“Maylords needs the publicity,” Kenny insisted.
Temple turned on both of them. “At the expense of pushing off that tragic news story? I don’t think so.”
Both groaned, only Kenny’s was more of a moan.
“Okay.” Temple’s sigh blew the curls off her forehead. When she was good, she was very good. And when she was bad, she was with Max, or had been. “Who came in and said your appearance was scratched?”
“One of the page boys.”
Temple checked her watch, then eyed Pritchard and Maylord. “Weren’t you supposed to announce a twenty—
thousanddollar donation to the local arts group?”
“Yeah,” Kenny said. “From Maylords. Ms. Wong was going to present it.”
“Okay. I suggest you make the donation to the Nevada chapter of MADD instead.”
“MADD? That has nothing to do with interior design.”
“It has a lot to do with interior sympathies in Las Vegas at the moment. If you can do that, I might be able to get you and
Ms. Wong on-camera for a minute or two.”
“But the details of the store opening-”
“The contribution of Ms. Wong to national culture-”
“Are not the act to follow this. Do you have children? Mr. Maylord? Ms. Merriweather?”
Pritchard shook her lacquered jet black bob, but Kenny Maylord nodded.
“How old are they?”
“Six and four,” he said.
“Add ten years and imagine how you’d feel if they’d just died in a car crash caused by a drunk driver. Not a time to mention cocktail opening receptions for anything! Just get on, let Ms. Wong and Mr. Maylord be introduced. Offer your sympathies to the families and community, and make your donation. Okay?”
Two dazed heads nodded. They followed in Temple’s wake as she skittered faster than a water bug along the slick concrete floor, hunting Lacey Davenport.
Everything went down according to her improvised plan. A briefed Amelia Wong was the soul of gracious sympathy and Kenny Maylord’s balding dome only shone with modest sweat under the brutally bright TV lights. The producer had been more than willing to squeeze in the squeezed-out guests if they became instant donors.
Temple watched from the curtained wings, Lacey at her side.
The Maylords opening was mentioned. Once. Ms. Wong’s expertise was bowed to. The astounded president of MADD accepted a fake check in lieu of the real one, thanking them both so very, very much.
“We’ll flash a card on the Maylords opening time and place at the end of the hour’s final news segment and throughout the day’s programming,” Lacey said. “What was the money really going to go for?”
“The arts fund and a feng shui makeover by Ms. Wong of a local Montessori school.”
“Not bad PR,” Lacey conceded, “but this was even better, more newsy and immediate. I hope your clients appreciate you saving the day for feng shui folk everywhere.”
“I know the twenty-thousand-dollar check will do some real good. And that has got to be better feng shui for the Maylords opening tonight.”
Chapter 5
Another Opening,
Another Shui
Miss Midnight Louise and myself sit side by side, our noses pressed to the glass.
This is not an uncommon position for our species.
It is, however, an uncommon occupation for us, who are seldom so at ease with one another. And what has caused this unprecedented truce? We are witnessing a sight that I, at least, view with considerably mixed emotions.
Observe: my neighbor at the Circle Ritz apartment building, Mr. Matt Devine, is sitting on a sofa of vibrant hue. He is looking right at home, although he is dressed up in a caramel-colored linen blazer over a cream-colored silk shirt. With his blond head-fur, he looks like the cat’s meow, if that cat were a shaded golden Persian like my acquaintance Solange.
It is not Mr. Matt Devine and his unusual state of nattiness that disturb me.
It is the lady sitting right beside him on that highly colored sofa.
‘This looks bad,” I mutter into my whiskers. Actually, it is more of a growl.
“Lighten up,” Louise instructs me. Being female from head to tail, she is very good at instructions. “What is bad? Who is that strange
lady with Mr. Matt?”
I am not about to tell her she has put her kittenish mitt right on the heart of the problem.
She goes on building her case. “I have not seen her around and about the Circle Ritz or the Crystal Phoenix Hotel or any of the usual hangouts that your personal humans patronize.”
“I do not know who she is either,” I admit.
What she is I can tell without a program. She is a New Lady in Mr. Matt’s life.
While my roomie, Miss Temple Barr, has maintained a long-term relationship with Mr. Max Kinsella, there is no doubt that she would
not cotton to Mr. Matt getting so cozy with a strange female. And humans talk about “dogs in the manger”! They are way up on canines in this regard, if you ask me.
But no one does, and I would not answer anyway.
Of course I do not see why my Miss Temple cannot cozy up with both Mr. Kinsella and Mr. Devine, a la the feline species. Often the
same litter will share serial fathers, hence the endlessly innovative colorings of my kind. But, no, humans insist on degrees of separation that are way more strict than the rest of the animal kingdom adheres to, which in human relations causes everything from hissy fits to homicide.
“Mr. Matt looks splendid in a cream coat,” Miss Louise remarks a bit dreamily for a fixed female. “If only he did not have those creepy
brown eyes.” She shudders delicately. “They always remind me of dogs.”
It is true that a cat the color of his clothes would sport green or gold or even blue eyes, but humans cannot help sharing an eye color
with dogs. So I tell Miss Louise, who shrugs and begins the favorite female pastime of all species, picking apart another lady. I do not forget that Miss Louise lived briefly with Mr. Matt when she first hit town and probably has a secret crush on him, like all the other females in town, despite her feline distaste for his eye color.
Big brown doggy eyes do have a certain appeal to the nondiscriminating.
“She is a lot bigger than your Miss Temple,” Louise notes.
“Miss Temple is exquisitely petite, like the Divine Yvette.”
“That feather-headed Persian!” Louise spits. “You always did go for those shallow showgirls. The lady sitting with Mr. Matt looks
solid. Good breeding stock, but brains too. At first glance I took her for Miss Lt. C. R. Molina, but I see now that she is a different sort altogether.”
While we are speculating, someone walks into the picture beyond the glass we peer through.
It is Miss Temple Barr herself, all dressed up in the sparkly silver ’60s knit suit she had tried on for my approval earlier and my
signature pumps of solid Austrian crystal stones, with my suave black profile glittering subtly on the heels!
“Ooooh!” Louise transfers her weight from mitt to mitt in anticipation. “I predict a cat fight of major dimensions.”
I admit that my neck tenses. This will not be pretty.
But Miss Temple merely stops before them and chats. Everybody smiles. The strange lady nods at Miss Temple while Mr. Matt
introduces her. I wish I could hear what they are saying! It is like watching the opening scene of a film without a sound track.
There is more odd about this scene that the nauseating cordiality of all concerned. The sofa Mr. Matt and his new lady friend perch
upon is not the red suede vintage number my Miss Temple found for his apartment at the Circle Ritz. It is not a free-form Vladimir Kagan design from the ’50s that would make a great museum piece. It is a vivid orange leather that simply cries out for an elegant noir kind of dude like me to stretch out on it … and knead my front shivs into its soft, hide-scented surface. Ummmm.