Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  Electra nodded one last time. "Okay. We'll bring him right in." She hung up. "I don't think Temple should drive."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake! I drove home after the assault in the parking garage. Besides, I doubt that anyone but Matt can hold him. Grab my tote, Electra; I'll open doors."

  The trio hurried outside as fast as their routine allowed: T emple leading and opening, Matt holding the protesting wad of towels, Electra in the rear, toting Temple's tote bag, digging for car keys and closing doors behind her as she went.

  The keys were ready by the time they reached Temple's car. Electra opened the passenger door to seat Matt, then struggled into the less capacious backseat.

  Temple was awake and then some. She revved the Storm so fast it almost choked, and burned rubber out of the lot.

  "Ooh," Electra murmured as the sharp turn onto the side street shoved her all the way to the opposite window.

  But nobody dared criticize Temple's driving, and they did arrive safely at Dr. Doolittle's in record time.

  "This seems familiar," the receptionist said as she waved them into the first consulting room without a pause at the desk. "What's wrong with this little guy?"

  Nobody corrected her. "We don't know," they all said at once.

  Louie's feet, battling to escape the confining towels, made skid marks on Matt's arms.

  Dr. Doolittle came in, her white lab coat flapping with haste, the vet tech behind her toting Louie's slim record file.

  "What have we got here?"

  Matt described how Louie had been found, while Temple produced the bloody satin pillowcase.

  "Those blood drops came from the outside, not the inside," Dr. Doolittle said with a frown, gingerly peeling back tangled towels to unveil Louie.

  He sat blinking under the fluorescent light, ears back, eyes squinting almost shut, fur wet and full of cowlicks. His hind feet splayed out, while his forelegs would hardly brace his solid weight.

  "Hmmm. Quiet down, boy. You're gonna be all right." Dr. Doolittle concentrated only on Louie, gently feeling each of his legs. (He didn't like that, and said so.) Then she hefted him onto his feet and felt his torso. He lowered his head like a big black bull and snarled. She even ran her hands over his tail.

  Then out came the stethoscope and finally the thermometer.

  "Uh-oh." Temple was quick to grab Louie's shoulders. The tech held his head so he couldn't bite, while Matt grabbed his hind legs so he couldn't kick and scratch. Electra, watching from a corner of the room, seemed to enter a meditative trance.

  The insertion of the thermometer nearly sent Louie up the wall of human flesh holding him down. Waiting for the instrument's beeped "done" signal seemed an endless ordeal to one and all.

  "Everything looks normal," Dr. Doolittle said finally. "Heart's a little fast, but this struggle could do that. He's obviously been anesthetized." She ruffled the fur of a foreleg until she saw something. "An injection hole. He seems a bit touchy in the rear area, but t hat could have been the thermometer. I'd say that some do-gooder mistook him for a feral cat and picked him up for a quick neutering, but I did a quick check while he was flailing; all his equipment is present and accounted for."

  "People would snatch and alter other people's cats?" Temple asked, incredulous.

  "Animal-lovers would. You might consider neutering Louie now," she added sternly. "It would keep him from roaming and getting into trouble like this. And it would certainly keep more unwanted kittens from entering the world only to leave it in short order at a shelter, or after a harsh, unhappy street life."

  Temple nodded soberly. So much had happened in her personal and professional life since Louie had showed up five months ago. She'd always meant to do the neutering business. ...

  While she wallowed in guilt, Dr. Doolittle considered Louie from a safe distance. He was still snarling and thrashing.

  "I can't find a thing wrong with him," the vet said, "except for being woozy from anesthetic and roughed up from fighting the bed linens. We'll keep him under observation overnight--"

  "Louie will think I've abandoned him!" Temple fretted.

  "I want him on an IV to make sure he gets plenty of liquid. You can visit him tomorrow."

  "But there's no visible damage?"

  "Not on first examination, under these less-than-ideal circumstances. I want to see how he'll act in the morning."

  "Still mad as hell," Temple predicted.

  She ventured to pat Louie's ruffled head as the tech carried him off, growling, wrapped in the terrible towels again.

  "We'll call if there's any change," Dr. Doolittle promised. "Whatever happened on Louie's recent adventure, only he can say. "Now go home and get some rest," she prescribed for Temple, "with plenty of liquids and someone to watch over you."

  She quirked a smile at Electra and Matt, then bustled off to wherever veterinarians go when they leave consulting rooms.

  "I've got just the liquid," Electra muttered on their exit. "Bottle of cherry brandy I saved since my last husband."

  "You'll have to watch over Temple," Matt told her. "I can't cancel out of work on such short notice."

  Electra patted his arm as he opened the Storm's passenger door for her. "You just trundle off to your phone lines, Matt. We girls will sit at home sipping brandy and talking about you guys."

  "No brandy for me," Temple said. "I want to find out if the police picked up Alison Darby.

  Would she have been demented enough to take my snooping out on Louie? If she's still on the loose--" She picked up the satin pillowcase she had thrown on the shift console. "Something is crusted near the open edge. Ick!" She looked closer. "Embroidery! Initials. Who would be dumb enough to dump a kidnapped cat in a personalized pillowcase? Electra? Matt? Can either of you make out these letters?"

  While Temple got the car in gear and going, Electra hunched forward in the backseat so the two could consult over the front seat back.

  "Maybe it's a hotel insignia," Electra suggested. "An S. Don't you think, Matt?"

  "An S could be the Sands."

  "Torn down," Temple reminded them, turning onto the Strip.

  "This middle initial is an I," Electra went on, deciphering as much with her finge rs as her eyes.

  "And," said Matt, "the last one must be an A."

  "SIA," Temple mused. "A sister organization to the CIA? Is that why the satin pillowcase? Just kidding. Usually the last name is in the middle, so it really should be SAL"

  "Unless," she added, "the person who ordered this attack is so dumb that he or she --and I lean to a she--didn't know that."

  She hit the brakes so hard her seat-belted passengers barely caught themselves from being hurled into something hard.

  "Sorry," Temple said. "Speaking of dumb ... it just occurred to me to wonder what Savannah Ashleigh's middle name is."

  Chapter 36

  Temple Goes a Few Rounds

  Temple spent Sunday taking care of old business.

  She paid a special visit that morning to Midnight Louie at the vet's, when only the weekend staff was in.

  "You are my main man, Louie," she told him. "Who needs a sex life, anyway?"

  She went home to while away the night eating frozen yogurt and salted peanuts and watching public TV.

  ***

  Temple awoke Monday morning a new woman.

  She glanced at the empty coverlet just once, then got dressed. She bypassed the spikes in her closet for a sensible pair of two-inch heels.

  She loaded her tote bag of the day, then called the vet's office as soon as it opened.

  The receptionist said that Midnight Louie was the same: somewhat depressed. He had not touched a bite of food. Temple could visit him again in late morning, after surgery was over.

  First Temple headed to the public library. In the reference section, she looked up the stock of celebrity address and biography books. For once in her life, she found herself wishing that Savannah Ashleigh were not a total has-been. That she still might be listed in on
e of these books.

  Three gave her the brush-off, but an older edition of People Who Are Somebody did list Savannah. "Birth date: February 3, 1959." Savannah was only thirty-seven? Come on! "Born: Farleigh Heights, New Jersey, Susan Imogene Isch." Ischleigh? But... Imogene! Awful name.

  Wonderful name. A culprit was born! Now Nemesis would track her down.

  Temple drove to police headquarters downtown. She would not allow Molina to not be in.

  Positive thinking. It worked on finding parking spaces. Sure enough, one open street spot waited outside the entry tower. The Storm just fit.

  Temple crossed the street to the plaza. In the lobby, she asked the desk sergeant to call Molina, if she were in. Temple Barr was here to see her.

  He did, she was and Temple did.

  Molina came out to the worn leather couches in the visitors' area.

  "More evidence? More suspects?" she inquired in greeting.

  Temple made a face. "Louie was returned to me yesterday afternoon."

  "What did I tell you?"

  "In a bloody satin pillowcase stinking of anesthetic and bearing the initials SIA."

  Molina actually looked stunned and sat down. "How ... is he?"

  "At the vet's, on fluids. Won't eat. Looks like hell. They say he's 'depressed.' "

  "This is awful, but why are you seeing me about it? I don't do crimes against cats and dogs."

  "I'm just telling you that Savannah Ashleigh's middle given name is Imogene."

  "Ugh."

  "I know. She deserves it, unlike my middle name."

  "You have an undeserved middle name?" Molina inquired on a lilt of interest.

  "Irrelevant. The point is, Savannah resented Midnight Louie's becoming a bigger star than her cat, Yvette, in the A La Cat commercials. There have been several mishaps on the set--a vintage-car brake failed while Louie was in it; he apparently tripped while going down a long flight of stairs on camera; the boat he and Yvette were sailing in on the Mirage lagoon sank."

  "Savannah Ashleigh may be a few ounces of silicone short of a full implant, but she'd hardly sink her own cat."

  "She might if she were blinded by fury. Her name is all over this pillowcase. I just wanted to warn you that I'm going to have a showdown with her. In case one of us turns up missing."

  Molina sat back on the couch. "I'm not too worried. The result of your last showdown with a possible perpetrator has been a total bust."

  "How?"

  "Number one, the background check on Alison Darby, so far, shows she was adopted.

  Darren Cooke was indeed in the city where she was born before she was born, but it's likely she built this fantasy of his being her father from that fact. Or her mother may have tried to give her a sense of importance, but I doubt it. Alison's mother was a singularly conservative, unimaginative soul, and so was her husband. They were low-income people. Darby obviously fixated on more glamorous 'real' parents during her tumultuous teen years."

  For a moment Molina's face wore a worried look. Maybe she was thinking about her own preteen daughter's forthcoming tumultuous years. She went on briskly.

  "Number two, the letters." Molina gathered herself for an unpleasant admission. "They were in a safe at the Flamingo Hilton, and they do match Darby's handwriting, not Cooke's; we compared them to examples among Cooke's files. Darby made some effort to disguise her writing in the letters, or she developed a secondary personality to write them, but nothing flagrant enough that we can even commit her for mental-health treatment.

  "Number three, the medical examiner has always been adamant that no crime-scene evidence--not a trace--not the angle of the bullet, not powder burns, indicates that Darren Cooke did not kill himself. To simulate such a setup, a killer would have to be not only terribly knowledgeable but as skilled as a foreign agent. They've managed some pretty seamless assassinations. This is not one.

  "Finally, the sleight of hand with your business card was exactly what you thought: Darby found him dead and hoped to use it to deflect any interest from her. Given her close association and the harassing letters she had been writing, she was in a perilous position, and knew it. She is not as nuts as she has been behaving. She even seems to have mellowed a little. Now that he's dead, she realizes that she's lost something.

  "So, congratulations." Molina stood, towering over Temple as usual. "You may have cracked a window of reason in the mind of a troubled young woman. If you do have a head-to-head, or a hair-to-hair, with Savannah Ashleigh, don't expect police assistance. Confronting her could be construed as harassment. On the other hand, I hope you win.

  "Finally, I hope you will see fit to tell me someday who ducked out of your place when Mr.

  Devine so kindly announced me to one and all like a British butler. I have my suspicions, but the police like hard evidence. And the harder it is to get, the more satisfaction there is in getting it.

  "Have a nice day."

  And that was that.

  Dissatisfied, but unable to do a darn thing about it, Temple went on to her next surprise visit. To the Goliath, where Savannah Ashleigh dwelleth like Delilah of old. This time, Delilah was going to get a shave and a haircut, and two bits of Temple's mind.

  **************

  She had to park the Storm a couple of leagues away from the Goliath entry. While walking in, she felt her righteous anger building up steam like a pile driver.

  Savannah had better be in her room.

  The desk clerk wouldn't give Temple the room number, of course. He said he would ring Miss Ashleigh's room. Whom should he say was calling?

  Temple almost shouted, Miss Ischleigh from Farleigh!

  But she smiled instead and gave her name: that of one of the few female film producers in Hollywood.

  The clerk hung up from calling Miss Ashleigh, his attitude reflecting hers.

  "You may go right up. Twentieth floor. The Suite of the Seven Veils."

  Temple bestowed a chill nod as she ambled toward the elevators. Nothing like dropping someone else's name in this town.

  The Suite of the Seven Veils was not too close to the elevators, but not too far from the ice machine.

  The desert did demand its comforts.

  She knocked, and waited. The double doors were swept open with a flourish. Savannah stood there in veils of her own, which would have been far more effective with male producers.

  "You!"

  "You!" Temple replied, sweeping in before the doors could slam shut and sweep her out.

  She drew the bloody pillowcase from her trusty tote bag.

  "Not every crook is thoughtful enough to use initialed evidence."

  "Oh! Take that ugly, messy, reddish thing away!" Savannah averted her supernaturally taut face, her expression perhaps curling a little at the edges to indicate disgust.

  How could an actress act through a mask of laser-sculpted collagen?

  Not well.

  "Sweet dreams, Mrs. Macbeth." Temple threw it down on the pale satin settee nearby.

  "I want to know where you kept Midnight Louie, what you did to him and why. I won't leave until I get some answers."

  Savannah drew herself up, especially the silicone and collagen parts. She had seen scripts that called upon the heroine to show pride in the face of disdain. She had practiced this particular attitude in the mirror until she had it down pat. This moment was made for her!

  "I will give you answers. Do you see that little tiny, helpless cat there? My darling Yvette?"

  Temple gazed where directed. Yvette was reclining in shaded-silver languor on a gray velvet pillow atop a chaise longue.

  She looked adorable. She looked convinced of it herself.

  "Yes?" Temple asked politely. "I imagine she has never been delivered in a pillowcase to your door."

  "Deelivered." Savannah Ashleigh dropped that word with a mannered relish. "She will be deelivered, poor darling, in not too many weeks. Of a litter. A litter of your evil black cat's Midnight degeneration."

  Temple blinke
d. Savannah's delivery was as overarticulated as any admirer of the Del Sartian school of nineteenth-century acting could desire. But what did 'degeneration' mean in this context?

  "Huh?" Temple responded elegantly.

  "Oooohf!" Savannah stamped a Frederick's of Hollywood high heel. A full six inches high, like the fetishists get into, quite literally, unlike Temple's usual three-inch models. The stamping high-rise shoe was leopard-spotted with touches of gold lame.

  "Don't play dumb with me! You are up against a master. Look at my lovely babesy-wabesy.

  She is PG. Pregnant! She will have a revolting litter by your horrible alley cat, not by the Supreme National Champion of her own breed Mumsy has spent weeks and weeks finding. This is Yvette's first litter, and it is tainted! Your beast did it!"

  "How can you know?"

  "Because he likes her. He is always coming around."

  "But you haven't done DNA testing?"

  Savannah frowned. "A lie-detector test is not necessary. A mother knows these things."

  She beat her breast to indicate the maternal heart pounding away in o mniscient knowledge, and Temple feared Savannah's personal Silicone Valley might suffer a major terrain shift.

  "So what did you do to him? Drug him and kidnap him? To what purpose?"

  "Oh, I had a purpose. I fixed him. I fixed him so he will never do this to another innocent pussycat in all his born days. I found him here, plying his oily wiles on my poor innocent. I took him right to Dr. Mendel and told him to fix that damn cat so he could never impregnate another baby like mine. You don't even have to pay for it. It's on the house."

  "You have no right to snatch another person's pet and tamper with it. That's kidnapping and... and mutilation. Who is this unscrupulous doctor who'd do such a thing?"

  Savannah drew herself up: her high, unfallen frontage, her taut, unlined neck, the taut, expressionless face so like a still photo.

  "He is the best plastic surgeon in Las Vegas."

  "You had Louie operated on by a plastic surgeon? That's crazy. Veterinarians operate on cats."