Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

air-conditioning on a desert world. At least there is no icky orange scent here to banish the odor of decay. Yet.

    There are four ways upstairs: the front stairs, which resemble those at the Paris Opera House for marble-paved elegance, and the back stairs, which are plain unvarnished wood, steep and twisty, and intended for servants, or at least mothers-in-law. Then there is the elevator, which is way too small for me to easily blend in with the human passengers, and the silent butler in the kitchen, a capacious box open on one side, which operates at the push of a button and has shadowy recesses. Think of it as a large litter box set sideways and in upward and downward motion. Or a mini-elevator for domestics. Or domestic cats. I do.
    I press the button with my strong right mitt and hop aboard. Soon, it wafts upward. I press toward the back of the box, like a lizard in a mailbox (a common phenomenon in this climate). When the mechanism stops, I peek out, find the upper hall empty, and thump down to the floor.
    More wood.
    In an hour, I have made a quick tour of about thirty-five bedroom-with-bath suites. This place is built like a bed-and-breakfast for Attila the Hun and accompanying Mongol horde.
    Only once during my tour did anything untoward happen.
    It was in bedroom number fourteen, I think. I was nosing around the perimeter when I noticed some unopened high-end luggage in the room, all in pink high-denier and all bearing the cursive initials S. A.
    Of course, I naturally think of South America and wonder if Charo is in residence, speaking of T and A, or about to be. But then, as I backed away to the wall when I realized the room could be occupied at any time, I rear-ended my way into an impediment.
    A somewhat wishy-washy impediment but an impediment nevertheless.
    I whirl to face It and find myself confronting another pervasive pink canvas bag, except this one has a familiar look. And there is a familiar name emblazoned on it. Yvette.
    My heart stops and does a double-axel somewhere two feet above the floor.
    I inhale the rich, perfumed scent of the Divine Yvette. She is not here at the moment but she has been, and will be again.
    What a lucky break! I can protect my Miss Temple from fire, flood, and overexposure on national television and still pursue my courtship of Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s pampered Persian siren at one and the same time.
    I tiptoe out of the divine chamber, branding its location on my brain. Now to lay low until all the players are in place and I can be about my quiet and stealthy work... and, as it happens, play.



Pretty Putrid in Pink

    Despite the bravado of Temple’s Rollerblading arrival at the Teen Queen Castle, she had hit the moment that made her quail: orientation.
    This was like joining a sorority in public. Not only was Xoe Chloe not sorority material in any reality, but Temple herself was known by several of the show’s officials. Was her pre-makeover makeover good enough to fool them?
    Max had always said brazen was the best disguise. She was about to find out.
    The contestants assembled in the large and impressive library, good enough to serve as a set for the mystery board game Clue.
    There, the organizers informed them that they were twenty-eight of the most promising young ladies ever assembled and would be working with the celebrity judges and coaches to bring out their true potential.
    Temple wasn’t sure if this was an all-girl version of The People’s Court or an NFL draft. In addition, Hollywood’s most hailed hair and makeup artists, personal trainers and wardrobe consultants would oversee their transformation into fully gorgeous, empowered young women.
    There was Ken Adair, the Hair Guy, and Kathy Farrell, the mousy makeup specialist in army green knit stirrup pants and a shapeless nightshirt top. Avis Campion, the physical trainer was an awesomely buff black woman with the take-no-prisoners air of a drill sergeant. Marjory Klein, the dietitian, was the oldest advisor, a spare, unadorned woman in her fifties dressed in the cheerful animal-figured loose pants and top favored by nurses nowadays.
    And, finally, Beth Marble announced, the winner, besides snaring a small role on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Las Vegas—Temple figured it would be a closeup as a corpse—would also win a date with one of two male singing heartthrobs: Aiden Rourke of Day-Glo for the sixteen- to nineteen-year-old Teen Queen winner, and Zach French of Boys Ahoy for the thirteen-