Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

and Miss Lieutenant Molina’s Mariah in the dietitian’s office, I could detect no more cloying scent upon them than one usually encounters paging through certain fashion magazines. Strawberry is far too bourgeois for such venues.”
    Huh? Normally I am in command of French, for It is one of those languages that you are in command of or it is in command of you, but I am a little lost here.
    So, when in doubt, hold forth. I pace back and forth on a floor so clean there is not any odor other than Pine-Sol to distract me.
    “I have detected suspiciously sweet odors on the footwear of a cameraman who tried to kick me in the pool area.”
    “You have a pool area? I am impressed, Pops. Is it a front bay or a back bay pool area?”
    “Most unamusing, Louise. You are right that I am ill-disposed to a kicker, but unfortunately the gorilla in question has no other counts against him than slinking through the technical corridors, and that is his job.”
    “I have traced a sickly sweet odor to the tacky Pay-less loafers so appropriate to the person of Crawford Buchanan,” she says. “I would so like him to be a murderer. Say it is possibly so.”
    “It is. He is what humans call a ‘lech,’ which means he likes to chase young girls. Molesters are in big disfavor nowadays. Perhaps the murdered woman was trying to interfere in his pursuit. They could have destroyed his reputation just as he was trying to make the leap to TV media.”
    “Ah.” Louise digests that idea happily. Like my Miss Temple, she cannot stand Crawford Buchanan.
    “Sickly sweet odor?” she offers. “Did you ever check his cologne? Me-eeeuw. ”
    “Agreed. A guy knows these things. He uses Old Lice, I believe, which I understand is good for repelling Mosquitoes as well as females. It could be possible he spilled some, from the amount he slaps on each morning, and stepped in it.”
    “Speaking of sickly sweet in the face of sickly sour, Dexter Manship’s suede Bass shoes have that odor about them. I fear it is that illegal weed people are so fond of smoking.”
    “Close but no cigar. I must confess, with regret, that my most recent Elvis visitation—”
    Here she snorts her disbelief with a vehemence that would get her arrested were she not an innocent-looking feline.
    “You and Elvis! That is a delusional mutual admiration society. As I recall, he was a dog and horse man. And I would not expect his ghost to be any different.” ‘That is just it, Louise. Not every Elvis apparition is the real thing.”
    “Not every! Like any one of them could be!”
    “Your Mr. Matt had his suspicions.”
    “Elvis might look up Mr. Matt. I might look up Mr. Matt if I were returning for my tenth life. Neither of us would look you up.”
    What is a guy to say to such a blanket dismissal? A few choice expletives cross my mind but I am ever the gentleman. Especially on Candid Camera.
    “So,” I sum up. “We have three suspects, so far. I think tomorrow we shall have to arrange to trip them all up. Literally. And soon.”



A Hasty Hand

    Temple hadn’t really been able to sleep.
    She’d set the bedside clock radio but it was like clock radios in hotels: so many hands had been on it that it was unlikely its current reading was correct.
    Luckily, Mariah was out cold. Temple felt a twinge of guilt after she turned off the possibly unreliable alarm and unplugged the unit just to be safe.
    Better Mariah should miss breakfast and her first consultation of the day than that she should be involved in a confrontation with a killer.
    Actually, Temple only needed to confirm where the suspect was, then dash to the entry area and await the arrival of jolly old Detective Alch. He could do the takedown and Molina would be seething with... gratitude?
    Well she should be, Temple thought. The clear and Present danger would be over. Mariah would be safe, along with everybody else, and still an innocent contestant with a chance of winning.
    Xoe Chloe, alas, the incorrigible roommate now revealed as an overage fraud, would be outed and kicked out of the Teen Queen Castle. Fair exchange: Temple cherished no delusions of ever becoming a teen queen, back then or here and now. She’d been lucky to go to her high school prom, even with a dorky date, much less be crowned queen of it. Or anything.

    There is something strangely unreal about thinking you’ve discovered a murderer. It gives you a sense of invulnerability, oddly enough. After all, you know what’s what when