Cat in a Flamingo Fedora
Page 3
The woman brushed past Temple, and Louie, to pause dramatically two seats down.
"How is Mummy's little sweetums?" With one smooth unzipping, little sweetums was swept from her pink canvas carrier and lofted into her mistress's arms.
Normally the sight of the petite shaded-silver Persian cuddled against her mistress's matching hair would have been pretty enough to photograph, as had been duly done many times before.
But on this occasion, the seraphic expression on Savannah Ashleigh's over made-up face was falling faster than Lucifer exited Heaven.
"Why .. . what's wrong, baby?" Savannah whirled to face the line of numbed crew members.
"Yvette is . . . wet!"
"Maybe she drooled," Marcy suggested hopefully.
"She is not wet in the area that drools! How has this happened? Who was responsible for giving her potty breaks? I suppose she hasn't had a dab to eat all day too! And you call yourselves animal handlers? I should sue."
Before anyone in the front-row seats could rouse themselves to a defense, an energetic patter of feet came bouncing down the temporary steps at stage right.
"House lights!" a lusty male voice demanded.
He got 'em. Temple blinked at the sudden burst of high-power light. So did the moles on the commercial crew who'd been huddling in the darkened house all day.
Inside his carrier, Midnight Louie did not blink, although he rose and thrust a furry black paw through the grill work.
" 'Vannah, that you?" Darren Cooke himself--he who had commanded, "Let there be light"--came straight for Savannah Ashleigh and her publicly embarrassed cat, squinting slightly from the ordered light. "Haven't seen you for an age, luv!"
She dodged his automatic embrace by turning away, Yvette still in her arms, and offering her cheek.
"Touch not the cat, darling; she's been kept waiting all day and is . . . cranky."
"Not unlike her owner, as I recall," he answered in a stage whisper. With his booming voice, even a discreet comment rebounded to the back wall.
Cooke turned and took sudden notice of the glum people in the front row. "And who are we?"
"We are a television-commercial crew," Kyle answered for one and all. "We have permission from the club to piggyback a forty-five-second spot on your big Las Vegas number."
"Oh, yeah. I heard about that. Savannah oughta look drop-dead gorgeous against the tutti-frutti gangster chorus we've got in that number. Once we get it rehearsed tomorrow, you can take all the time you want to set up and film. The chorus boys and girls are paid for a full day. I'll get done fast, so you guys can go to it."
Sighs and murmured thanks exploded from the front row.
Darren Cooke turned his special crooked smile on Savannah. "Anything for you, dollface."
She wriggled uneasily, whether from prolonged cheek-to-cheek contact with Yvette in her disgraced state or from Darren Cooke's embarrassingly wrong assumption it was hard to tell.
"Wrong dollface," Temple couldn't help putting in.
Her comment drew Cooke's direct gaze and thousand-watt, professionally whitened smile.
"Who are you?"
"Temple Barr. My cat's in this commercial too, just like Savannah's."
He whirled to the actress. "Your cat! Not you?"
"They wanted Yvette desperately. I didn't want to stand in her way."
Cooke turned back to Temple, the charm still radiating on full wattage. "And where is your cat?"
"He's the malcontent in the carrier."
Temple took the occasion to spring Louie, then heft him into her arms. He was, thank goodness, dry as a desert, if not as chipper as a chuckwalla lizard.
"All that's just one cat, Temple?"
"Just one. And only. Meet Midnight Louie."
"Midnight Louie. I like it. Might use that name in the show for a minor character. Well."
Cooke glanced at Savannah, who pouted while discreetly dabbing at Yvette's posterior with the pink satin cushion from the carrier." 'Vannah, when you're done catting around, come backstage. We've gotta get together. Why didn't you tell me you were in town?"
"Didn't know that you were, Dare," she said, her voice becomingly breathless. Yvette was unceremoniously returned to her carrier, cushion and all, and zipped away. "I'll just freshen up and be right down."
He nodded, then swept his eyes over the weary television crew. "Nice to meet you, folks.
Here are passes for the show." Cooke produced the fanned sheaf of colored pasteboards almost as suddenly as the Mystifying Max could conjure a magical deck of cards, and passed them out, not forgetting Temple.
Then he bounded up the stairs to grab a towel from a stool offstage and vanished into the wings.
"Wish I'd had that towel for Yvette," Savannah muttered. Her penciled eyebrows knit as she surveyed the inactive crew. "I'm going to be here first thing in the morning, and I'm not leaving until you finish filming. Obviously you can't be trusted with a delicate creature like Yvette."
She lofted the carrier and undulated up the aisle, no doubt to the nearest ladies' room, where both she and Yvette could wash away the strains--and stains--of the day.
Marcy bent to pull a litter pan from under her seat. "I put that prissy Persian in the box about eight times today and couldn't get Mummy's little sweetums to tinkle once, much less do anything else. Your Louie isn't a great performer, either, but at least he can contain himself."
"Maybe you need separate boxes for the two cats," Temple suggested. "How long do you think it will take tomorrow?"
"We can do our bit on this set in a couple of hours," Kyle said. "Depends how long Mr.
Perfection drills the chorus."
"Well, I'll stay with Louie when we come back tomorrow morning."
Kyle cleared his throat and took off his round, horn-rimmed glasses to polish them. "We really prefer to work without owners present. They can distract their animals."
"Listen, as long as that piece of cinematic cheesecake is here to defend her sweetums tooth and nail, I'll be here to do the same for Midnight Louie."
A martyred sigh. "Amateurs. Maurice was so easy to work with. He didn't have an owner. It's a good thing I have him here on call, just in case."
"In case of what?" Temple asked, highly miffed.
"I have a feeling a lot will go wrong tomorrow. It wouldn't hurt to have a body double on hand."
"Maurice doesn't look a bit like Louie."
"He would if he were dyed black from toe to tail." Kyle turned to his dispirited crew. "Come on, gang. Drinks on me. Tomorrow we'll see action, I promise you."
Temple was left with a heavy cat in her arms, a heavy carrier on the chair seat behind her and an empty stage before her.
"Stardom is a pain in the neck for stage mothers too, Louie," she told him, struggling to stuff him back in his carrier.
Louie fanned his toes, flared his nails and clawed plastic.
"Now don't be temperamental," Temple said, panting. "Fame has its obligations, and if you're too difficult, I'll let a tie-dyed Maurice have all the glory. That Yvette is as much a pain as her owner, anyway, not to mention a bad example in the bathroom department."
Louie's grip on the carrier suddenly gave. He was in and had turned around to face Temple in the twinkling of a green eye.
"Merow," he said, most persuasively, rubbing against the grille.
"I will be good," it sounded like to Temple, but she was a born optimist.
"Ooof!" She heaved Louie and his carrier off the seat to begin the long walk back up the aisle. "I'm going to have to pay a union grip just to carry you."
It wasn't fair, Temple thought. Here she was hoofing it home alone with the Godzilla of the cat world while Savannah Ashleigh was primping herself and her lightweight Yvette for a tete-a-
tete with the charming Darren Cooke, who was obviously no stranger.
Not to be catty or anything, but some bimbos had all the luck.
Chapter 3
Curb Service
"Show business!"
"As in: there's no business like--?" Electra, her landlady, fed Temple the first part of the lyric as if they were on a game show.
"I would hope not. Poor Louie was kept sitting around in a carrier all day and never got a chance to go on."
"I hope he got a chance to go."
"He didn't take that opportunity, either. I better get him up to our digs--and I do mean
'digs' in this case--pronto. Although he almost never honors his box upstairs with a deposit."
"Er, what is his location of choice, then?" An alarmed expression grew in Electra's gray eyes.
"Not in the condominium, trust me. He goes outside, I guess, during his many mysterious outings."
Electra held the arriving elevator door open so Temple could drag in the carrier.
"I did meet Darren Cooke, though," Temple added in parting, as the elevator doors slashed shut between them.
Electra thrust a bangled forearm between the doors faster than Bruce Willis on a Die Hard rampage, then bumped her way through as they opened again.
"Darren Cooke! He's one of my favorites."
"Favorite whats?"
"Favorite performer, favorite comedy actor--and not a bad dramatic actor, either--favorite male, period. Is he as good-looking in person?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of! He's supposed to be a real ladies' man. What did you think?"
"He's professionally charming. If that's a ladies' man, then he's got the title. He did s how mercy on our little A La Cat commercial film crew, though. That bespeaks a gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving, especially when said gentleman is trying to impress the hooker shoes off a certain blond bimbo named Savannah."
"Temple, I wish you wouldn't act so jaded. You're much too young for that. Darren Cooke is practically a movie star, for heaven's sake."
On the second floor, Electra held the elevator doors ajar while Temple and Louie bumped through. Then she commandeered the handle of Louie's carrier and led Temple down the circular hallway.
"What does 'practically a movie star' mean?" Temple wanted to know. "He made --what?
Two movies. And one was a bomb."
"It's hard to find the right vehicle for an actor who does both comedy and drama," Electra said to defend her idol. "So what is Darren Cooke doing in Vegas and where did you see him?"
"At Gangster's, where they're supposed to be filming Louie's A La Cat commercial. At least Darren Cooke promised the crew that he'd get his show on the road tomorrow so that we could film, and gave everyone passes to his show. Poor Yvette waited so long that she . . . ah, sprinkled her carrier."
"Persians are high-strung, unlike your average alley cat. Me, I'd take a mongrel every time."
Electra waited while Temple unlocked her door, then slung the carrier to the entry-hall floor.
"But you didn't. Karma is a purebred, isn't she?"
"Karma is a Birman, but I didn't pick her; she picked me. If I'd had my druthers, I'd have picked a little mongrel."
"I think the politically correct term these days is 'random-bred.' " When Temple bent to spring Louie, he charged from the carrier, then swiftly leapt out of sight.
"He seemed entertaining," said Temple, finishing her interrupted postmortem on Darren Cooke, "but anybody who apparently had a fling with Savannah Ashleigh can't be accused of good taste."
"Savannah Ashleigh and Darren Cooke? No!" Electra plunked her muumuued form down on Temple's pale sofa, a tropical vine engulfing a mushroom. "Maybe Darren just feels sorry for Savannah now that her career is kaput."
"Pity does not appear to be a dominant shade in Mr. Cooke's psychological makeup kit, despite his mercy to the commercial crew. I wonder now if that was because Savannah's cat was involved and he wanted to look good in her eyes."
"You've become so suspicious of other people's motives ever since you got involved in a murder or two, Temple. It doesn't become you. Maybe that's why your love life is in limbo."
"What makes you think it's in limbo?"
"I haven't seen any gentlemen callers hanging around here lately."
Temple was tempted to retort that her beaus were to be heard and not seen, thinking especially of Max's surreptitious comings and goings, but pride wasn't a good enough excuse to blow his cover.
So she merely sat on the sofa and swung the empty carrier door open and shut with the toe of her shoe.
"Don't worry about me, Electra. I've got my hands full with work assignments right now. I appreciate a little peace and quiet."
"That's just it. Matt is so quiet lately. Too quiet."
"He always was."
"But he was getting better when you two were--"
"Were what?"
"Well, I don't know what, exactly. That's what's so aggravating. If you're going to be a landlady and have tenants, you should at least have the fun of prying into their private lives, but your and Matt's lives are much too private for any fun."
"How do you know, if they're that private?" Temple waggled her eyebrows significantly.
Electra stood, jerking her shapeless muumuu into place. "I guess I'd find the diary of Mr.
Midnight Louie more revealing and entertaining than I would one of yours, or Matt's or Max's."
Temple smiled. "I guess you might. Louie and Yvette seem to have a pretty hot thing going."
"If I'm reduced to feline soap opera, I might as well retire. So, anyway, if you get another show pass, I'd love to see Darren Cooke's revue at. . . where is it?"
"Gangster's. The new casino-nightclub on Paradise. And I bet I'll get more passes tomorrow.
I'm going to be on the set until it's all over."
Electra nodded, regretfully glancing around the empty apartment as if in search of hidden hunks, then left.
Temple had risen to slide home the chain lock behind her when the phone rang. She went to the wall model in the kitchen, flicking on the overhead fluorescent light.
Matt Devine's voice came over the line like a baritone Shiatsu massage. Temple kicked off her heels and leaned against the wall, letting her expanding vertebrae iron the wallpaper.
"Is this a good time to call?" he asked.
"Best time. Just got in."
"Ah, I'm off tonight."
"So am I."
"I need your advice."
"Oh?"
"And I could use your company."
"Ah."
"But I don't have any idea of what we could do, or where we could go. The guy is supposed to be good at this."
"Not when he's talking to a crack Las Vegas PR lady. Relax. Come down to my place in half an hour and we'll leave from here."
"I hate to stick you with all the driving."
"No problem. No driving. Half an hour."
"Ah . . . what should I wear?"
"Something black would be appropriate."
Temple depressed the hook, then dialed. G-A-N-G-S-T-A. Not much dialogue was required.
"Circle Ritz. Two people." She spoke in a confidential whisper, then checked her watch.
"Seven-thirty."
That was all. Temple pushed off the wall, hoping that Gangster's lived up to its advertising, but mostly wondering what Matt's problem might be ... this time.
Twenty-five minutes later, Electra's LOVERS' KNOT WEDDING CHAPEL sign winked blue-and-pink neon on Matt and Temple as they waited in front of the Circle Ritz.
"Black didn't work out." Matt lifted a foot to show his only trace of the color--shoes.
But his navy sport coat almost looked black when the neon winked off and his light gray slacks were in the black family. And at Gangster's, family was everything.
"I don't wear much black myself," Temple admitted, "but I did dig up this."
"This" was a crinkle-cotton affair with a tiered, ankle-length (on her) skirt and a blouse with ruffled sleeves almost as big as watermelons. Spanish dancer was as close as Temple's closet could get to Mafia mama.
Matt had mastered the art of disguising surprise early, but the long, long black limousine that whispered up beside the curb nearly ruined a lifetime's worth of practice.
"Temple, we can't afford this! I just wanted a quiet place to talk."
"The back of a limo isn't quiet enough for you?"
Before he could answer, the sable-uniformed driver had come around to flourish the passenger door open.
Temple bent to walk into the dim, capacious interior; Matt could only duck and follow.
The door was shut with the expensive finality of a bank vault as Temple wiggled her ruffles deep into the cushy upholstery.
Matt was slower to settle in, from unease rather than enjoyment. He leaned forward to study the driver as they left the curb.
"He didn't even ask where we're going."
"That's because he knows where we're going. Don't worry! It's a free ride."
Matt's fretful expression deepened as sallow flashes of the Las Vegas lights bored through the dark window tint. "The only free ride you get in Las Vegas is if you're a high roller, and we sure aren't."
"You're whispering, you know. I don't think the driver can hear us unless we push this button."
Matt regarded the indicated mother-of-pearl circle with suspicion. His look turned to horror when Temple started pressing other white buttons: piped-in music began to play, and a lid flipped down to reveal a portable bar.
"This is better than a game arcade!" She poured the contents of a cocktail shaker into two waiting martini glasses. "Except the ride is a lot smoother."
"Nothing for me." Matt was looking around for more trick furnishings.
There was nothing to see beyond the tinted-glass barrier that reflected her and himself as convivial ghosts and ... a small vase near the car window on his side.
"Why a white lily?" he wondered aloud, still whispering. "Are we going to a funeral?"
"Who knows?" Temple sipped her martini. "Ooh, really different. Try one. I bet it's vintage."
"Vintage gin?" he asked in disbelief.
"No, vintage recipe. Try a sip."
Temple's aplomb required an answering ease. Matt leaned over to sip from her glass, amazed by how the silk-smooth ride made everything so easy.