“Wow. Is this trim little number any relation to you?” Paul asks. Unfortunately. The boys direct their greeting sniffs and sideswipes to her.
“No,” I say.
“Not acknowledged,” Louise hisses back.
“Oh, you poor dear girl.” Peter casts rebuking yellow eyes at me. “I am named for one Simon Peter, who denied a storied relationship in the Garden of Gethsemane. I cannot in all good conscience recommend doing that.”
“Now you get a conscience, Peter,” I point out with my first shiv waggling. “Miss Midnight Louise was named after me by humans who thought it would be ‘cute’. There is no genetic proof.”
“Ah,” Paul says. “She is the fruit of one of those impulsive back-alley alliances and now she has renounced such irresponsibility. When we entered the order of nuns here from the Humane Society, we too took vows of chastity.”
“Abetted by a good vet,” Louise says sourly.
I must say that she does not take moonshine from anybody. I enjoy being not the sole object of her scorn.
“What can we do for you, Louie?” Paul exchanges a glance with Peter. “We have seen you stalking about the property.”
“Evil-doers may lurk.”
“We too have observed strangers on the grounds. We are cats of peace, and since the brutal attack on Peter, we keep close to the convent.”
“Attack?” Louise perks her ears straight up.
Both boys shift their eyes to the side at the memory.
“Yes, it was when we first joined the convent, some time ago. Someone tried to crucify Peter to that back door.”
“A crazy man who hated godliness.” Peter hunkered down on his haunches. “I fought, but he had bagged me first and I was knifed.”
Louise gives a short, angry growl.
Paul nods. “The act was discovered soon after and Louie’s human, er, cohabiter happened to be visiting the convent. Not from any intention to join, I must add. Peter was rushed to the Lord High Veterinarian.”
“Who was a female,” I point out, to win favor with Louise.
“Louie saved me,” Peter mutters into his whiskers. “I had lost too much blood. Louie donated his. He is a hero.”
“Him confined in what carrier under what tranquilizer shot?” Louise demands skeptically.
“Louise,” Paul says with a stern brush of what I would consider my second-most-valuable member, although his first is now pretty useless to him. “You are a cynical young female. We will never forget the bravery Midnight Louie showed here at the convent and church when we were besieged by a killer. He did nothing under duress, but was a heroic and kind volunteer.”
What can I add to that? I give a Mr. Spock eyebrow-hair lift—there was something very catlike about that beloved character—and fastidiously preen my shiny black hair. I must look farther into the Vulcan nerve pinch. I believe it is a variation of the firm way a mother cat will gather her kitten’s nape into her mouth for discipline and transportation.
Transportation! Another parallel universe conjunction.
Indeed, I believe all felines have a bit of the Vulcan in them. And do not forget the slinky, ebony feline fatale in the Gary Seven episode of Classic Star Trek.” Wowsa! I would put the remote control on permanent pause for her!
“Well,” Louise says with one of those damned Vulcan eyebrow-hair lifts. “Not to fear. We are here. Midnight Investigations, Inc. will inspect the grounds and the major buildings for traces of intruders. Totally gratis to you, dear boys. Is that not right, Louie?”
I was hoping for payment in custom-minced delicacies from the convent cook, Sister Mary Deli, named for Saint Delicius, virgin and martyr, but so heavenly manna slips away.
Lucky it did.
Miss Midnight Louise and I are heading to the parking lot, hoping to hop a ride, when I signal an urgent halt by curling my shiv-tips into her shoulder.
“Cut the unwelcome paternalistic guidance, Pops. I know where I am going.”
“Sssst!” I nod to the sleek familiar silver car. Of course, a renowned automotive model would be named after a cat.
“Mr. Matt’s Jaguar,” she whispers.
I look around the lot. “And over there, in the Juniper shadows. That low-brow guy’s junker. Now he is following Mr. Matt, and my Miss Temple. They must be seeing Father Hernandez, so the wedding is not only on, but imminent.”
“Why would the wedding be of interest to shady characters like that guy?”
“I do not know, but steps must be taken, Louise.”
“But what? How?”
Recalling the dozens of felines from The Case of the Cat Hoarder, an early investigation I assisted Miss Temple on before Louise’s day, I realize they still inhabit the neighborhood and have a churchly turn of mind and meow. That gives me an idea, but I cannot share it with anyone.
One thing I do know. No shady criminals will make mincemeat out of the happiest day of my Miss Temple’s life if I am around to make mincemeat out of them.
18
Bloody Mary Morning
What does the average bridegroom need besides a rented tux and a ring? Matt had that nailed. What he desperately needed was a reliable source.
This time he couldn’t consult Temple, Internet researcher extraordinaire. He owned a small laptop, but digital wasn’t his instrument. The church organ was, and he was smiling as he contemplated the music for their wedding. It would be impromptu, but Temple was insistent on one piece and one only for the walk down the aisle, their perfect song, however offbeat.
But first he had to survive for the ceremony.
He wanted to, but couldn’t consult Lieutenant Molina. She owed him help, but she’d blow the game because she had to, as a representative of the law.
He suspected Max Kinsella was out there somewhere, following his own star, but Max had his own problems, as always. Matt knew from Temple that loner Max realized he needed help patching his family fissures together and pinned his hopes, for the first time, on someone other than himself. Temple and/or him. Rewarding as that concession was, Matt had bigger sharks to fend off.
He needed to figure out Woody’s game, to explore those seventies local crime connections neither Max Kinsella nor Carmen Molina would have a clue about. He needed slightly shady savvy and major muscle.
So. Matt showed up at Gangsters custom limo rides and signed up for a solitary tour to Red Rock Canyon.
Of course, there wasn’t a Fontana brother who didn’t know who he was.
Ralph was on booking duty, single earring, probably a green garnet, winking at him. “Certainly, Mr. Devine. Will that be a party of two?”
“One.”
Surprised at the imminent bridegroom’s solitary order, Ralph, (the clan had apparently run out of Italian first names at one point) asked, “Custom limo style?”
“Something…Al Capone. But not with a snub-nosed, midnight-black Chicago aggressiveness. I’d like a softly lethal desert vibe.”
Ralph cleared his throat. “Platinum Gray Ghost. And the preferred driver?”
“Aldo.”
Ralph paused.
“I realize he’s finally married and semi-retired.”
“Mr. Devine,” Ralph rebuked him. “One can never retire from being a Fontana brother. We are Family, and you are soon to become so too.”