"An inspiring number of prepositional phrases," Midnight Louise purrs sourly in my ear, "but how far can this cross between a feather duster and an effusion of Fool Whip walk?"
"He is a dog, nonetheless," I growl sotto voce. "Unlike our kind, they like to walk for the sake of it."
"Ready'?" Nose E. asks sharply.
"Do you not have to ask permission to leave?" I wonder.
"Naw. Earl E. never expects me to wander any further than the curb-service latrines. Let us go."
With a Lilliputian yap, the Maltese bloodhound is whisking across the floor like an animated toy, stirring up plenty of dust behind him for Louise and me to swallow and spit out. Before we can exit, though, we hear a Brobdingnagian step outside the shop. I take one look at those size-nine loafers coming through the door and yank Nose E. back by his tail. "Cheese it! The cops." We three dive behind the counter, aware that ours is an undercover mission and cannot be shared with the local law enforcement types, even if it is. . .
"Lieutenant C. R. Molina," I tell Nose E. and Louise in a throaty growl. "Homicide. Bet she is on the same case that we are."
Nose E. peeks around the counter end to eyeball those formidable clodhoppers. He whimpers under his breath and scurries back to our sides. "I am not used to operating at less than human shoulder-height," he confesses. "One misstep and that cop could turn me into a doll-house rug."
"Shsssst," l caution. "I am trying to hear what she is after. You may be the nose, but I am the ears of the operation."
"What does that make me?" Midnight Louise demands in a hoarse mew. "Chopped liver?"
"Loose lips sink ships," I return.
"What do ships have to do with anything?"
"Er, nothing."
Above us, I hear C.R. Molina's voice making inquiries.
First, though, they have to make with the small talk.
"What can I do for you, Carmen?" Earl E. asks.
My eyes widen, why is he calling her after the name of an opera?
"l am looking for some old music, what else?" she says. There is a smile in her voice I have seldom, if ever, heard.
Huh? Old music. Could that be a criminal type, as in "old Muse ick?"
"Recorded or sheet music?"
I grow even more-than-somewhat confused.
"I am really looking for some lyrics. Do not have much. Just something about 'she left,' Ring a bell?"
"There is that seventies hit, 'She's Gone'."
"No. It has to be 'she left.' "
"Where did you hear this fragment?"
Lieutenant C. Ft. Molina's laugh is uneasy, like all lies. "Did not hear it. Saw it . . .
somewhere."
"Well, heck, Carmen, a lot of those old torch songs are about 'she left' or 'he left' or it you want to update it, 'he, she, or it left.' "
This time her laughter is genuine. "It you think of anything let me know."
"Must have been mighty haunting lyrics."
"Oh, yeah. Mighty haunting, Earl E. Thanks."
I hear her flat-footed retreat; no snappy little pitter-patter like my gal Temple makes on her high heels. I feel a stab of regret that I am not able to work this case with Miss Temple, as we have so often done in the past. But there are times when a guy has to go it alone, and this is one of them. Well, as good as alone.
I hear Earl E.'s deliberate soft-shoe scrape back to the used instruments area. He is not so young anymore, and moves to a slow, stately time, unless he is jamming on one of the many musical instruments he plays like a hyperactive young maniac.
"The coast is clear," Nose E. announces. He spends too much time lolling on household furniture watching TV.
He scurries for the door and out into the Big World Beyond.
"This guy may know how to use his sniffer," Midnight Louise warns me, "but he has the street smarts of a tire plug. And you know what they end up covered with!"
"Do not worry. That is why we are here to protect him."
"If he gets us into major trouble, you will have to protect him from me." On that note of carefree camaraderie, we three set off on the trail of the lonesome scent.
Chapter 22
Shoot!
"Oh, no," Matt said, backing away from Temple.
"Just the teensiest bit!"
"No."
"It won't hurt. Please!"
He finally stopped, because he was backed up against a kitchen cupboard.
Her fingers were reaching for his face.
"Just a dab here and there, to balance the shadows. Don't think of it as makeup. Think of it as . . . air-brushing."
She dabbed on the concealer and stepped back to admire her work.
"Great!"
"This is ludicrous," Matt grumbled.
"No, it's getting set up for a photograph. Max has done this three dozen times without a whimper."
"Oh, well, if Max has done it--" Matt edged away from the cupboard as if expecting another attack.
Temple couldn't help noticing that he was careful to avoid too-close contact with her ever since . . . well, ever since. A good sign, she decided. They were still Friends.
She checked her watch. "They're late."
"It doesn't matter. I've got all afternoon. You might not, though."
"No, I don't have a time problem. I just don't want anything to . . . deteriorate."
"You mean me."
"These things are like meringue, infinitely touchy." She glanced at entry area. "That's one reason I've confined Louie to a carrier. Besides the fact that he's been in and out lately like a second-story man, we don't want stray black hairs all over that red sofa, or your new shirt."
She couldn't resist dusting the shirt folds with her other hand, untainted by makeup, in case any Louie hairs had wafted out of the carrier and sped through the air to adhere to the sand-colored silk shirt she had decided would be the best way to go.
"We need to roll these long sleeves up to just below the elbow."
"We?" Matt asked as her actions followed her words. "What if Leticia doesn't like it and the silk's all wrinkled?"
"Then we get out the steamer, fast."
"Steamer?"
"Don't sweat the small stuff. I have one downstairs."
Matt nodded, looking like a dazed five year old in the school play. Which he probably was, at this point.
"Relax. Once they set up the background and we get you settled in it and add Louie at the last minute, the actual photography won't take long."
"How long will the setup take?"
"Oh, an hour or so, if we're lucky."
"An hour?"
"Time will fly. It'll be interesting to watch the photographer set up, all the silver umbrellas and stuff."
"Why do l feel like my apartment is becoming a set for Sing in the Rain?"
"Because it is." Temple flashed her breeziest smile as the doorbell rang. "Don't move.
You might muss something. I'll be gofer."
She flew to the door and flung it open.
The opening was filled with an icebergian presence: a black woman in white---a large black woman in white with the face of a supermodel.
"Hi, I'm Temple. I was here helping Matt get ready. You must be--"
"Leticia." She pronounced it Lay-tee-sea-uh. "This here's Nance, the photo-wizard." Nance was built like a Big Mac, with a very butch buzz cut of artificially white hair and a rose tattoo on her left bicep, which was also very butch.
Temple wondered how Matt would take this latest wrinkle in his new media career.
Very well, it turned out. Perhaps the dots of concealer had undone him. He watched Nance sling down her aluminum forest of tripods and various bulky black bags that resembled something the mafia would carry; violins in, looking like someone who had just as swiftly rejected the courteous notion of offering to help someone else.
"Hey, nice rags," Leticia greeted Matt. She frowned. "I don't like the shoes, though."