Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

proxy, the one precious clue in this case that I have held close to the chest hairs from the beginning.
    Had I not followed my protective instincts in following my Miss Temple to the shopping mall, where she made herself so obnoxious in her brilliant way, I would never have picked up the trace of a killer.
    We are not dogs, but do we not have noses? Do we not lay our own scent of ownership hither and yon? Are we not better equipped than humans for following the trail of murder? Or, as in this case, murders?
    So I had conveyed to Louise as best I could the strange, sickly sweet odor of the puddle outside the mall.
    “You are sure it was not diluted blood?” she had demanded.
    “I know blood in any state, my dear Louise. No, it was the sort of thing humans eat but should not.”
    ‘That is legion. Can you be a tad more specific?”
    “Something cloying, and it was pink.”
    “Everything pink is cloying when it comes to humans.”
    “I hope you except the cat world Swiss Army knife from that judgment, that marvelous instrument of myriad uses, the feline tongue.”
    “Speak for yourself, Romeo. So what is the scent I should search for?"
    “Strawberry.”
    Louise makes a delicate gagging sound, a pre-hairball sortie.
    “Or perhaps cherry or raspberry. I am no connoisseur of fruit flavors. Then again, it could be that dreadful pink bubblegum flavor. Whatever it was, it was tacky enough in both senses of the words to cling to someone’s shoes. I have been tracing it upstairs, downstairs, and everywhere but my lady’s chamber.”
    “So why should I pollute my nose following disgusting Dumpster leavings?”
    “Because I first sniffed it someplace else than here.”
    “Such as?”
    “Such as the parking lot of the mall, where I tailed my Miss Temple when she made her debut as Miss Xoe Chloe by auditioning for this very madness.”
    “Parking lot?” Miss Louise is sounding properly intrigued now.
    “Right. I found it next to a body that was the focus of a lot of police attention, including that of Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina and her new squeeze.”
    “No.”
    Louise is sounding satisfactorily shocked at last. “Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina has a new squeeze? I thought she was beyond such things.”
    “Apparently not, but the point, Louise, is that a poor young girl had been struck dead on the spot. And there was this melting puddle of sticky pink stuff beside her. I have smelled the same stuff on some shoe that has been moving around the place, from the pool area where the mats were sprayed with shaving cream to these supposedly secret passages.”
    “Me-wow!” Louise has sat down in front of me in a dazed condition. I can finally see a bit in the dark and I do not like what I am seeing. “I never dreamed Miss Lieutenant Molina would be a traitor to the cause of female independence.”
    “Maybe he is not her boyfriend. Maybe he is just a new associate. I merely remarked that something more seemed to be going on, but forget it! The point is, whoever killed that girl is here and has killed again. We must follow the putrid pink trail.”
    So I had argued with Miss Louise until she felt her feminine sensibilities were on the line, i.e., anything I can smell she can smell better.
    Passing on a scent, no matter how strong, by proxy, is not easy. But Miss Louise spent several diligent moments vacuuming my whiskers for any remaining traces and pronounced that she had the idea but the methodology of getting it was most repugnant.
    Forensic evidence is often like that, I told her.
    So we have been sniffing our way through the Teen Queen Castle ever since in search of likely candidates. For I had observed at the crime scene that the killer, with the usual insufficient human olfactory equipment, had trod unknowing in the melted ice cream.
    Sickly sweet strawberry scent does not go gently into that dark night. Observe the car freshening products so beloved of patrol car and cab drivers. And most of them strawberry scented.
    Miss Louise is indelicate enough to point out that this could confuse the issue.
    I point out that we are inside a house, and a huge house, not a moving vehicle. (Although I do wish that Miss Louise was inside a moving vehicle at this moment, headed for the Valley of Fire.)
    However, the trained professional does not allow personal druthers to affect his effectiveness in the field.
    “So,” she asks, “what is our total suspect list? Although I report the strange actions of your Miss Temple