I, however, have to take no one’s word, and never do. That is why I am such an ace detective. I am incorruptible. I must admit, though, that the whipped cream was a temptation too yummy to leave untasted. I was alone on the scene then. My Miss Temple, aka Xoe Chloe for the nonce, had been shepherded indoors toawait the police, along with everybody else. Human, that is. Or what passes for it on reality TV. The show security staff, i.e., bronzed gods in loin cloths, were arrayed along the doors to the pool area, facing inside to keep twenty-eight agitated candidates and assorted staff members from messing up the scene of the culinary crime.
So I was free to explore on my own.
The first thing my shameless taste test discovered was that the whipped cream was not even beaten. It was, in fact, a particularly soapy shaving cream, one that offered a full-bodied texture and a risqué and amusing hint of mint.
Not my vintage, thank you. And I thank Bast that I am not required to shave. It would be a full-time job. My unstunted white whiskers—vibrissae to the cognoscenti at the vet’s office—were double-dipped in fluffy white after my explorations, so I paused under a bush to wash off the evidence.
Yuck! No wonder people wash out the mouths of their sassy kits with soap. I would not even refer to a female dog by the proper term after a close encounter with this stuff.
I am clean-shaven as far as my kind is concerned but fighting residual nausea when I notice that a couple of curious cats have whiskered in on my action. Before I can throw my weight around and order them away, I realize that both are of Persian extraction, and one is of the sublime shade of platinum blonde known as “shaded silver.”
I drop my laundry mitt and stand at attention with every muscle in my body.
Although the sight of her personalized carrier told me the Divine Yvette would be on the premises, her personal presence is still a potent form of shock and awe. Not to mention also encountering her kittykin, for the fulsome blonde of blended apricot, gold, and cream shades is her shaded golden sister, the Sweet Solange.
No one told me the Shaded Sisters were part of the deal.
I leap out from my place of concealment but naturally must play the brusque (though noble) crime scene guardian.
“You there!” I cry as they are about to dip their dark little tootsies in the c of the word formerly known as “bitches.”
“Desist.”
Aqua-green and moss-green eyes circled in black mascara regard me with calm surprise and no hint of obedience.
Seeing the pair of them side by side is the human parallel of viewing a Jaguar XKE next to a Lamborghini. Where is a guy to look first?
I should mention one of the most unusual and charming aspects of the shaded Persian breed. Pale as their silver and golden coats may be, the leather on their persons—nose, eye surrounds, pads—is black, as are the hairs on the bottoms of their feet, which is why I call them “soot foots.” Purely to myself, you can imagine. No Persian worth her pedigree would answer to such a lowly description.
I trot over to enforce my order, for the females of my kind are not the docile and downtrodden type. Au contraire.
Hmmm. I see the Divine Yvette’s presence is the usual bad influence already. I am starting to think in French.
“Bon jour, girls,” I say.
“Hssss, les flics,“the Divine One says, which is the French equivalent of “Cheese it, the cops!”
(I should also make clear that the Divine Yvette is not the slightest bit French, unless rubbing shoulders with teacup poodles on Rodeo Drive makes her so. But she likes to think that others think so. And they both bear French names. Why people attempt to social climb via their animal companions’ names, I cannot tell you.) Me, I was born nameless, and the street people gave me my moniker, Midnight Louie. Fine with me. I think every male on the planet is secretly a Louie, only they just do not know it. Yet.
“Ladies, ladies.” I have arrived, panting slightly, whether from haste or another, less conscious cause I will not say.
“Louie! I did not expect to see you here.” The Divine Yvette blinks her aquamarine orbs as if doubting the message they are sending her.
Miss Solange regards me with her usual expression, which is calm but devastating.
“I can understand that,” I say, “but you can see crime has called me like a plate of lasagna calls Garfield.”
“Please,” Yvette sniffs, “do not mention that common yellow striper. He is not in our league.”
“No, of course not. He is a joke. But I must ask you ladies to keep your delicate nails out of this fluffy white stuff. It is evidence that the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police crime techs will soon be”—hmm, “sifting” does not quite do it—“nosing around.”
“What an unfortunate lime odor.” Yvette shakes a dainty foot in demonstration.
“The brand is Razor’s Edge,” Solange adds.
I gaze into those mysterious and soulful eyes. Too bad I am previously and seriously attached to her sister Yvette, because this is one great big beautiful doll in her own right. “How did you detect the brand?”
She sighs, which our kind does by looking sideways.
“One of our mistress’s … mates used it. Detestable stuff! So declassé.”
“I do not think lime scent is `the classy’ either. So your mistress, Miss Savannah Ashleigh, is present here? In what capacity?”
“Our mistress,” Yvette explains patiently, “does not have any capacity whatsoever. You must have noticed that in our previous mutual encounters.”
Unfortunately, “our previous mutual encounters” were way too mutual. I am not one for three-ways, despite my roguish reputation. So most of my close encounters with the Divine Yvette have meant her airhead mistress was also present.
“What has brought out Miss Solange on this occasion?” I ask, for I only met her formally once during our separate but mutual jaunt to New York City and ad agency shenanigans, back when Yvette and I were cat food commercial performers.
Ah, the lights. The cameras. The action.
“Our mistress has been promoted,” Solange explains. “She is a judge now.”
“Miss Savannah Ashleigh, the low-amp of Savannah, is a judge? What are federal appointments coming to?”
“A judge of the ‘Tween and Teen Queen competitions,” Yvette corrects me.
If one must be corrected, the Divine Yvette is the one to do it.
“It is like American Idol,” Solange adds, “with a panel of celebrity judges.”
“More like American Idle,” I mutter. It is no secret that Miss Savannah Ashleigh has been living off the TV commercial residuals of her feline companions rather than her own efforts.
“Our mistress is doing very well now,” Solange says in her defense. “Her old movies are now considered`camp’ and she is having a career revival. So she has semiretired us and we both travel with her now.”
I bring up a sensitive subject with Yvette. “And what about the, ah, you know … the patter of little paws?”
(I had been falsely accused of felonious littering during our last commercial assignment when the Divine Yvette ended up expecting. However, my Miss Temple fought that charge tooth and fingernail in The People’s Court and proved me innocent. Well, innocent of that particular outcome. The Divine Yvette proved to be the victim of attack when all her kits were born wearing the stripes of my rival spokescat, the yellow-bellied Maurice.)
“Oh, them.” Yvette yawns. “They were forced upon me and after birth were quickly allocated to other homes.”
I glance at Solange. Apparently the maternal instinct can be a fleeting thing.
“Poor Yvette,” she answers indignantly. “Attacked and left in an unwanted condition. Good homes were found.”
“They all came out yellow-striped,” Yvette adds with a shudder that sends all her fine silver hairs rippling.
I quite understand how an unwed mother might resent the resemblance of offspring to a foul attacker but…