Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Chapter 51:

Gossip Girls

Chapter 52:

Just Kidnapping

Chapter 53:

Babes to Boots

Chapter 54:

Meeting Mr. Wrong

Chapter 55:

Ex Marks the Spot

Chapter 56:

A Real Pickle

Chapter 57:

Peace of Paper

Chapter 58:

Not So Safe

Chapter 59:

Mincemeat

Chapter 60:

Monkey Business

Chapter 61:

Louie Puts Up a Red Flag

Chapter 62:

Leading Questions

Chapter 63:

Radio Silence

Chapter 64:

Peace in the Valley

Chapter 65:

Come Into My Parlor

Chapter 66:

Farewell, My Lovely

Chapter 67:

Traveling Music

Chapter 68:

Sanctuary

Chapter 69:

Endurance Vile

Chapter 70:

Family Circle

Chapter 71:

Nuptial Nuances

Chapter 72:

Resurrection

Chapter 73:

Au Revoir, Max

Tailpiece:

Midnight Louie Has Issues

Carole Nelson Douglas and Nitpickers

Cat in a

Sapphire Slipper

Midnight Louie’s

Lives and Times . . .

There are lots of fat cats in Las Vegas.

These glitzy media-blitzed streets host almost forty million tourists each year and a ton of camera crews. If lights, action, and camera are not recording background shots for CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, they are taping any of thousands of personal videos. People think they know this town—from film if not firsthand experience—know it from the flashy hotels to the seamy side of the Strip.

And a good number of them know one particular Las Vegas institution.

That would be me.

Every last neon bulb and grain of sand in Greater Las Vegas is my personal territory. Oh, I keep a low profile. You do not hear about me on the nightly news. That is the way I like it. That is the way any primo PI would like it. The name is Louie, Midnight Louie. I like my nightlife shaken, not stirred.

Nowadays, though, I am in an unprecedented position. I am torn between two assignments. Usually I am torn between two Persian showgirls, so this is a new predicament for me.

On the one mitt, I am worried about the once-significant other of my roommate, Miss Temple Barr. Mr. Max Kinsella was last seen performing incognito as a masked magician and hitting the Neon Nightmare nightclub wall at fifty miles an hour on a bungee cord. Not even an ace illusionist could survive an impact like that. He has not been seen since and is presumed dead by all and sundry who might know about his masquerade as the Phantom Mage. That includes only me and my business partner-cum-purported daughter, Miss Midnight Louise.

That this tragedy coincides with my ever-lovin’ roommate going over to the Light Side (our handsome blond neighbor and former priest, Mr. Matt Devine) in her romantic life only adds to the confusion. I believe there is a film of recent vintage called Two Funerals and a Wedding. In my estimation, the current situation is One Funeral and Two Weddings.

Because here I am, Vegas’s most macho gumpad (and, boy, do I step in a lot of that stuff) and I am overhearing talk about nothing but upcoming nuptials.

Well, you will soon have to suffer from all that drippy sentimental stuff yourself. I will console myself by summing up the much more dudely and dastardly events that have happened to me and mine previously.

I am a noir kind of guy, inside and out, the town’s top feline PI.

I am not your usual gumshoe, in that my feet do not wear shoes of any stripe, but shivs. Being short, dark, and handsome . . . really short . . . gets me overlooked and underestimated, which is what the savvy operative wants anyway. I am your perfect undercover guy. I also like to hunker down under the covers with my little doll. My adventures would fill a book, and in fact I have several out. My life is one ongoing TV series in which I as hero extract my hapless human friends from fixes of their own making and literally nail crooks.

That is why my Miss Temple and I are perfect roomies. She tolerates my wandering ways. I make myself useful looking after her without letting her know about it. Call me Muscle in Midnight Black. In our time we have cracked a few cases too tough for the local fuzz of the human persuasion, law enforcement division.

So when I hear that any major new attraction is coming to Las Vegas, I figure that one way or another my lively roommate, the petite and toothsome, will be spike heel–high in the planning and execution. She is, after all, a freelance public relations specialist, and Las Vegas is full of public relations of all stripes and legalities. In this case, though, I did not figure just how personally she would be involved in a bizarre murder far from the madding Strip.

After the recent dramatic turn of events, most of my human associates are pretty shell-shocked. Not even an ace feline PI may be able to solve their various predicaments in the areas of crime and punishment . . . and PR, as in Personal Relationships.

As a serial killer finder in a multivolume mystery series (not to mention an ace mouthpiece), it behooves me to update my readers old and new on past crimes and present tensions.