Yet there comes a time and tide in the rational skeptic’s life when certain eyewitness events call for an interpretation from more than the ordinary sources, such as the paranormal.
With light step but heavy heart, I prepare myself to bound up the Circle Ritz palm tree to the fifth-floor penthouse and into the paws of Miss Electra Lark’s reclusive Birman, Karma, professional Sacred Cat of Burma who, yes, takes herself just that seriously.
You can imagine how unseriously she takes an earthy guy like me.
Still, I am haunted by a vague worry about the past and present manifestations I have experienced in the large abandoned building Miss Electra just inherited. It sniffs too much like big trouble much too close to the Circle Ritz and my protégés there, Miss Temple Barr and, by extension, Miss Electra Lark.
I land on Miss Electra’s balcony and prepare to make abeyance to the sole feline presence. Karma is usually reluctant to admit me through the glass French doors and makes condescending comments about the state of my intelligence and even soul when I do get in.
Only my reflection greets me in the lowest pane of glass. Ordinarily, Karma has to assert her psychic superiority by being there to greet me, like a crazy mirror apparition.
I am expert at operating the lever handles on these Circle Ritz balcony doors, but when I leap up to begin my athletic second-story man contortions, my weight pushes the entire door open as if…as if a spectral hand had aided my efforts.
The sudden opening has my tender pads thumping hard to the floor, and I almost take it on the chin as well before I can pretzel myself into a relatively graceful four-point landing.
Once again Karma has put me off my paces.
Speaking of paces, I hear agitated shuffling within the dim landscape. Would you believe Miss Electra keeps the lights low for her visitor-shy companion? I have visited Karma before, and know the so-called psychically “sensitive” Birman requires a dim environment supplied with large upholstered furniture she can retreat under so as to “meditate”.
Frankly, I believe Karma has a special condition, all right. She is agoraphobic. Miss Electra Lark has always catered to Karma’s self-centered needs, to the point that almost no one even knows Karma is a resident. I have to admire our landlady’s dedication to her needy roommate. Luckily, I am no strain on mine.
Besides shuffling, I also hear sighs.
Following these ghostly sounds into the main room, I come upon Miss Electra herself. She is holding a cell phone in her hand, and pacing back and forth, muttering. “I do not have what you want.”
As my eyes swiftly adjust to the even dimmer darkness, I see the neatly ordered furnishings are littered with white pieces of paper tossed hither and yon.
“I do not have it! I do not even know what it is, much less where.” Miss Electra’s hand riffles her freshly zebra-striped hair (perhaps in honor of my new carrier of that pattern) and stops to admonish the phone screen in her hand. “Yes, you have what I want, you monsters! My poor, shy, sensitive, sweet Karma.”
Uh…here I must interject—in the interest of full disclosure—that certain Asian dishes are sweet and sour, but I have only experienced the sour from Karma. However, an act against one of my kind is an act against all of my kind. And I suppose Her Tibetan Specialness is not a bad looker with her vivid blue eyes, brown mascara, and dainty white gloves and socks.
“I cannot find anything remotely like what they demand,” Miss Electra is saying, biting her lip. “What shall I do?”
I have noticed that elderly individuals talk to themselves more than young ones, which comes in handy for an investigator like me who is all ears…they being very sharp and pointed and flexible ears. You might even say they had something in common with the Big Bad Wolf, except that I do not eat grandmothers like Miss Electra.
She is now shaking her head. “I cannot tell Temple, get her involved, dear girl, with her wedding plans and all. Nor Matt, that would be as bad. Who to call? Oh, dear. Going alone to that building where Jay died…I told them, I do not know. I do not have anything like that. And now they have taken my dearest companion. Such an ancient, gentle soul, in the hands of murderers.”
Oh my Goddess! Karma has been kidnapped. Is it possible I was the object of a kidnapping when Miss Temple’s place was broken into?
“‘Tell no one,’” Miss Electra reads off the phone screen. “Oh, dear. Anyone coming to my rescue will give away the fact that I told. Maybe… If only I could make one tiny call…”
I can come to the rescue and no one will suspect me of being “told” a thing. Consider me Toto. Yes, comparison to a canine is demeaning, but that mincing little black dustmop was always one step ahead of Dorothy. Think about it. True. So it shall be with me.
I agree with Miss Electra. This time my Miss Temple must be kept well out of it. I retreat soundlessly, then catapult down the palm tree, rushing through the parking lot and bordering oleander bushes.
“No time to say hello-goodbye,” I tell the clowder watch-cats as I streak through the bushes and past them.
A dog might “bark out” orders, but I use a mostly silent shorthand of strangled mews and guttural low growls that amount to: “Summon the Gray Ghost scouts and the Black Ninja Brigade. Cat in peril. I have a date with a gang of murderers under a lethal lighting fixture.” (“Chandelier” is French and only the Divine Yvette, my lost love, and I know French.) “Tell Ma Barker to lead you under the mountain. She’ll know where.”
39
Gloves Off
Temple’s faithful analog watch showed she had spent forty minutes typing down ideas for the new PR campaigns. The first project was for her and Louie’s commercial future, and then—goofing off—plans for Electra’s mythical, magical new marketing potential now that she had officially inherited the Lust ‘n’ Lace land and no one with a signed deed had shown up.
Urban planning was a kick. One hot new idea that might help Maeveleen Pearl’s Thrill ‘n’ Quill bookstore…food and drink next door, as Barnes and Noble offered inside their stores. That was how the chain bookstores had “eaten up” the independents back in the day.
The Magic Muffin wasn’t close enough and had a one-note menu, though deliciously varied. Maeveleen needed a full café right next door, and Temple had just the idea that might fly. She grabbed her cell phone to run the idea past Electra. No answer.
Darn. Hot ideas demand instant broadcast and feedback. And copious praise.
Temple tapped her toes. Her feet (in their shoes) often broadcast the clickety-clack of an old-time telegrapher’s Morse code instrument. They kept her brain on simmer. If she were writing poetry, they’d be the meter that kept the words flowing. Thrill and Quill. The Mystery Menu. Café Poe. Amontillado Grill. Café Poetry. Café Coffee and Crooks. Crookery Nook. Nookery Doc. Getting out of hand. Um, Coffee Noir. Café Noir. Café Noir Bar and Amontillado Grill.
Nothing was compelling. She tried Electra’s phone again. Being invited to leave a message was not inspiring.
Temple checked her watch. Like many small businesses, Maeveleen’s shop opened at eleven a.m. and closed at nine, hours that uniquely suited the location. Las Vegas’s 24/7 operating schedule heated up in the afternoon and exploded in the evening hours. Her busy tapping feet kept the words spinning. Tempo. Tempo Bar. Temple Bar. Uh-oh, there already was one of those in Dublin. Hmph. No reason there couldn’t be another. Las Vegas had once advertised it was “like no place else”, but it had become like every place else—Venice, Egypt, Monte Carlo, Paris—why not have an Irish pub? Yeah, sure, and Max could run it.