I am ambling through the Circle Ritz parking lot now that Miss Temple and her Miata are off on errands of an investigative nature on the hot and seamy side of town.
I am heading for my favorite oleander bush, shade in Las Vegas being a rare and beautiful thing. I am expecting peace and quiet now that my recently discovered maternal parent, Ma Barker, and her feral clowder have pulled up stakes (rather like vampire slayers) and relocated to the nearby police substation, where they can get all the fast food the folks in desert beige can share with the homeless of one stripe or another.
I have found a vermin-free patch of cool, sandy dirt and have made the proscribed three full ritual circles in tribute to Bast before I lie down. My rear member has coiled around my limbs and body in the approved manner. My eyes have shut and my ears flick only once, at the rude buzz-by of a fruit fly.
Minuscule nobody. Away. I am not a fuzzy peach turning ripe.
So I am producing a lazy buzzing-bee sound to fend off other impudent insects and also to practice the meditative mantra of my kind when I become aware of more lurking shade than I need or want.
Master of the “eyes wide shut” discipline, I allow myself to see without being seen and discern a blurry black blot on my escutcheon, the ever-iffy offspring on my family tree, Miss Midnight Louise.
“I thought you were on watch duty at the house on Mojave,” I say.
“Sorry to disturb your snores,” she replies.
“I was not snoring; I was thinking. How and why did you leave your assigned post?”
“I hitched a ride with the mailman, then switched to the nearest UPS truck until it crossed the Strip, and then it was just a long walk here. And what have you done today so far?”
“I saw off Miss Temple on her new investigative visit to Miss Violet Weiner’s premises. We will have to look further into crimes against cat on that location tonight.”
“So you are taking me off Mister Max duty?”
“Spotting Mister Rafi Nadir visiting the night before last was probably all the hot news you will get there.”
“Yet you wanted me there for a second long night of observation.”
“It never hurts to be overvigilant.”
“I guess not,” Louise says, deciding to bite a wayward toenail.
“Are you saying you saw something of interest last night? Miss Temple was safe at home in our bed here at the Circle Ritz, I can assure you.”
“And I can say the same of Mister Max. He never left the house.”
“What a relief. I must say these humans can be nocturnal wanderers, and we do not want any unsanctioned canoodling before the current favorite, Mister Matt, comes back and it really gets interesting.”
“News flash, O Snoring Sage of the Underbrush. It already has gotten even more interesting. Who do you think visited Mister Max, bold as you please, now that he is resident in the Mojave Way house?”
“Let me think. Mister Rafi Nadir already shocked the footpads off of us by turning up there. It cannot be my Miss Temple. I can account for both the quality and celibacy of her sleep last night. Hmm. Even if Mister Matt happened to slip back into town early, he would not know the house was now occupied again.”
I cannot help manicuring a nail of my own, the big scimitar of dewclaw that would be a thumb if my kind but had them. In fact, I am so stumped I gnaw off a shedding sheath.
“Do not bite yourself to the quick, Pop, trying to figure out the jaw-dropping facts.”
“I give up, Louise. Mister Max’s return was announced only to my little doll. Now it seems half of Vegas is showing up on his doorstep after the sun goes down. This one must be a dame. We black-haired guys are irresistible.”
After I spit out my nail sheath, to Louise’s distasteful silent snarl at my manners, the light dawns and does a surprised spin en pointe in my brain.
“I know!” I hiss triumphantly. “It is that shiny European blond who showed up in Vegas before Mister Max returned. She was a former schoolmate of Crystal Phoenix manager Miss Van von Rhine in Switzerland. You told me about her visiting out of the blue, and we both saw her during the recent Chunnel of Crime case. She is too hot looking to be up to any good. Miss…”—I search my slightly lulled data bank—“Revienne Schneider.”
“I must say you do remember the person in question, and I do consider her a questionable lady.”
Louise settles herself down on her haunches, her folded forelegs assuming the “mandarin position” that hides her long nails and makes her look contemplative.
“But—wrong, Daddy-o!” she spits out with younger-generation sass. “Mister Max’s visitor last night was Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina.”
I could swear she was just saying that to shock me—you know the younger generation—but I can tell by the slits of her pupils that she is shiv-serious.
“So did the lieutenant take him out of there in ankle chains?”
“No. She left. But not in twenty minutes, like your Miss Temple and then Mister Rafi Nadir the first night. What is going on at the house on Mojave Way? Some sort of anti-Synth secret conspiracy? What I was able to hear through the windows was conversational, not confrontational or cozy.”
“Hmm. That house does seem to be a place of pilgrimage since Mister Max came back to town. We definitely need to keep an eye on our sometime-compadres as well as all of Miss Violet’s feline favorites.
“If you want to put your house pets into a perilous position, make sure their care is the condition of a human inheritance. That really makes the poor things objects of jealousy, abduction, and homicide.”