Your average hard-boiled private eye of yore would not deign to eavesdrop on a couple dishing dames, even if they are dishy, but that is what makes me the more modern and effective sleuth.

I have already overheard enough phone calls around this joint to know that this is a second Very Bad Day for Miss Temple Barr and her Case of the Roving Romeos.

Much later this afternoon, she must again drive to nearby McCarran Airport, this time to pick up Mr. Matt Devine. I hope his long week in Chicago has left him in better physical and mental condition than Mr. Max Kinsella’s longer recent jaunt.

I rather doubt it. Being the fond object of a large extended Polish family and high-powered TV executives hunting a hot property for a week is probably about as bad as dodging political assassins.

Meanwhile, I am aware she is also planning a solo visit to Miss Violet Weiner’s residence first.

Thank God! I am not eager to encounter Miss Savannah Ashleigh and her latest portable purse pet, Captain Jack, especially after I read up on the ferret kind over Miss Temple’s shoulder. I was sitting on her desk, pretending to be slitty-eyed asleep, but, of course, my predator eyes were speed-reading everything about the breed.

It is commonly known that domestic cats were worshipped by ancient Egyptians, and we have been considered wise in all cultures and time periods. Few know that the cat god, Bast, gifted us with the ability to read some two thousand years B.C. Great Bast knew we would never again be so cherished by an entire civilization and might even be persecuted at times, as we were. Great Bast knew that hieroglyphics were not the future of human communication, although I doubt that Great Bast anticipated e-books.

I shudder to think how much more difficult our daily survival would be without some of our seeming “extrasensory” perception, although, alas, most of my peers have long ago lost my “secret weapon.”

Also, being Miss Temple works at home alone, often with me beside her, she has taken to commenting on her online researches aloud to me in a conversational tone.

“Look at this, Louie. Huh. I thought they were a weasely kind.…”

My sentiments exactly! Vermin.

“Ferrets are related to polecats. They have scent glands and do all that catlike ‘marking.’ But … wait! They do the ‘weasel war dance’ while making soft clucking sounds, called ‘dooking.’”

Oh, my scented grandmother!

“Imagine what one can do in the deepest recesses of Savannah Ashleigh’s purse. I think she has gotten accustomed to her aunt’s cathouse odors and isn’t noticing that Captain Jack has a few bad habits.

“They can live in feral colonies,” she adds, nodding my way, as if saying, See, just like you cats. “Although I doubt that polecats are your real relatives.”

I should hope not!

“You know, they remind me of mongooses, which would be handy to have along in one’s purse if you encountered any rattlesnakes. Not that I plan on doing that. I was lucky I did not meet any in that wilderness behind Violet’s house.”

That is what research does to Miss Temple, sends her off into the wild blue yonder of speculation. I can understand she would like her mind taken off Mr. Matt’s imminent arrival and greeting him with the revelation that her “ex” is no longer conveniently absent, but very inconveniently returned.

“Well,” Miss Temple says, shutting down the World Wide Web, “you can keep snoozing. I am going out and I do not need any extra passengers.”

Actually, I have my own assignation this evening, so I need to stay home and get my beauty sleep. Or so I let her think.