Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (48 page)

“
Mice," Miss Louise dismisses them. "That is what
we are dealing with, not a murderer."

“A murderer is still in this house. We could, in fact, be tailing him now.”

This snaps her to literal attention.

“Rafi Nadir has the scent on his shoes?"

“Yes, but he could have picked it up out by the pool.
The hot sun had melted what traces of it I found that
day, so anyone could have accidentally stepped in it.

Except myself, of course. I have been certain to keep
my toes well out of it.”

Louise's tail is hitting the wood planking like a woodpecker's beak, hard and fast. That betrays her thinking.
"So. This substance is a sure link to another murder
scene ... and to the mischief here, but like rabies it
has spread to innocent carriers. Still, we might learn something by tracing every one who has spread it."

“Exactly."

“I admit that this Rafi Nadir has been showing up at
every recent murder or crime scene for some weeks
now."

“Agreed, yet I hate to suspect him. He treats my Miss Temple right, in his way."

“So he could not possibly be a killer," she concludes
sarcastically. "Perhaps he is stalking your precious
Miss Temple."

“I do not think so but I have detected the sticky substance on some others who might be."

“Such as—?"

“Do not forget the cameraman who tried to kick me when I first arrived."

“
Right. I was not here then. I missed that. Pity.”

“And Ken Adair, the Hair Guy."

“
That could merely be some stinky hair gel that got
on his shoe."

“
True. Most of these girls would put recycled bub
blegum on their locks if a beauty consultant told them
t
o."

“Any other suspects?”

I hesitate.

“Spit it out, just not literally?'

“Miss Sulah Savage, aka Miss Temple's aunt from
Manhattan, whom I bunked with at Christmastime,
Miss Kit Carlson."

“
Whew! I did not guess the relationship. This place is
a snarl of hidden relationships as well as secret tun
nels. Miss Sulah Savage has been most generous to
me with tidbits at mealtime. She could have innocently
walked through a bit of it herself.”

We hear a crack of something opening or shutting
far down the corridor of darkness.

“
Quick!" Miss Midnight Louise is all tracker now. "I do
not want to lose Mr. Rafi.”

We take off and there is a double echo of pad
thumping wood behind us that only I hear, because I
am listening for it.

We hit a hidden flight of stairs and go streaking
down it too fast to stop. More dark hallway. Our whiskers ease us through, warning us before we slam our
pusses into solid wall.

A far sliver of light tells us where Mr. Rafi Nadir has
gone.

We race to that point, pause, and then Louise sticks
her nose into the light. (She is very good at sticking her
nose where it does not belong.) It widens to whisker
width. The light comes from a lit lamp. In its intense cir
cle, we spot Mr. Rafi bending over a desk and chair. I
notice some fresh four-tracks on his upper arms, but
he is too busy to pay much attention to a few wounds.

I realize where we are: on the wrong side of the
crime scene tape, and so is he.

This does not seem to bother him as he moves around the room, examining this and that.

“
This is Miss Marjory Klein's office," Louise hisses in
my ear.

I flatten my offended appendage. Her hisses are
sharper than a biker's switchblade.

We push against the wall as Mr. Rafi comes back
into the passage, shuts the door disguised as a wall on
the other side, and moves farther along it.

Last I had heard of the pursuing Persian girls was
some muffled thumps on the surprise staircase and
some choice curses in Farsi.

Amazing how one reverts to one's roots in times of
stress, even natural blondes like the Divine Yvette.

Yet I dare not rush to her assistance and give away
that we are not alone.

Rafi is sure giving the place the once-over. We follow
him left and follow him right, and then follow him right
into another office.

This is Ms. Beth Marble's office, and once again we
are all on the wrong side of the crime scene tape.

Miss Louise is the first nose through the hidden
door, of course, and she reports to me in short little
pants.

“
He is examining her drawers.”

In other situations, this would not be rated family
fare, but since Miss Beth Marble's mortal remains are
long gone, I am sure that everything is above board.

Besides, it is clear to me that Mr. Rafi is tracing the
passage's access to the crime scenes. Certainly it is
clear how a body might be transported from Mr. Dexter
Manship's office to this one without being observed.

In fact, I turn us around and, using my instinctive fe
line radar, lead Louise to a site that Mr. Rafi has not
discovered yet.

There I instruct her to jump up at a certain spot until
the apparent wall turns into a door.

I sit back on my haunches and enjoy the exercise,
since it is not mine. Eventually she hits the sweet spot
that opens the concealed entrance.

No light this time, as no one bearing a flashlight is in
our party, but I bound inside, whisker my way to the
desk, and leap up to punch the lamp's switch.

Light blinds me for a few seconds, but, sure enough, I am inside Mr. Dexter Manship's office. No doubt cam-
eras are recording my presence. I recall too late the
strange snipping noise that preceded Mr. Rafi into the
offices he visited. He had cut the camera cords, which
were no doubt placed too high for me to reach anyway.

Ah, well. I am very telegenic and will be dismissed
as harmless vermin, as usual.

Miss Louise has skittered in at floor level and is sniff
ing deeply under the desk.

“
Mr. Manship is indeed another bubblegum shoe
suspect," she confirms my previous conclusion with
satisfaction. "A pity everybody tiptoed through the exer
cise mats during the shaving cream graffiti episode.
We need the film of that time to check who got close
enough to infect their shoes."

“
Yes, yes. Proof is fine, but right now I need sus
pects. Ours is not to make the case, ours is to point out
the possibilities."

“How? We are hardly legitimate consultants."

“About your own suspected origins you may speak
for yourself, Louise. I know my sire and dam.”

“Braggart!”

I inhale deeply the atrocious tutti-frutti scent de
posited under Mr. Dexter Manship's desk. It is particu
larly strong and there are even a few stringy remnants
of the source. Let us hope his shoes are so endowed tomorrow, during the Teen Queen finals.

I have an urge to unmask a murderer, and cannot
think of a more deserving candidate.

Miss Louise carps about our worthless expedition on
our way back to the mirrored door.

I make no defense, and not only let her precede me
back into Miss Savannah Ashleigh's domain, but show
her the hall door with all due courtesy.

“
I am going to inspect Miss Savannah's shoes," I tell
her. "No sense being sexist and omitting a female sus
pect. You may want to do the same with Miss Sulah
Savage's closet. After all, she does use a pseudonym.”

Off the little chit goes, dreaming of Manolos, as in
Blahniks.

Personally, I do not think Miss Kit indulges in status symbols as blatant as Blahniks. So I wait by the mirror,
checking the state of my best bib and tucker and licking
it into submission.

On the room's king-size bed, Miss Savannah Ash
leigh snores softly, no doubt the result of a Beverly
Hills nose bob.

In a few moments, the unlatched door pushes open
and girls silver and golden slide through. They are
looking a bit mussed about the muzzle and decidedly annoyed.

“Louie!" Miss Yvette is in fine fettle, good mettle, and superb Ma Kettle mode. "You led us on zee wild goose chase. And affair we had done zee hokey-pokey on the intruder's epidermis.”

(When stressed, the Divine Yvette resorts to B-
movie French.)

“Poor fellow," I say. "But I gathered lots of good intelligence."

“
Somezing new
pour vous,
I tink.”

Yvette is really, really mad. She is starting to sound
like a voyageur. Wrong continent, wrong period.

“Those stairs were very sudden," her sister Solange rebukes.

And I am duly chastised. "But you both have the im
peccable French nose for strong cheeses and rank
fruit. Did you trace the raspberry/strawberry scent
through the tunnels?"

“
And banana," Solange adds.

“
Banana?" I think she is making a value judgment.
But
non.
I mean, no.

“
There was a distinct undertone of banana. I ought
to know. Our mistress uses a banana-scented sun screen.”

Banana! Of course!

The scent that leads from the mall to here is not that
of a mere ice cream treat; it is that of a healthful fruit
smoothie!

Now I have nailed the full spectrum of ingredients
that will lead to a murderer. Brought down by a high-
protein health-food shake.

Somehow it is poetic justice.

I would boast of my breakthrough, but the Divine
Yvette has lofted onto Miss Savannah Ashleigh's bed
and wrapped herself around her percussive head.

Not only dogs are devoted.

Solange sees me to the door. "Was it something I
said, Louie?”

I allow her to polish my sides with her softest, foxi
est furs.

“
Exactly. What a rare and subtle nose." (The French
love these kind of compliments.) "Brilliant! Now I must
prepare for the takedown tomorrow.”

She wafts her fulsome plume under my own nose. "I
am sorry Yvette is being such a pill. Perhaps you will
come to tell me the outcome.”