatening event. Was there any way out of here but blonde?

  “Xoe,” Temple said. “With an X.”

  “As in X-rated? All right! See you around. And watch your backside. Everyone else will be.”

  Actually, that was Temple’s fervent hope. Her selection of provocative piercings and drawn-on tattoos was aimed at distracting people from her face and false hair. Not to mention her lying green eyes.

  She didn’t want there to be any chance that Xoe Chloe Ozone would be a finalist, much less a serious contender. This was not a Survivor-style kick-you-off show. Everyone stayed until the bitter end when the final talent show and announcement of the winners took place. If she was written off as a sure loser early, she’d be free to observe and protect.