Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

rather than helps a project. I’m Miss Public Relations. Trust me on this.”
    “So someone’s trying to ruin the show.” Mariah nodded. “Could be.”
    “Or it’s an elaborate setup.”
    “Or it’s a real sicko.”
    “Those are the options.”
    “Do you think my mom will get involved in this?”
    “Like a Kevlar vest on a SWAT team.”
    “Oh... shoot. She’ll ruin everything. Can’t she ever just let me do anything by myself?”
    “Hey! She okayed this whole deal, despite your never telling her in advance, but it’s going way beyond any of us being Teen or ‘Tween Queens. It’s starting to look like Junior Miss Fear Factor.”
    “If we solve this thing, we can get this show back on the road.”
    “To me, that is not a good thing, Mariah.”
    “Oh, no. You’re cool. You’ve got a real shot at this.”
    “You think so?”
    “Absolutely. Nobody here needs a do-over more than you.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I mean, it’s brilliant. You are just awesomely wrong. I wish I coulda had that much to start with.”



Great Big Beautiful Doll

    It seems the Divine Yvette has taken it into her pretty little head that since the little doll named Silver found the big doll named Balloon, a shaded silver Persian is likely to be the next victim of random spattering.
    “She is very superstitious,” sister Solange explains to me in the hall when I am denied access to the suite accorded to Miss Savannah Ashleigh and dependents. “She will not leave her carrier or take food. Other than caviar and sirloin tips, of course, which our mistress must hand-feed to her.”
    I would like to see Miss Savannah down on her knees doling out the tidbits to the pink canvas carrier, for the Divine Yvette when in a mood is as likely to snap as to snarf.
    However, I am out in the hall with her shaded golden sister, and Midnight Louie is not one to overlook an opportunity of any color or stripe.
    “Since we are clearly not needed during the present crisis, we can take a stroll on the grounds and perhaps figure something out.”
    ‘The grounds?”
    “Yeah. Out by the pool. All the freak show people are huddling in the den trying to think up security ploys. It seems the producers threw a hissy fit at the idea of bringing the police in. Might close the show down. Luckily, my Miss Temple is already in place.”
    “She is? Where?”
    I feel a rush of pride for my little doll and her success at the undercover arts. The stunning Solange did meet her when we were all in the Big Apple last Christmas auditioning for the big come-on of an À La Cat contract. Unfortunately, murder-most-Noel put the whole commercial deal on the back burner.
    Also, an unwanted delicate condition sidelined the Divine Yvette’s performing career for a few months, causing the sponsor to invoke the morals clause in her contract. Miss Savannah Ashleigh in turn leveled a wrongful paternity suit at moi. It is no wonder the Divine One is a bit high-strung. We all came out of that incident worse for wear but at least Miss Temple went to The People’s Court to prove me innocent as a lamb. Still, I do my best to avoid the instep-arching spikes of Miss Savannah’s footwear, as she would still like to nail me for daring to befriend Yvette.
    “Where?” Solange interrupts my reverie, reminding me that past embarrassments should not upstage the presence of a lovely and unescorted lady with jade-green eyes.
    “I am not at liberty to say but am glad to know that she is safely disguised. This looks to be a rough crowd.”
    “Oh, it is.” Solange amiably follows me down the hall to the back areas of the mansion. “These girls all have such long claws, and they chitter and coo every time they see Yvette or me and try to pick us up and pet us. All that nasty hand and cuticle cream lotion on our freshly powdered coats.” She shudders delicately. “Our mistress can be distressingly dense at times, but she always wears cotton gloves when handling us.”
    This strikes me as more than somewhat fastidious. “My Miss Temple does like to run her nails and fingers through my hair, but she is always gentle and I believe that her natural oils add sheen and polish to my coat.” We have by now eeled through the kitchen door, aided by our collaborative doorwoman, the cook, who has taken quite a fancy to Solange.
    “My mistress has no natural oils but she has rows and rows of unnatural ones she applies to various portions,” Solange reveals as we step into the shadow of the