Cat on a Blue Monday: A Midnight Louie Mystery (Midnight Louie Mysteries) - Softcover

Carole Nelson Douglas is the author of the bestselling Midnight Louie series. She is also the author of the historical mystery series featuring Irene Adler, the only woman ever to have outwitted Sherlock Holmes. She resides in Fort Worth, Texas.

Chapter 1
Louie's Dog-day Afternoon
 
 
I like nothing better than playing the role of sage in the Shade.
I am well suited to the part, particularly when I tuck my four limbs underneath me--I am the agile type, and double-jointed to boot. Then I let my limeade-green eyes narrow to inscrutable and attractively tilted slits. Just give me a Number One Son and a sackful of fortune-cookie sayings and on a clear day I'll find Judge Crater, or maybe even Jersey Joe Jackson.
So here I am, on a dog-day afternoon in August, lounging in the shade of the calla lily stand behind the Circle Ritz condominiums, doing what comes naturally: watching others work while I snooze.
My delightful roommate, Miss Temple Barr, is occupied by the pool with Mr. Matt Devine. For once, these two are sensible enough to stand in the shadow of the lone palm tree that dusts the ocean-blue Las Vegas sky while clouds swirl above like schools of succulent albino carp.
In fact, this pair is sensibly attired in what look like dust sheets you put on unwanted furniture in abandoned houses, possibly haunted. Normally my little doll takes care of her innate stature problem by balancing on three-inch heels, but today she is--for the first time in my acquaintance with her--out of doors and barefoot.
She does not act happy about this fact, moving her weight from one narrow tootsie to the other until she reminds me of those shilly-shallying hot-pink neon birds perched atop the front of the Flamingo Hilton like an avian chorus line. I must admit that I prefer a short woman. She has less far to stoop to extend affectionate greetings and thus does it more frequently. Also, being petite, she is less inclined to try to do what I abhor: pick me up. I am not your run-of-the-mill pickup. As for Miss Temple Barr, she finds her own lack of stature a shortcoming, so to speak. Me, I say you see a lot more interesting things closer to the ground and can smell out a rat--human or literal--in no time flat. Why do you think Sherlock Holmes was always scrabbling around on his hands and knees looking for clues? Trying to overcome his height handicap, of course, not to mention a genetic predisposition to insufficiency of the sniffer.
Right now the ground at Miss Temple and Mr. Matt's end of the pool is not good clue territory, being covered by thick mats, which in turn are covered in an irritatingly bright blue vinyl. I can smell the chemical perfume of pure plastic from here.
Obviously, Mr. Matt Devine is about to give Miss Temple Barr a lesson in the ancient and oriental arts of self-defense.
This I cannot object to, despite the sloppy dress code and the vinyl mattresses defacing my view and foiling my olfactory skills. My little doll could use some beefing up in the self-confidence concession.
Because of the intimate relationship I share with miss Temple Barr, I have seen her sit bold upright in the night, ever since two dudes with ball bearings for knuckles did a number on her in the Goliath Hotel parking ramp a couple of weeks ago.
As I Say, I will be snoozing with my usual concentration when she will lift up from the bed linens like a corpse about to take an unauthorized stroll in a horror movie. I awake at the slightest disturbance of the sheets, and cannot recline on wrinkles, being as sensitive in this regard as a princess to a pea.
At such times, I smell the slight tang of human sweat, which overpowers even the English lavender-scented dusting powder Miss Temple uses after her bath. (Unlike superior species, she must actually immerse herself in large quantities of water to keep clean; hence the need for powder afterward, so her clothes do not stick to her skin. I am a practicing nudist myself, and have never heard any complaints, especially from discriminating ladies of my kind--and others.)
"Oh, Louie," Miss Temple Barr will say a moment after jerking out of her slumber. She sounds glad to see me there, which she should be. When it comes to protection, I am nothing to sneeze at.
She curls her lacquered claws into the roll of muscle at the back of my neck, which has me positively purring. Unlike a lot of ladies these benighted days, Miss Temple Barr has long, strong nails that she does not hesitate to paint in a carnivorous red color. This is not the least of her attractions for me, although her equal propensity for being up to her matching lipstick in crime and punishment is also encouraging. I love a mystery almost as much as I do a message.
In fact, my own set of claws came in handy in apprehending the Stripper Killer at the Goliath Hotel Rhinestone G-string contest--incidentally saving my little doll from a dreaded death-by-Spandex
A small Las Vegas Scoop item in Crawford Buchanan's Broadside column described my latest foray into criminal apprehension--the criminal being the one who apprehensive, not me. As usual, Buchanan feat in the most degrading light:
"An alley cat around Las Vegas leaped into literal action last Friday when the Goliath Hotel serial Stripper Strangler went after local PR flack Temple Barr. The cat, an overweight, solid-back layabout named Midnight Louie, fell from atop a costume cabinet where it was sleeping just as the Strangler was about to tie the luscious Miss Barr's neck into a double-Windsor knot. The sleeping puss proved unlucky for the killer when its claws, extended during the plunge, accidentally raked the perp. Talk about a timely pussy foot. Must have been Friday the Thirteenth somewhere."
Crawford Buchanan can mangle the truth faster than the Goliath killer could strangle a stripper. My plunging to the rescue of my delightful roommate was no accident: I was buying time until Lieutenant C.R. Molina could rush in with the cavalry from down the hall.
Of course, I am used to feats of derring-do, thanks to my back-alley days, now long behind me. Miss Temple Barr, on the other hand, is a tiny thing, though spirited. I fear that the shock of a severe beating followed by the Attack of the Stripper Strangler would make even the heroine of a Roger Corman movie a trifle overwrought.
She now keeps a flashlight beside her bed. This is a sinister implement, sheathed in a black, rubbery material, that would serve well as a weapon in addition to lighting up the darkness. It also stinks. It only human attackers were as sensitive to small as I am, they would be knocked out.
Every time my little doll has one of these midnight misadventures, she performs the same routine. First she sinks her fingers into my warm fur, if I am there, which I usually am these days--or nights, rather. I do have an escape clause: the open bathroom window. Miss Temple Barr's rooms are on the third floor and the window is small, so no felon larger than a midget is able to enter, although I can both enter and exit with the ease of a garter snake. Nowadays the domestic life suits my more laidback style. I rarely take a nighttime stroll unless I have business of a crime-fighting or personal nature abroad.
Anyway, Miss Temple takes up her high-tech flashlight and I see the back of her Garfield T-shirt as she makes a tour of the premises, particularly of the French doors leading to the patio.
She returns, often with a granola cookie. This I keep strictly between herself and me: a lady's nighttime habits are no one's business but her own. I must admit that I do not relish crumbs in the bed, especially when they are the sort I do not personally find consumable, but I understand my little doll's need for comfort after her attack, and at least she has not yet imported any crumbs of another sort entirely to her--and my--queen-size bed. There is only one king of the Hill here and the name is Midnight Louie.
Of course, it is because of a dude before my time that Miss Temple was so rudely interrogated by the pair of hoods in the Goliath garage. His name at least I approve of: the Mystifying Max. His game was okay also: magician what was wrong with him was that he vanished--permanently, and without bothering to tell Miss Temple. I would not do such a thing to a little doll like her unless I was roadkill, which I fear is one theories that is bothering my lovely roommate about her missing ex-significant other.
To tell the truth and speaking from my own experience around here, I cannot understand why any dude in his right mind would walk out on Miss Temple Barr, who has hardly any faults except for her addiction to certain health foods, including a preparation called Free-to-be-Feline. That is her only lapse in taste, and the Mystifying Max could have put up with it. After all, he did not have to eat anything worse than granola. I have managed to ignore the Free-to-be-Feline For nearly a month now, with the result that I am getting a superb class of delicacies ladled over the top as a temptation: smoked oysters, baby shrimp in creole sauce and other appetizers that add up to a full-metal deal, as they say on the television.
Perhaps there is one tiny incident I am not fond of, although it is understandable. After the attack on Miss Temple, her helpful neighbor, Mr. Matt Devine, stayed the night. I hung around long enough to see him ensconced on the living-room hideabed; then I comforted my little doll in the bedroom until she drifted off to a Tylenol-3 sleep before I skedaddled on errands of an investigative nature. All right, in this particular case I had a personal interest--my lost ladylove, the Divine Yvette, had witnessed the first stripper murder.
All that is history as I sit here drowsing, humming along with the bees circling the calla lilies. The Goliath Killer is in an institution for the criminally insane, and I am the victim of a criminally frustrated romantic entanglement. The Divine Yvette has returned to Malibu with her mistress, a so-called actress named Savannah Ashleigh.
The future holds nothing more for me than bittersweet memories and the sour breath of the lonely alleyways I tread. Speaking of which, I should cruise by the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and see if they have replaced the carp in the decorative pond. Last time I went by there, a sudden population drop occurred, and Chef Song, who keeps the pond stocked, could be heard hurling Chinese curses to high heaven.
But he is an optimist, and almost as fond of carp as I am. I am sure that a new batch is frisking in the sunlight and bobbing near the surface, looking for tidbits from tourists. At the least, I will be able to snatch what looks like some fallen Tender Vittles, which is what these fat fish eat.
Sufficiently stimulated by my imagination to move, I do a slick fade into the calla lilies before you say "Charlie Chan."
 
Copyright © 1994 by Carole Nelson Douglas