Cat in an Alien X-Ray: A Midnight Louie Mystery (Midnight Louie Mysteries Book 25)

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Temple looked up, to the rooms beyond the bedroom. Midnight Louie jumped up beside her, nosing the two rings.

  “Oh, Louie,” she said. “Has Kitty the Cutter been breaking in here all along? Collecting ‘trophies?’ And what am I asking you for?”

  His sturdy merow clearly meant he was just the one to confide in.

  And then her phone rang.

  Chapter 5

  Wynning Number

  “Am I talking to the greatest little stunt PR woman on Planet Hollywood or the Las Vegas Strip?”

  Temple reared back from her own cell phone–holding hand. She welcomed new clients, but it was a bit early in the day for dealing with a carnival huckster.

  “I am a PR freelancer,” she answered evenly, “and I try to do a great job for my clients, but in all other respects, I find your introduction offensive.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the man’s voice went on. “I’m a blunt businessman. I am not easily impressed, but you have caught my radar. Let me make a pitch in person, anywhere you say. Lunch, dinner, or even breakfast.”

  Temple didn’t think she could stomach breakfast with this guy. He had the always “up,” booming voice of a used car salesman.

  “We can decide by phone if…” She paused, considering her next words. Temple seldom had to juggle words, but she already felt that “my services” or “our interests” were not phrases to use with this guy, like she should wash her cell phone surface after finishing the call.

  “No, no, no.” he said. “Nothing useful is done by phone except call-in sex.”

  Whoa! She reared back again.

  “Silas T. Farnum, ma’am. I have a big investment property under way just off-Strip. Not much this size is going now in the Nevada economy. I sure could use a vice president of media. I could use the Wizard of Oz, frankly, ma’am, but maybe a munchkin will have to do.”

  Temple’s jaw was nearly resting on her clavicle. Of all the insulting, off-putting idiots …

  “You do know I’m—”

  “Cute as a ladybug in a rug? Yes, ma’am. I saw pictures of you in the paper next to that elephant Jumbo, or Dumbo, at the Oasis. That was a slick eye-popping way to raffle off a million cash. That’s when I first became an admirer.”

  Temple didn’t think it necessary to mention that the event had become a crime scene and she had almost become elephant pâté.

  “Well,” she told him, “this ‘ladybug in a rug’ has a number of important, legitimate PR clients who aren’t booking circus acts to keep me busy.”

  “Yup. I would be an illegitimate one, that’s for sure. My mama was young and poor when she had me, but she’s living in Versailles”—he pronounced it Ver-sails, not Ver-sigh as in proper French—“Versailles on the Intracoastal Waterway in Florida.”

  Temple sighed. “Why did you call me?”

  “Love the business card: TEMPLE BARR, PR. I feel like I’m hiring Samantha Spade.” And he chuckled with the enthusiasm of a clown.

  “I’d have to know what sort of attraction you’re financing, the budget, and the clientele.”

  “You’ve heard a picture is worth a thousand words?”

  “Right. Unfortunately, I sling words, in whatever media. I don’t take pictures.”

  “Now, now, now.”

  Apparently, Silas T. liked to repeat himself. Maybe that kept him from hearing that folks were tuning him out.

  “I swear, Ms. Barr, this concept can’t miss. It’s so obviously meant for Vegas, and nothing like this has ever hit the Strip before. I dare not mention it to the cell phone towers, so you’ll just have to trust me and agree to discuss it in person.”

  “Where?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.

  Nevada still wallowed in a stagnant stew of recession. It wouldn’t hurt to rustle up new business while Matt was waiting to hear on plans for his network TV talk show career. Even if they relocated to Chicago, she could always commute back to Vegas to finish projects in progress.

  The Crystal Phoenix would need more than a fly-in-by-night PR person, though, she thought with a pang.

  “What about the Wynn?” her caller was suggesting.

  Temple was glad they weren’t on Skype so her caller could see her twin elevated eyebrows. That was a high-end venue for this low-brow-sounding huckster.

  “Lunch today?” he pushed.

  She agreed, more out of curiosity than great expectations.

  * * *

  Steve Wynn was the self-made Las Vegas tycoon most known to the public. The crazy karma of his last name alone had been a gift. Naming an entire hotel-casino after it had been marketing genius. Talk about “branding.”

  So it was no wonder that his self-named hotel-casino had led the charge to super-upscale venues in Vegas. Not far from the Wynn’s display area of high-six-figure Ferrari and Maserati sports cars was a charming restaurant.

  The Terrace Pointe Café extended from indoors to outdoor tables overlooking an aquamarine pool and formal gardens with Italian pines and awnings and a cloudless blue sky. The hostess led Temple to a prime table for two with wicker chairs resembling small thrones. Just what the vertically challenged ego would order.

  An elderly man at the table stood at her arrival, waving a pale linen napkin, having ID’ed her from news reports of the recent debacle at the Oasis.

  Silas T. Farnum standing wasn’t much of a production. He was barely taller than she and four times as round. He reminded her of a Mini-Me of someone she couldn’t quite place, she realized. He hadn’t been insulting when he’d called her a munchkin on that morning phone call. He was bonding.

  “Sit, sit, sit. Do sit, Miss Barr,” he urged. “We can have a delightful tête-à-tête here.”

  “Mr. Farnum,” she greeted him as she set her tote bag on the floor, a bit dazed and wondering if Alice’s rabbit hole wasn’t far away.

  She’d better avoid anything on the menu that called to her with an “Eat me” vibe, like—she glanced at the single placard menu faceup on her place setting—like the upscale turkey burger with sherry vinaigrette and pea tendrils in addition to the usual lettuce, tomato, and onions. She’d come to terms with her five-foot-zero plus three-inch heels and yearned neither to shrink nor expand. The same was true about her business, so her host had better have an interesting assignment.

  “Now, Miss Barr, you must keep this discussion confidential, whether you decide to accept the assignment or not. Are you agreeable?”

  “I’m always agreeable, Mr. Farnum. That’s my job,” she added with a smile. “However, anything you say will be between you and me and the wicker.”

  A bottle of pinot grigio was open on the table. The filled water goblets and wineglasses sparkled in the sunlight.

  “I took the liberty,” Mr. Farnum admitted with a bow as he reinstated the large napkin … behind his belt.

  He still gave off a distinct whiff of “confidence man,” but merry brown eyes under shaggy gray brows and Santa-style flushed cheeks intrigued Temple. Whatever this jolly little man had in mind, it would be original.

  When the waiter came promptly, Temple relaxed and felt free to order salad for lunch. It was obvious Farnum was going to be doing all the talking and she wouldn’t be caught with dressing on her lap or radicchio in her teeth while speaking and making notes at the same time. PR people had to think ahead.

  Silas T. had no such concerns, ordering veggie burger sliders primed for disaster with a full complement of slippery edibles like red onions, zucchini, yellow squash, mushrooms, lentils, tomato pesto, and Boston lettuce. It was colorful, just like his peach-and-white-striped seersucker suit. She was surprised to see a straw boater on the table that seemed more like a prop for a summer picnic setting. Then she noticed that only five shriveled strands of gray hair crossed Silas T.’s bald head, reminding her of an impromptu musical staff.

  “One thing I must make clear at the outset, Mr. Farnum: I am not a ‘stunt’ PR person.”

  “No? What about your performance on the ele
phant at the Oasis?”

  “That was the elephant’s idea. Apparently, she was a big girl used to working with a, well, petite woman.”

  “What about the headlines about the secret tunnel leading to several Vegas venues? While you were emceeing the live, formal opening of an old hidden walk-out safe for possible treasure—voilà!—a fresh corpse was found within?”

  “That corpse was … unforeseen.”

  “And was wearing white tie and tails. What a terrific publicity coup for Gangsters, the Crystal Phoenix, and the Neon Nightmare club.”

  Temple sipped wine and squirmed. “If it was such great publicity, the outcome hasn’t been great. Neon Nightmare has since gone dark.”

  “That club was always an iffy concept.” Farnum leaned back as their orders arrived. His napkin migrated from being tucked into his high-waisted belt to covering the banana yellow bow tie at the neck of his shirt. “Off-Strip is tricky territory. Often it degenerates into cramped parking lots or ticky-tacky venues, say like from the corner of Paradise and Convention Drive all the way to Las Vegas Boulevard.”

  Temple took time to salad-dressing dive with some of her greens while she pictured that stretch of real estate. She recalled a cheap and happy hour–heavy box of a nightclub-strip joint standing on that spot. The location was truly bared, standing cheeks-by-jowls with parking lots and the sleazy souvenir shops that popped up at any tiny gaps on the Mega-Million Miles of the Strip too.

  Then she reminded herself that from such seedy sprouts major enterprises could grow, like Hooters, for instance. Which she Did Not Like.

  Tourists thronging the Downtown Experience and the Las Vegas Strip might be amazed to learn that nearby real estate could support enterprises far more modest than billion-dollar hostelries. That was especially true now that grandiose expansion plans sixty stories tall stood abandoned in midair ever since the Great Recession had hit Nevada like a ton of bricks from the Luxor’s giant pyramid turned landslide.

  Temple was intrigued by where Farnum was placing his secret project as much as by what it was. That area had always been a difficult sell and was a boulevard of broken honky-tonk dreams.

  Although her major client on the Strip was the Crystal Phoenix boutique hotel, she was also repping an innovative wine/beauty bar with an ancient Egyptian theme called Chez Shez that occupied the Strip’s top end near the venerable Stratosphere, Circus Circus, and Riviera venues.

  Its hunky proprietor was the bronzed Egyptian version of a Greek god in braided wig who played perfectly in person and on the Internet. The combo of custom cosmetics and ancient recipe wines had poised the pricey little place on the brink of becoming a franchise, thanks to her help. She was hoping to groom Shez into a cross between the new Fabio and an Iron Chef.

  So she always kept an open mind when it came to offbeat clients with “secret recipe” ideas.

  “What kind of new venue are you floating?” she asked, almost afraid to ask. Silas T. Farnum calling borderline venues tacky didn’t mean he was above sponsoring just such a new venture himself, particularly if he wanted a “stunt” PR person.

  “It’s a secret,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer.

  Temple smelled peppermint on his breath, which was refreshing. “You have to tell your PR rep,” she warned him.

  “No, I have to show her.”

  “Look, Mr. Farnum. This lunch is already two hours out of my day. I don’t work in the dark.”

  “Oh, it’s a secret in broad daylight. That’s what I have to show you.”

  “This is some … new nightclub?”

  “What’s old is new, isn’t that true in the PR game?” He chuckled and stuffed a slider in his mouth to avoid saying more.

  “Granted, nothing is so old that it can’t be spun into something new,” Temple told him. “How can a secret be shown to anyone in broad daylight?”

  “That’s what you’re going to be promoting. It’s so secret, you can’t see it right in front of your face. Even if X marks the spot.”

  With a flourish, Silas T. slapped his napkin to the tabletop and signed what was inside the discreet padded folder at his fingertips. It took him just a few seconds and no credit card.

  He was staying at the high-end Wynn?

  “Just where are you from?” Temple asked.

  “That’s a secret too. Maybe from somewhere out of this world,” he said with a wink.

  Temple expected him to bound up a nearby chimney or perhaps one of the clay Mexican chimenea fireplaces on the adjoining patio. The Vegas desert could get cold at night; in the winter, the hotels provided heaters for the outside lounges and restaurants.

  The idea of the short but portly Mr. Farnum whisking like a genie into a patio fire urn made Temple swallow a giggle. She was thinking leprechaun now, more than seersucker Santa. The man was infectious and he’d make “good copy.” That was an old newspaper expression. He’d make good multimedia would be the updated way to put it.

  “Now,” he said. “We can either go shopping for a Ferrari, or I can show you my mystery project.” He leaned over to glance at the floor and Temple’s four-inch heels on a one-inch platform shoe. “Not exactly Lady Gaga, but I’ll warn you that we are heading for some rough terrain.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. Temple reached into her ever-present tote bag and pulled out a tiny drawstring bag and flourished roll-up rubber-soled ballet flats. Who was playing Santa Claus now?

  “No problem, Mr. Farnum. I need only dash into the nearest ladies’ room and I’ll emerge as an Abba Supertramper with utterly flat feet.”

  “Excellent footwork,” Silas T. Farnum said with another wink.

  Chapter 6

  Louie Has His Ups and Downs

  Nothing is worse than having to do a 180-degree turn while working on a major catnap at my home, sweet home. It seems I have a new assignment: tailing my roommate when she is out on errands of a sudden and unscheduled nature.

  That is to say, she is wearing her red high heels and is pulling her sunglasses out of her turquoise tote bag.

  That is how I know she is in a hurry. Turquoise and red accessories? Tsk, tsk, and tangle my whiskers.

  After our traumatic trip to Mr. Matt’s family and network job opportunities, not to mention unsuspected family mob connections in Chicago, I have worried about my roomie’s ability to handle everything that is in play, including a psychopath in the woodwork.

  So it is out the French doors again. Then I am down the rough-barked palm tree to the ground before the Circle Ritz elevator can creak Miss Temple to the lobby.

  Next, I am under the little red Miata in its cozy carport before you can say Jackie Robinson.

  Click, click, click. Miss Temple was never one to shy from announcing her oncoming presence. I crouch, vibrissae (whiskers to you) vibrating with excitement. I have a mere half a second to leap out, scramble up, and squeeze into the tiny space between Miss Temple’s pushed-forward front seat and the trunk bulk head. Once placed, I blend with the black carpet.

  I must protest to Mazda sometime for skimping on rumble seat room in Miatas for hitchhiking PIs of a feline nature. “Cute” is as cute does, and I look for function in a vehicle as well as cool looks. Just a little marketing tip.

  You might think my Miss Temple is a bit dim not to notice that I am occasionally a third wheel, so to speak, on her expeditions. That would be underestimating my well-polished expertise as a stealth investigator. Given the prejudice against my kind running unfettered, I have been perfecting a low profile since a kit. Also, being petite, Miss Temple is a forward-charging personality and seldom looks back, which also serves me well.

  I think this tendency will serve her well as she finalizes her transition from association with an alpha male who is too busy roaming and fighting to a more domesticated male who will settle down with her in a peaceful routine without, Bast forbid, any kits of any species on the horizon.

  I have already conceded much in her behalf. There is eating the occasional putr
id pellet of Free-to-Be-Feline health food for sissy cats. There is ceding one-quarter of the zebra-pattern comforter to offensive recreational activities of a personal nature that force me to decamp in the middle of the night. There is even occasionally using the disgusting plastic tray of grit she keeps in the second bathroom.

  Despite my sacrifices, I am always ready to act as an impromptu bodyguard.

  She uses the Wynn’s off-Strip entrance, which avoids the endless lobby and casino areas. I have no trouble darting from one handy place of concealment to another while following her through the tourist throngs.

  People in Las Vegas rarely look down, unless it is to puke, which is why the carpeting is always a busy multicolored design for long wear.

  Nowadays, the upscale places are all marble floors, which clean up more easily but echo like crazy. “Stealth” is my middle name, so I make sure I am not seen and certainly am not heard in my velvet footpad mode.

  Not so with Miss Temple, whose smart high heels add to the echo. She can trot faster than a Pomeranian on those spikes. I do not know how she does it and am all admiration. I certainly could not move so fast in any direction but up with my shivs out.

  When she trots all the way through the casino areas to the Terrace Pointe Café, I am stymied. All the Wynn restaurants feature an indoor-outdoor ambience. I certainly approve because I am definitely an inside-outside kind of guy.

  Still, the Terrace Pointe Café forsakes any tinge of Vegas casino shadowy décor. Simply put, the light and airy spaces mean my entrance would be like an inkblot trying to pass as Wite-Out on a piece of snowy bond paper.

  Manx! I must glimpse what Pied Piper has drawn my Miss Temple from our cozy nest at the Circle Ritz. With Kathleen O’Connor lurking around the home front now that Mr. Max is back in town, I am super suspicious of all new contacts these days.

  I could make out like a bandit with the hotel family buffet droppings just kiddie-corner from the café, but I am not here to feed my stomach, only my curiosity, which is almost as capacious.

  Cringing with shame, I opt for cover in the resort-wear shop opposite. At least they have hanging clothing areas I can conceal myself under, but it is not a locale of choice for the macho private eye. I would really rather be darting under the goods in the Ferrari–Maserati showroom at the main entrance. Ah. The fragrant drip of Italian motor oil and air of imminent Fontana brothers.