Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

than one brush with the mantic arts.”
    “Your current case is hardly in that direction.”
    “No. It is a silly-sounding affair. These human kits are quite playful, you know, and the females are overpampered. In fact, our kind has become the mascot of their blooming femininity. Have you heard of the Hello Kitty and Pinkie’s Palace phenomenon? Everything pink and frothy and marabou and glittery for girls from three-to-thirteen is decorated with the more beauteous of the feline species.”
    “Crass commercialization. We are the superior species. We are not clowns.”
    I do not know about that. I have encountered some pretty big clowns in every species.
    We are in the room where the green globe on top of the fifties television cabinet shines like a cat’s eye at midnight.
    Karma sits down again, tucks her fluffy train around her feet like a thirties torch singer, closes her eyes, and begins to croon.
    “Very bad, Louie. I sense danger for all of the ‘little dolls’ under your protection, and now they are legion. Well, at least thirty or so. I see blood. I see many evil intentions. I see boiling oil. And that is just the normal course of events when so many competitive females are assembled together.
    “I see... oh, my! You will be subjected to much of the health food that you so unwisely deplore. I see weight loss.”
    “No! I need my fighting strength.”
    “Not yours, alas. I see... hidden ways and motive: and means.”
    “Like what?”
    The blue eyes slit open. “That is for me to know and you to find out.”
    So, fine. I do not like the sound of blood and boiling oil, but at least they are forthright, unlike Karma.
    “You are warned,” she intones in her most inscrutable whine. “You will encounter three divine emissaries of Bast herself and an old ghost. You will find the way of the dog your most useful weapon. Your efforts will get no credit.”
    So what is new? I offer Karma a polite bow in farewell, taking care not to back into anything damaging to my undercarriage as I make my retreat.
    As with all seeresses, Karma is best understood in retrospect.
    Still, I have a few things to bear in mind. Particularly the boiling oil and the dog part.



Separate Lies: The Sequel

    Little Red Riding Hood put on her visiting duds, picked up a basket, and walked through the woods to grandmother’s house, only a big bad wolf was waiting for her.
    That night, after failing to sleep, Temple put on her best red Dorothy shoes, low-heeled slides with rhinestoned vamps across the toes, packed a basket full of adult goodies like a French loaf of jalapeño-cheese bread, a bottle of Chianti, and cinnamon-scented massage oil, among other delicacies. She then got into her red Miata to drive to Max’s house, where a recently distracted wolf was not expecting her.
    She couldn’t explain her post-midnight raid on Max’s place, except that she wasn’t happy with their recent interactions, or lack of same. It was time to face the music and dance, like the song said. Or not. Either way, she’d know what the future held.
    The horse knew the way, although that was from another fairy tale, the one where grandmothers’ houses still lurked down rural lanes.
    The Miata’s hundred-some horses took her to Max’s neighborhood, all the houses decently dark. It was just past eleven P.M.
    She parked three doors away and watched her back as she approached the familiar front door.
    What she would do if he wasn’t home, she didn’t know. She also wasn’t sure he would be home. Max was up to something he wasn’t telling her about. She hoped it was something she could live with if she found out what.
    No huntsmen seemed to be lurking in the vicinity, a good sign.
    She rang the bell. Boldly. How else can you ring a doorbell at eleven P.M.?
    When the door swung open, Granny was nowhere in sight. Just Max in his usual black, looking surprised, then pleased, then... worried.
    “Temple.” He immediately grasped the purpose of the basket. “On a mission of mercy. To me. I could use it. Come in.”
    “I’m not disturbing you—?”
    “Oh, you are, but in the nicest of ways.”
    He led her into the living room where a talk show she seldom stayed up long enough to see dominated a wide plasma TV screen.
    “That’s new.” She pointed to the screen.
    “This is newer.” He dredged the blue velvet oneshouldered maillot swimming suit from her basket. It was 50 percent spandex and looked just big enough for a Barbie doll. “You