He stared down, perplexed that she had so swiftly seen, judged, and rejected something as minor as what was on his feet.
"Well, they're innocuous." Temple too stared at his khaki suede Hush Puppies.
"Innocuous is not what I'm after here."
Temple nodded. "Maybe we need to do something bold. But nothing black."
"Absolutely. Nothing black."
"Barefoot?" they asked each other at the same time.
Two simultaneous nods.
"The barefoot shrink is in," Temple suggested.
"Right on."
"Would you two mind speaking logic?" Matt asked.
"Don't worry about it," Temple waved him off. "Just one of those creative details that have to he invented rather than planned."
Nance said nothing except the occasional grunt as she studied the Kagan sofa like a target.
Matt sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.
"You might not want to do that," Temple advised. "Could wrinkle your pants."
"If this takes as long as you said--"
"You can lean against a wall," she suggested helpfully.
He turned to do so.
"As long as you check to make sure it's not dusty or stained or wet or something."
"Maybe I'll wait in the hall."
"Good idea," Leticia agreed. "That overhead light is really weak. You going to be able to compensate. Nance?"
"Yeah," came the answer.
A woman of few words. Temple and Leticia sized each other up now that they were virtually alone.
"Well, aren't you the cutest thing?" Leticia led first.
"I don't do cute."
"I don't either, but I'd like to not do it at your size rather than at mine."
"But you're gorgeous the way you are."
"Thanks, child, but my calf is a size six. You look like your whole body isn't a size six. You his girlfriend?"
Temple smiled. "Friend."
Leticia smiled back. "You seem to know your wardrobes, girl."
"I thought of white shirt and blue jeans, but with the red sofa that would have been too Fourth of July. So I went for the gold."
"Shades of camel. Works inside a red Porsche. Color coordination why you're here ?"
"Actually, that's my cat in the carrier."
"No kidding! That is some cat. I liked him the moment l saw him lolling all over that big red sofa. If he could talk, I'd sign him up too. So there's no fuss with using his buns in our photo?"
"No. I just checked a few hours ago. His cat food contract is film-specific."
"You know your legalese too."
Temple smiled, but said nothing.
"You ever work as an agent?"
"No. But I could."
"Hmm."
"Just what have you got in mind for . . . my client?"
"I thought you were friends."
"And so much more."
"This is a test. Ambrosia really pulls the listeners. I get the boys and a bunch of the girls.
I thought it was time to give the girlfriends a little something extra. I produce my own show.
I call the shots. But l don't have to hog the spotlight. I'm pretty secure. I never mind adding a new wrinkle. Keeps the audience interested. Too bad we're not video-radio, though."
"Yeah, well, Matt's probably more comfortable in an audio medium anyway."
"He's such a sweet, sexy guy, and he doesn't even know it."
"That's why he's such a sweet, sexy guy."
"Just what I need for my Mr. Midnight. Today's woman doesn't want some alleycat dude, where you don't know where that private dick has been. They want a tried-and-true down-home kinda dude they can cocoon with, know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean," Temple said.
Apparently their girl-talk was upsetting the natives.
"Ready," Nance spoke up gruffly.
Temple darted into the hall to find Matt, arms folded, holding up the wall. "You can come in now."
"Thanks." He returned to his apartment to find a spawn of electric-cord snakes writhing over the floor amid a forest of aluminum tripods squatting before the sofa, as well as an overhead canopy of open silver umbrellas to right and left.
"A good thing I don't have much furniture in here," he said.
"Just one good piece that counts," Leticia said with a wink, nodding to the big red sofa.
Chapter 23
On the Street Where You Live
No wonder I look so mysterious when posing for the camera! I am present in body only, while my mind reviews my recent mastery of crime-scene control.
"Talk about deja dog all over again," Midnight Louise hisses under her breath.
We have finally hitched and hiked our way back to Wilfrid's house.
This was not easy. We were barraged by Oreo cookie jokes en route. You picture it: a four-pound white dog that looks like whipped cream on legs sandwiched between an escort of two black cats, one twenty pounds of streetwise "muscle, the other about eleven pounds of streetwise sass. We are fortunate that someone did not try to corral us into some homeless shelter.
But I have found that maintaining a purposeful pace makes humans think twice about sweeping a dude or dudette off the streets into the arms of officialdom. It is afternoon by the time we again see the windows of Wilfrid's place.
I take charge.
"Louise, you will conduct Nose E. on an olfactory search of the crime scene."
"What will you be doing--your nails?"
"I will be breaking the sad news to the, er, nearest and dearest."
She gives me a dubious look, but does as I have suggested.
Luckily, Nose E. is smaller than one of those Munchkin kittens and can get into tight places much better than the average dog.
My heart is heavy as I turn to approach the Furbelow house.
This is the ugly part of my job. Technically, I have been successful in locating the mislaid Wilfrid. Emotionally, better that Miss Fanny Furbelow did not know his fate. So far I have staved off breaking the necessary news. Death by car, by canine, by cat-fight is one thing. Report that a loved one was deliberately slaughtered by a human is a fate too horrible to long contemplate.
These are the creatures that we turned to thousands of years ago in partnership and trust.
They outweigh us by ten to twenty times.
It is not as if poor Wilfrid would have testified against anything human. Then again, anything human would not have offed a cat.
She is waiting by the window, a white blot on the glass that reflects clear and endless sky.
As I near I see that her pale lower lashes are damp and spiked like stars.
When she sees me her dainty mitts beat a tattoo on the window, then she vanishes.
I wait by the door, listening to a pitiful wail until it is opened and she bursts onto the steps like a mad thing.
"Oh, Mr. Midnight! Tell me what has happened! I have sensed so many things. My mistress called the animal control people with their horrid truck that goes to even more horrid places and processes. They finally came, but when they went to Wilfrid's house, they did not stay very long--though one would not expect their dreadful business to take very long--and then they came here, and berated my mistress for putting in a false alarm! Is Wilfrid not dead, as I feared?
Was he merely in some kind of coma? What is happening, please? Tell me before I go mad."
By now her long nails are raking my topcoat as if I were a mobile scratching post. I step away to save my threads, which she is snagging at an appalling rate. Fine black hairs drift through the afternoon air like soot-worms.
"Dear lady, the situation remains as dire as before. I have merely managed to rescue Wilfrid from an ignoble disposal. I found an oleander bush at the rear that seemed a stately memorial.
Is that sufficient'? Would you like to visit . . . the site?"
"No! Yes! At least l can visit him."
"Exactly," I say, with several consoling chin rubs. "My associate and I were determined that he should not be subjected to a common grave, or worse, a common incineration."
Mewling with distress, she leans on me as I guide her to the greenery in question. No flowers dot the spiny leaves, but by summer the bright pink blossoms should be swaying in the breeze.