I decide to search the hotel's public areas first. Knowing Miss Savannah Ashleigh, she may not be required to perform her duties until later, but she is sure to loll about in case an idle spotlight should turn her way. I have never seen such a camera-ready woman in my nine lives.
This is what finally leads me to the back of the hotel, where I find an army of photographers and video tapers shooting a chorus line of unarmed (and even unclad) dudes by the swimming pool.
I wrinkle my nose against the overbearing scent of body oil and tanning lotions. Beneath the obnoxious fumes I do detect the signature odor of Miss Savannah Ashleigh, which is heavy on the spice and light on the nice. Then, as I trail unnoticed among the greenery caressing the hotel walls, a vagrant breeze (is there any other kind?) wafts my nostrils with the near presence of my dear departed.
A few eager wiggles through the canna lilies, a brief belly-crawl along the sandy dirt in which they are planted, and I find myself nose-to-Naugahyde trim with the Divine Yvette's pink canvas carrier. This portable habitation sits beside a director's chair with matching pink canvas seat and back. The name emblazoned on the chair is Miss Savannah Ashleigh.
No Miss Savannah Ashleigh is about, however, and the chair is empty. I hope that is not the case with the carrier, but there is only one way to find out: basic detective work, i.e., I must see for myself.
I cautiously lift my head to the mesh screen and inhale the soft, powdery scent of my lady fair. As in a mirror, on the other side of the screen I see a dainty head rise. Then I am the beneficiary of a sharp swat across the kisser.
"Hey! What is the meaning of that?"
Silvery whisker tips pierce the mesh. "Do I know you?" a female voice demands in a low, throaty growl.
Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do... not! I trouble to make myself into a feline welcome mat and I get stepped on. Could I have the wrong carrier?
"How soon they forget," I lament under my breath.
"They?" The occupant sounds as miffed as a celibate mink in mating season. "You dare to include me with others of your acquaintance?"
"I did not lump you in with the hoi polloi when I rescued you from the Stripper Killer," I remind her.
A genteel sniff tells me the Divine Yvette is beginning to take herself too seriously. "I believe that you were most interested in saving your roommate in that instance. I was perfectly safe in my carrier in the other dressing room."
"We can debate the past later. Are you not glad to see me?"
"I have not 'seen' you yet. Come closer."
"No more swats."
"Certainly not! A person in my position must be careful, especially when my mistress is thoughtless enough to leave my carrier on the ground, where just anybody might stroll up. I was not sure of your identity ... it is Midnight Louie?"
"In purrson," I reply in my best Bogart rumble.
This time she looks before she leaps to conclusions and puts her delicate pink nose to the mesh. I gaze into her long-lashed, half-closed eyes as we go nose-to-nose for a few stolen sniffs.
"You have still been filching carp, I notice," the Divine Yvette comments, wrinkling her nose.
Dames! A dude cannot do guy things without being called to task for unpleasant smells. The female of the species will eat the fish when it is presented to her already filleted, just don't let her see too much of the capture and processing.
"Not recently," I say.
"Hmmm," she answers skeptically. (Dames are also loath to believe a dude when he speaks the truth about his whereabouts and activities.) "Perhaps I notice because I eat only one type--and brand--of food exclusively."
"And what is that?" I ask pleasantly. I would not be surprised to hear that it is truffles, an expensive delicacy rooted out by French pigs. Most French culinary delicacies would be best given to French pigs, in my experience. I do not care for tripe, brains, eel or ox tongue. Yet I know that the easily impressed will swallow any such nonsense if it is introduced as French in origin. I am afraid that the Divine One is a victim of her mistress's snobbery. "What is the tidbit of your choice?"
"Free-to-be-Feline," she announces.
I blanche. The Divine Yvette should be nibbling curled baby shrimp on jellied flounder, oysters Rockefeller, scallops on the half-shell--not those Army-green pellets full of organically grown, vitamin-enhanced pre-processed health food!
"You like that stuff?" I demand. I may have to revise my opinion of my darling's divinity.
She shrugs, a gesture that charmingly ruffles the luxurious collar of silver fur covering her neck and shoulders. "I have to like it, mon ami. I am the Free-to-be-Feline spokescat."
I hardly hear her answer. That "mon ami" has sped straight to my heart. I can hardly hear over its wild beating. Or did she say "bon ami"? "Good friend" is not as intimate as "my friend.
Also, "bon ami" is the name of a common household cleanser. Does she mean that I am only fit to wipe up the dirt that she has walked in? These pedigreed dames are a pain in the neck to interpret.
"You said something, ma cherie Let her wonder what I really mean by that!
"I said that I have an exclusive contract with Free-to-be-Feline. My mistress came to the Crystal Phoenix early so that I could shoot my first commercial. They say that I will be a household name."
Now the wax is out of my ears and the ice is forming on my heart. "You are going to be a television star?"
"So they say. Frankly, I abhor the spotlight. It is hot, noisy work, Louie. But my mistress can obtain no film work lately, and someone must earn the upkeep on her Malibu beach house. You do not think that Miss Savannah Ashleigh would stoop to hostessing an Incredible Hunk pageant unless matters were serious, do you?"
Actually, I think that Miss Savannah Ashleigh would stoop to a good deal in the pursuit of a spotlight, and probably has, if rumors of her early blue-movie days are true. But I do not wish to disabuse the Divine Yvette of her commendable loyalty to her less-than-commendable mistress.
"I am sorry that you are forced to labor for a living," I say. "Especially when it means chowing down quantities of that awful Free-to-be-Feline. Can you not employ a body double to do the dirty work?"
"Alas, no one can be found that precisely duplicates my coloration and bearing."
Amen, say I, and I have seen a few.
"Also," she goes on, "I like Free-to-be-Feline."
"You like it! But it is dreck!"
"What is 'dreck,' Louie? I am not familiar with the term."
In my amazement, I have allowed a crass street expression to pass my lips, and I do my best to repair the damage to the Divine Yvette's sheltered little ears. "Dreck is ... distasteful stuff, like" --I cannot think of anything one could cite in polite company that would convey how awful Free-to-be-Feline tastes--
"like lizard droppings."
"Oh! What a vulgar thought. I will do my best to forget it. I have other things on my mind today, anyway. I am soon to meet my co-star."
"Co-star? Oh, you mean the human who pours the dreck ... that is, the culinary delicacy, into your bowl. Usually only the feet and hands are visible. Perhaps your mistress could land that part. You could refuse to cooperate with any other pourer until the producers get the idea."
"How ingenious you are, Louie! It is true, now that I am to be a star, that I should show some temperament. However, my co-star is not human."
"Not human? Is this an advertisement where an alien descends and deposits a wad of Free-to-be-Feline before your very nose? I find that appropriate."
"No, no UFOs, Louie. Just the spokescat from the company's other line of food products."