Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  I drop my laundry mitt and stand at attention with every muscle in my body.

  Although the sight of her personalized carrier told me the Divine Yvette would be on the premises, her personal presence is still a potent form of shock and awe. Not to mention also encountering her kittykin, for the fulsome blonde of blended apricot, gold, and cream shades is her shaded golden sister, the Sweet Solange.

  No one told me the Shaded Sisters were part of the deal.

  I leap out from my place of concealment but naturally must play the brusque (though noble) crime scene guardian.

  “You there!” I cry as they are about to dip their dark little tootsies in the c of the word formerly known as “bitches.” “Desist.”

  Aqua-green and moss-green eyes circled in black mascara regard me with calm surprise and no hint of obedience.

  Seeing the pair of them side by side is the human parallel of viewing a Jaguar XKE next to a Lamborghini. Where is a guy to look first?

  I should mention one of the most unusual and charming aspects of the shaded Persian breed. Pale as their silver and golden coats may be, the leather on their persons—nose, eye surrounds, pads—is black, as are the hairs on the bottoms of their feet, which is why I call them “soot foots.” Purely to myself, you can imagine. No Persian worth her pedigree would answer to such a lowly description.

  I trot over to enforce my order, for the females of my kind are not the docile and downtrodden type. Au contraire.

  Hmmm. I see the Divine Yvette’s presence is the usual bad influence already. I am starting to think in French.

  “Bon jour, girls,” I say.

  “Hssss, les flics,” the Divine One says, which is the French equivalent of “Cheese it, the cops!”

  (I should also make clear that the Divine Yvette is not the slightest bit French, unless rubbing shoulders with teacup poodles on Rodeo Drive makes her so. But she likes to think that others think so. And they both bear French names. Why people attempt to social climb via their animal companions’ names, I cannot tell you.)

  Me, I was born nameless, and the street people gave me my moniker, Midnight Louie. Fine with me. I think every male on the planet is secretly a Louie, only they just do not know it. Yet.

  “Ladies, ladies.” I have arrived, panting slightly, whether from haste or another, less conscious cause I will not say.

  “Louie! I did not expect to see you here.” The Divine Yvette blinks her aquamarine orbs as if doubting the message they are sending her.

  Miss Solange regards me with her usual expression, which is calm but devastating.

  “I can understand that,” I say, “but you can see crime has called me like a plate of lasagna calls Garfield.”

  “Please,” Yvette sniffs, “do not mention that common yellow striper. He is not in our league.”

  “No, of course not. He is a joke. But I must ask you ladies to keep your delicate nails out of this fluffy white stuff. It is evidence that the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police crime techs will soon be”—hmm, “sifting” does not quite do it—“nosing around.”

  “What an unfortunate lime odor.” Yvette shakes a dainty foot in demonstration.

  “The brand is Razor’s Edge,” Solange adds.

  I gaze into those mysterious and soulful eyes. Too bad I am previously and seriously attached to her sister Yvette, because this is one great big beautiful doll in her own right. “How did you detect the brand?”

  She sighs, which our kind does by looking sideways. “One of our mistress’s … mates used it. Detestable stuff! So declassé.”

  “I do not think lime scent is ‘the classy’ either. So your mistress, Miss Savannah Ashleigh, is present here? In what capacity?”

  “Our mistress,” Yvette explains patiently, “does not have any capacity whatsoever. You must have noticed that in our previous mutual encounters.”

  Unfortunately, “our previous mutual encounters” were way too mutual. I am not one for three-ways, despite my roguish reputation. So most of my close encounters with the Divine Yvette have meant her air-head mistress was also present.

  “What has brought out Miss Solange on this occasion?” I ask, for I only met her formally once during our separate but mutual jaunt to New York City and ad agency shenanigans, back when Yvette and I were cat food commercial performers.

  Ah, the lights. The cameras. The action.

  “Our mistress has been promoted,” Solange explains. “She is a judge now.”

  “Miss Savannah Ashleigh, the low-amp of Savannah, is a judge? What are federal appointments coming to?”

  “A judge of the ‘Tween and Teen Queen competitions,” Yvette corrects me.

  If one must be corrected, the Divine Yvette is the one to do it.

  “It is like American Idol,” Solange adds, “with a panel of celebrity judges.”

  “More like American Idle,” I mutter. It is no secret that Miss Savannah Ashleigh has been living off the TV commercial residuals of her feline companions rather than her own efforts.

  “Our mistress is doing very well now,” Solange says in her defense. “Her old movies are now considered ‘camp’ and she is having a career revival. So she has semiretired us and we both travel with her now.”

  I bring up a sensitive subject with Yvette. “And what about the, ah, you know … the patter of little paws?”

  (I had been falsely accused of felonious littering during our last commercial assignment when the Divine Yvette ended up expecting. However, my Miss Temple fought that charge tooth and fingernail in The People’s Court and proved me innocent. Well, innocent of that particular outcome. The Divine Yvette proved to be the victim of attack when all her kits were born wearing the stripes of my rival spokescat, the yellow-bellied Maurice.)

  “Oh, them.” Yvette yawns. “They were forced upon me and after birth were quickly allocated to other homes.”

  I glance at Solange. Apparently the maternal instinct can be a fleeting thing.

  “Poor Yvette,” she answers indignantly. “Attacked and left in an unwanted condition. Good homes were found.”

  “They all came out yellow-striped,” Yvette adds with a shudder that sends all her fine silver hairs rippling.

  I quite understand how an unwed mother might resent the resemblance of offspring to a foul attacker but …

  “Is there not a strain of Stripe in the Shaded line?” I ask. “Were not common tabbies responsible for the Shaded’s sublime black leather and faint tracery of markings amid the fur that lends such a rich sheen to the divine silver and gold?”

  Yvette shrugs again. “Stripe is common. Black and brown are the weediest variety of cat colors. If we have any Stripe in us, it goes back countless generations and therefore does not count.”

  I did not mean to impugn the Shaded pedigree but must take exception to her characterization of black and brown, being of the very common House of Black myself.

  Solange addresses this before I can. “I am actually the older type of Shaded Persian. There was a time when kits of my ilk were tossed aside as unvalued throwbacks. Fortunately, we are coming into new favor and our more robust coloration is prized now, in the show ring and out of it.”

  “Hear, hear!” I say, eyeing Solange with new appreciation.

  There is a little bit of tabby in every cat, and particularly in every alley cat.

  Yvette has wandered away during my mutual admiration society musings with Solange.

  She is patting at something under a bush.

  I cannot have her disturbing my crime scene, so I rush over.

  Well, well, well. I will have to see that the Las Vegas CSI, the real-life ones, find this prime piece of evidence pronto. It is a can of Razor’s Edge shaving cream, lime scented.

  “Good job, girls,” I say. “Now huff your ruffs back inside. I will be sure to direct my associate’s attention to this useful clue.”

  “You must visit us and tell us what happened, Louie,” Solange manages to say as I hustle them toward the glass sliding d
oors where they can paw pitifully until admitted.

  “Where will I find you?”

  “Lavender Wing, with the judges and Team Queen members.”

  With that I return to the deserted pool area and the too-obviously abandoned shaving cream can. This job must have taken several cans. Where are they?

  I sit and regard the empty can. I wonder what the CSI will make of the pad prints amid whatever human traces remain. Which is likely nothing. This can is a message, not a clue.

  I picture the cops “fingerprinting” the Divine Yvette and Solange when their presence at this overall crime scene is detected.

  Then they will be “soot foots” indeed!

  I am very glad that I will not be wielding the inkpads on that occasion.

  Ouch!

  Chapter 21

  Hanky Panky

  Temple and Mariah huddled in their room that night, comparing notes on hastily scrawled pages they tore up and packed away.

  As befitted a ‘Tween ‘n’ Teen Queen competition, half of their shared notes concerned the rules of the contest, the rituals of competition, psyching out the judges, and a keen awareness that their every word and gesture could be recorded.

  The other half concerned the skullduggery.

  Skullduggery. Temple liked that word but Mariah adored it.

  She was her mother’s daughter, though the very expression would have made Mariah howl. She was so into being “not Mother” at the moment.

  For a final consultation, they huddled in the bathroom for a fast five minutes, shower running full blast and steaming up the mirrors, the air, and possibly parboiling any electronic bugs and cameras. Such devices weren’t allowed in the bathrooms anyway.

  Still, that was the underlying paranoia of reality TV. One could never be sure.

  So their conversation was as veiled as the air.

  “What if that shaving cream had been acid?” Mariah theorized, “and all of us had been lying there exercising and trying to get tans and burning our skins off?”

  “You have a morbid imagination.”

  “Thanks. Whatcha think?”

  “Thanks for asking. I think it was a stunt to get attention, which worked. And I don’t know if we really have a stalker among us, or if it’s the producers trying to throw the contestants off-balance, or—”

  “Or a crazy killer?”

  “Right. Like there are a lot of sane ones.” Temple leaned her arm past the shower curtain to crank the water force up the last notch. “Hand me that razor, please.”

  Mariah did, looking a little jealous that Temple was so proficient at shaving her armpits. Hey, this was Feminine Hygiene 101. She should be a pro.

  “I don’t think my mother shaves,” Mariah said glumly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but it doesn’t seem like something she would do. You’re really good at it.”

  “Thanks.” Temple tore off a hunk of toilet paper and put it on the nicked shin that had happened when Mariah had opined that she didn’t think her mother shaved. Only her mustache!

  “Those drawn-on tattoos are cool.”

  “Tattoos are cool when they’re temporary. When they’re permanent, they’re a problem waiting to happen.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, we always reinvent ourselves as we toddle through life. We should aim to be a blackboard, not a pincushion with no expiration date.”

  “Huh? Oh, I get it. You’re funny.”

  “I hope so, because this situation is getting less so every day.”

  “It’s like boot camp.” Mariah picked at the dead skin around her big toenail. She sounded ‘tweenage sullen again. Temple found herself suddenly sympathetic toward Carmen Molina. “Everybody tells you what to do. ‘Exercise.’ ‘Suck in your stomach.’ ‘Eat your vegetables.’ ‘smile.’”

  Temple smiled. “Imagine making smiling an order? How many of those rules does your mother harp on?”

  “The vegetables.”

  “That’s not too bad.”

  “No. But being a girl is harder than that.”

  “Being a girly girl is harder. We don’t all have to be pretty in pink.”

  Mariah squinted up at Temple. “I can’t see the real you in pink. But it does go with that Elvira wig in a weird sort of way.”

  Temple pushed the hot, damp hairdo back on her forehead. It felt like a heavy wet turban.

  “This thing makes one admire Cher in concert. Pink doesn’t go with my natural hair color, so it’s kinda fun to wear it now. I feel like a 1958 Cadillac convertible.”

  Mariah giggled. ‘You’re not big enough to be a hugerrific car like that.”

  “No, but I can think I am. You see anything suspicious around the camp today?”

  “I snooped, like you said, and I found six cans of Razor’s Edge in the contestants’ lockers.”

  “Good work! Empty? You didn’t touch them?”

  “No! Only picked ’em up with a towel. All of them were pretty light. You know what I’m thinking?”

  “That whoever sprayed those yoga mats used what was on hand?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “With this vast cast of competitive characters, it’s so easy to spread the blame. I bet our perp used latex gloves though.”

  Mariah nodded. “My mom has a whole box at the house. She never leaves home without ’em.”

  Temple giggled this time. “She sounds like a gynecologist.”

  “Ah, I have my first appointment after this is over.”

  “The pits!”

  “Is it scary?”

  “Oh, yeah, but you get used to it. I mean, we all have to do it. Consider it a badge of courage.”

  Mariah considered while Temple watched, remembering her own first gynecological exam. No matter how prepared you were, it was always a bit of a psychic violation.

  “We heard about that in school,” Mariah was saying. “The badge of courage story. It was about war.”

  The red badge of courage for women was a different kind of war, Temple thought. The onset of menstruation. Of being different from men. Of being capable of being hurt just for your gender, physically and psychologically.

  Temple was a modern girl. She bought her own “sanitary protection” with careless regularity, somewhere between the way she bought breath mints and condoms. The euphemistic phrase “sanitary protection” still made the process seem dirty and secret, even today. What did you tell a girl on the brink? Relax and enjoy the anxiety, the shame of doing something guys don’t and sometimes mock?

  Where was Carmen Molina when you needed her?

  Adolescence was murder.

  For guys too, remember.

  Temple pointed to the bloody nick on her shin. “Nothing is smooth, Mariah. Everything hurts a little. That’s how we know we’re alive. And we want to stay that way. I’m afraid someone around this competition doesn’t feel the same way.”

  “Yeah.” Mariah ran the disposable pink razor up her still fuzzy lower leg. “That’s obvious. We gotta find out who. That’s why my mother sent you here.”

  “You think so?”

  “No, she wanted you here as my babysitter but I’m not a baby anymore, so you might as well do something more useful.”

  Temple gave her a high five. “Baby, you are so right!”

  They were all on a schedule. Boot camp for beauty. That made them predictable targets.

  Temple didn’t like being separated from Mariah for most of the day but they were on opposite ends of the age meridian.

  The moment when Temple realized that she was old enough to be Mariah’s mother, she got cold chills. And then she heard her own biological clock ticking. What did she want? To be a pal or a parent?

  But this wasn’t about her.

  And then there were more one-on-ones with the judges in their advisor capacity.

  First up was her very own maternal aunt, Kit Carlson.

  Temple went to that one chewing a wad of gum big enough to choke a camel (an
d therefore disguise her voice).

  She slumped on her tailbone on the single rattan chair before the Consultant Room One desk, and snapped gum.

  Aunt Kit remained admirably cool to the whole act as she flipped through Xoe’s file.

  “You wouldn’t be here at all if Manship hadn’t liked your cheeks,” Kit finally noted, slapping the file shut to gain Xoe’s attention, and staring at her over the rims of her half-glasses.

  “Men are easy.”

  “Men are only fifty percent of the vote.”

  “Yeah, what’s that Elvis guy here for anyway?”

  “Apparently local color. I think he’s like Jai on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. A cultural consultant, always a vague and unrewarding position.”

  Temple shrugged. “Who cares what any of you do or think? I don’t want to win anyway.”

  “I bet not. Losing can become a way of life. You get to sneer at the winners, whine, be cynical.”

  “Cynical. Like it’s a sin? Sins are cool.”

  “You try not to show it but you’re obviously a very bright girl.”

  Temple sat up, indignant. “What makes you say that?”

  Kit smiled, making Temple feel like a rat for the masquerade.

  “You worked that guy like a pro,” Kit said, woman to woman.

  “Pro what?”

  “Pro girly girl. No prob. That’s what this exercise in media exposure is about. Question is, is there a real person under that persona?”

  “Persona? Lady, what big words you use. I’m more real than all those bottle blondes out there put together.”

  “Granted. But what wins? The obvious. I almost voted against admitting you to the contest but I had to admire the crass way you played on Manship’s crassest inclinations. I have a weakness for chutzpah.”

  “Is he really the deciding vote?”

  “He’s the audience favorite. Everyone has a mean little devil inside aching to bust out. He feeds that need. That makes him a man of power. The temptation for women everywhere is to play the man of power. That’s the way women lose it. Lose it for winning.”

  “So what are you doing here if the game’s so crooked?”