“Uh, not much.” Temple paused. “I think we all know whodunnit. Kitty the Cutter turned firebug. That house was an historical treasure. Orson Welles had lived there.”
“And, most relevant to the Mystifying Max, it was the home he shared with his late mentor, Garry Randolph. All their magic show paraphernalia burned as well, I imagine. I suppose his new gig as house magician at the Crystal Phoenix will be a welcome distraction.”
“No. Max isn’t doing that, after all. Which is a shame, since I can’t represent the Phoenix in PR there any longer anyway. That would be a conflict of interest with my new job. Jobs.”
“Really? I can’t say I’m surprised you and Matt are about to become Vegas’s new young media power couple, but ‘jobs’ plural?”
“And Louie. He—we—have the most exciting multi-commercial commitment. My feet, his feet, my voice, his voice. V.O.s, of course.”
“V. O. The four-years-in-the-bottle designation for Cognac?”
“Oh. No.”
“V. O.? Very Obnoxious?”
“Voice Overs.”
Molina nodded and produced a smile. “A happy ending for all concerned.”
Temple flashed her a Look. “You can be very Mean Girl sometimes, Carmen.”
“Sometimes, Miss Barr, it’s my job. Sometimes it isn’t and is just for fun.”
Temple put her front-seat “topper” on, a brimmed straw hat with a cloth scarf attached so her sun-vulnerable redhead’s white skin was protected, and took down the convertible top on the Miata, letting the rushing wind blow past her.
In no time, she was at the Circle Ritz, peering with Electra Lark through the plastic curtains that enclosed construction.
“Before we explore, dear,” Electra said, “I have a small token of my admiration and thanks for getting me out of hot water on the murder front, not once but twice.”
“Oh, Electra, this second time was so bogus. Living here is thanks enough.”
Electra produced a tote bag from behind her back made of a soft shimmering fabric.
“Hot pink! I don’t have that color. Thank you!”
“There’s something inside.”
Temple rooted through a bouquet of pink tissue spangled with tiny silver stars to pull out a matching piece of fabric. A T-shirt as vividly colored.
“‘And though she but little, she is fierce,’” Temple read aloud from the front type. “I love it! That line’s about Hermia in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. And the tee is hot pink too.”
“Raspberry, they called it. And it came in extra small.”
“Of course! It would be a crime if it didn’t. And we know crime!”
“It’s from your old employer.”
“Old employer?” Temple was confused. The Crystal Phoenix? The TV talk show deal and commercial deals would take a while to launch, so she could continue to rep the Phoenix for a while.
“The Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis,” Electra explained. “Since you moved in and told me about doing PR there, I looked it up on the Internet. And now you’re going to be a performer. I thought this would be perfect for you and your new role.”
Temple gathered the tee to her chest. “Yes! It’s so perfectly thoughtful of you. I hadn’t thought that way about everything. I’m gonna be a star, sort of. Thank you.”
The T-shirt made it through an effusive hug and back into its bag.
Temple looked at her first “curtain” as a star, the plastic construction sheeting draping her longtime residence and the scaffolding extending up into the unit above.
“I’m so glad you’re allowing our alterations, Electra.”
“Allowing it? Temple, this will be the most charming, ultramodern vintage unit in Vegas,” Electra said. She gazed up through what had been the floor of Matt’s apartment. “Even if you should outgrow the space—”
“What do you mean ‘outgrow’?”
“Well, you know.” Electra winked. “Get another cat. The remodeled unit will be the most in-demand in Vegas.”
“Speaking of cats…” Temple was frowning at Midnight Louie, reclining, whiskers down-turned, on her plastic-shrouded sleeper sofa. “I’m amazed he’s sticking around here in all this construction mess. Louie is such a loyal, loving home-body big guy. I worry he might get hurt remaining on the premises under construction.”
“Temple, he’s safer here than anywhere else.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that little black she-cat at the Crystal Phoenix is chasing him away from there. I went over to consult with Ernesto, who has been such a dear boy in supervising security here while we’re open to the world on two floors, and she chased poor Louie all the way to the reserved spaces in the front driveway.”
“Midnight Louise did that? She always seemed such a dainty sweet little cat.”
“So did you, Temple. And look at how many crooks you have exposed.”
“But Louie’s staying here. Look! His Free-to-Be-Feline bowl is almost empty under that plastic sheet.”
“I fill that bowl over and over again, Temple, and it’s always empty in the morning.”
“So you are applying tins of sardines, oysters, and shrimp over the top?”
“That’s always gone too.”
“Maybe he’s lost some weight.” Temple hoisted the cat up to her chest. “Omppph. Still at least twenty pounds. Maybe not.”
“This has been quite an upheaval for Louie, Temple. His home is not the same. It will never be the same again.”
“I know, I know. I feel horrible about it, but he’s so adaptable. Such a survivor. I’m sure he understands, don’t you, boy?” She chucked him under the chin. Was that a tiny spray of white hairs she spotted growing? Was Louie feeling abandoned? Depressed? Gasp. Middle-aged?
“Oh, Louie, Louie. Things are changing, but that’s life. It will be better soon.”
She pushed her face forward, but he turned his away, gazing up at the hanging plastic shroud covering the construction area, where a steady pounding made Temple want to run away and come back another day.
Maybe poor Louie was feeling that way too.
“Please, Louie,” she entreated him. “Hang in there. Everything will be wonderful soon.”
32
Gilt Trip
Speaking of the Guthrie Theater, my performance is, of course, a major Thespian moment.
Instilling guilt in humans is a delicate, but remarkably easy process.
I have been practicing for this role since a fuzz-bottom. That is how we train these people to perform.
First, one must cultivate a certain Continental ennui.
You suppose yourself French, and world-weary. Your eyelids can barely remain open, your gaze can barely reach for the ceiling, were even a menacing wasp circling.
You think yourself as heavy as you can be, the opposite of what a sane human would do, and your right front mitt and vibrissae, a.k.a. whiskers, may twitch minutely.
Humans sigh, but our breed yawns. Long and deeply. Life is all too empty, cheerless, woeful and not worth living without X-Tasy Bits-brand liver and kidney and a nice Chianti.
What? Your human victim wants to play kissy-face—whisker-crumpling, muzzle-smooching kissy-face? Ugh.
How off-putting. You twist your neck until avoiding all contact makes it plain you are barely managing to put up with this sadly enabling creature who wants only to make you safe, warm, dry, and overweight. And inside.
I hate to do this, but I realize that my journey with my Miss Temple will not be over until we both understand we have our parts to play and our peace to make and will always be together, come rain or shine or bloody murder.