“Well.” The human, for once, has heard something more subtle than clashing stray cats.
I hear the slap of bare feet on concrete, and then bushes being brushed aside to reveal Squeaker.
“Oh, my. What have we here? No scaredy-cat, no. A pretty little thing. What blue eyes you have, my dear. No. Do not shake. Why, you are quite a fine little pussums.”
I hate the expression “pussums,” but Louise whacks me in the shoulder and I shut up. Beggars cannot be choosers, and this is Squeaker’s last chance.
“What a precious puss.” The human has actually lifted her into his arms and she is not doing a thing.
Whoops! Maybe purring.
Yes!
It is a match made in heaven and at Midnight Inc. Investigations.
Danny Dove is now crooning to the little orphan. “Would you like some Bailey’s Irish Cream, hmmm? You need a name. How about . . . I think you are a little girl, right? How about . . . Alexandra?”
Works for me.
Louise smashes me in the whiskers. “Nice going, Pater the Great,” she says.
Well, I guess I would have been a czar in another life, if life were fair.
Telling Temple
It was three-thirty in the morning when Matt knocked on Temple’s door. Loud. He figured he’d better tell her as soon as possible. He was ready to push the doorbell and make a major racket when the door opened.
The Temple of Christmas Future answered, a petite pale redhead in red-and-purple pajamas with goggle-size glasses reflecting himself.
“I want Temple,” Matt said, confused, flustered.
“I’m not a madam, don’t tell me. Tell her. I’m Kit, aunt. You’re Matt, very tasty. I’ll get her if you insist. Although the hour is extremely intemperate. I approve, you mad, impetuous boy, you. No relation to the Fontana Brothers, I presume?”
“Are you kidding? Do I look Italian?”
“Northern Italian, maybe. A girl can dream. I am, however, devastated to inform you that I am no girl. Un momento, favore.’
Matt was left blinking in the tiny entry hall.
Temple toddled out a few minutes later, wearing a robe that reminded him of nun-wear, no glasses. Apparently, he was not to see her without contact lenses.
The thought was both encouraging and heart-breaking.
“I guess you two . . . neighbors had better confer in the bedroom,” Kit said, as delicately as she could probably ever manage. “I’m camping out on the living-room couch so you surely don’t want me eavesdropping.”
Temple wove on her feet, which were attired in bunny slippers, a little. “There’s always the office,” she noted with the strange dignity of a drunk or a person drawn out of deep sleep. She nodded to her right, and Matt gratefully followed her in there. He had no desire to view the California king-size bed Electra said Max Kinsella had required.
Temple shut the door behind them.
They stood and stared at each other for a few moments.
“You must have come from the radio station,” Temple said, waking up enough to get self-conscious. “And I must look a mess.”
“Love the bunny slippers. The robe’s a wash but it makes me wonder what’s under it.”
“Then it’s a successful robe,” Temple said, running the end of a pink satin tie through her hand.
Conversation stopped. He found himself content, as he often was nowadays, just to stand and look at her. Her sleek new blond hair was uncombed, but even he knew from TV commercials that was a greatly desired look. He took a mental snapshot of her appearing sleepy enough to pick up and take somewhere like a child who’s been up way too late. Somewhere not childish at all. It was a shame to spoil that tousled innocence with other people’s wrangles.
“Matt? What is it? Why are you here so late?”
“It’s all bad,” he said. “I’ve talked to Molina and just now to Max.”
“You saw Max? Must have needed an appointment with his secretary.”
“He found me. Things are . . . a mess. A duel of the Titans is coming and you’re going to be squashed between them.”
“What do you mean?” Temple yawned as she settled into her computer desk chair, letting the slippers fall off and tucking her bare feet under her on the seat.
Matt paced away, not wanting to say what he had to say. “I can’t stop ‘em. Molina is going after Max for sexual harassment and stalking. Max . . . you know him. He has too many irons in the fire bigger than his own self-defense.”
“Max? Stalking?” She was sitting up, feet on the floor again. “Who? Shangri-La?”
“Molina herself.” Matt stopped to take in Temple’s reaction, which was incredulous and heated.
“Max stalking her? I thought Molina was wired lately, but is she completely crazy?”
“I can’t make him take this charge seriously.”
“Maybe because he’s seriously innocent.”
Matt nodded. “Carmen has a hope chest of evidence for the stalking charge, but only one piece of it damning—”
“Damn her, then!”
“I can’t. She believes it.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t think she’s crazy,” he said.
Temple snorted indignantly.
Matt knelt beside the chair. “No, I don’t think Max is her stalker. That makes what I think completely contradictory. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
Temple leaned back in her chair, away from him. “You’re neutral, then?”
“I suppose so . . . if you can believe that two people telling the truth adds up to somebody else’s lie? Temple, the only thing I know is that I don’t want you to be hurt.”
“The only thing I know is that you can’t ever stop anyone else from being hurt.”
“Okay. I’ll take a position.”
“Which is?”
“For Max. Can you believe it?”
She smiled at him, leaned nearer, put her palm on his cheek.
“Yeah. You always give everyone but yourself the benefit of the doubt. If you do think Max is innocent, it means a lot. Are you sure you’re not doing this just for me?”
“I’d do almost anything ‘just for you.’ But . . . I’ve got that Catholic conscience. No. It’s not for you, or me, but for what I believe. God help me, in this case, I believe in Max Kinsella.”
“So do I. So did I, well past the point when I looked like a stupid woman.”
“Not stupid. Loyal. But now that he’s in Molina’s sights again—”
“What?”
“It’s going to bother you.”
“What?”
“Us.” He’d said it, put his selfish insecurities out on the table for Temple to see.
Her gray-blue eyes stared into his for a long moment. Then she stroked her forefinger across his lips, a tender gesture recalling their recent intimacies. Was it hello, or good-bye?
“Max will always be in trouble with someone,” she said finally. She produced a wry, sad smile. “Maybe me this time, if he’s been playing head games with Molina.” She frowned. “I may be conceited, but I just can’t see him stalking her under any circumstances.”
“She wouldn’t be convinced he was, though, without some grounds.”
“So. You understand what he’s up against.”
“I understand what he’s always been up against.” And that’s why you loved him, Matt thought. Love him.
It’s hard to compete with a martyr. To win Temple, Matt figured, he couldn’t do it over Max’s dead body, over his disgrace and fall. Somehow, he’d have to absolve Max and disprove Molina’s deepest convictions.
Or this ugly suspicion about Max, so wounding to a loyalist like Temple, would always lie between them.
Miracle Worker
“Is it all right if Aldo picks me up here?” Kit asked Temple at about six P.M. the next evening.