Cat In An Aqua Storm

I am not surprised to find that the Kitty City dressing rooms are less nicely appointed than others of my experience. Nor do I advertise my presence. I arrive in the late morning, the better to establish myself in a snooping spot before the first wave of lovelies hits in time for the lunchtime show. The deserted dressing room is barer than Mother Hubbard's cupboard and equipped with rows of mirrors that could betray my position of concealment, could I find one.

So I boldly leap atop one long countertop and inspect the place, not even pausing to admire my handsome reflections in the facing mirrors. The bruised Formica bears the residue of many long nights and a merry-go-round of dolls coming and going, most of it not visible to the naked eye. However, it is cat’s play to my naked nose.

Amid the bouquet of scents—body makeup, cheap perfumes, and (ugh!) coconut oil—I detect a faint odor of almonds. There is not the bitter overtone to the scent that would indicate poison, but it is an unusual smell that I have encountered twice before in the dressing rooms of the Goliath Hotel. Common scent is not what the riddle-solving investigator needs. Still, one of the three sources of this particular perfume is... none other than the Divine Yvette. I see a yet-unplumbed link between the murder at the Goliath, the stripper's competition, and Kitty City.

Girlish voices echo in the unadorned hall. While I debate playing musical cubicles in the adjoining rest room, the sound of oncoming footsteps forces me to dash for the only cover: an open metal locker currently occupied by a teal nylon gym bag. I dive into a tangle of jungle-print G-strings, feeling right at home with all those spots and stripes, and tunnel under the bag’s limp folds. There is a lot of me to hide and not much bag. I freeze, sensing the arrival of intruders not two feet away.

"God.” One contralto voice replays a classic line. “What a dump.”

“What’s this?” trills a soprano.

I can do nothing but shut my eyes as I await discovery and its traumatic consequences. At the least I will get kicked out. At the worst, I might be carried off on another visit to another veterinary clinic, which are no more than legalized shooting galleries with hypos, in my opinion.

“Can’t anybody even shut a damn locker door?” this high-pitched voice asks.