``Me?'' Cat asked.
``Uh . . . no . . . not you. It's more like someone's pet. . . . No, that's wrong. . . . I don't know, they keep showing me this calico cat, and there's a connection to Little House on the Prairie. . . .''
``Little House on the Prairie?'' Cat asked.
``Yeah, this calico cat is coming out of that school from Little House on the Prairie . . . remember? The one that Laura Ingalls and her sister Mary went to?''
``Abby, this is so bizarre,'' Cat said.
I snapped my eyes open, frustrated that the clues were 302 Victoria Laurie so all over the place and completely nonsensical. ``Yeah, I know. This is so weird. My antenna doesn't work well when I'm tired, and I think maybe my guides are trying to help me by keeping it simple and just showing me pictures. I know there are some good clues here, but I'm not sure how they fit.''
``Well, maybe one of the killers has a cat and he likes to play basketball,'' Millicent suggested helpfully.
I shrugged my shoulders. ``Yeah, maybe . . .''
``Only one way to find out,'' Cat said, and began walking toward the checkout counter.
``What's she doing?'' Millicent asked.
``I have no idea,'' I said, ``but if I know Cat, it's going to be good.''
Millicent and I watched as my sister strolled around to the side of the desk and tapped one of the harried clerks on the shoulder. She then pulled the clerk aside and whis- pered in his ear. This was followed by emphatic head shak- ing on the part of the clerk, at which point Cat subtly reached into her purse and extracted several folded bills, delicately tucking them into the clerk's palm. After a slight moment of hesitation the clerk moved quickly over to his computer terminal, typed furiously on a few keys, scribbled something quickly down on a piece of paper, and handed it discreetly to Cat.
Moments later she was back by our side, triumphantly waving a small piece of paper.
``What gives?'' I asked.
``Mark Hamilton's hotel room.''
``How is this going to help us?'' I asked.
``Well,'' Cat began patiently, ``what if there's something to what Millicent said and your guides are talking about someone who has a pet cat and who likes to play basket- ball? Mark Hamilton is certainly tall enough. . . .''
``Uh-huh,'' I said skeptically, not liking the direction this was taking.
``So I think we should just go ask him, and if all the clues about cats, basketball, apples, and poker chips fit, then we've found ourselves the killer. And the beauty of it is that he doesn't even have to know we know he did it! We can just thank him for his time and go directly to the police!'' BLIND SIGHTED 303
``Cat, that is the craziest thing you have ever--''
``What are we waiting for?'' Millicent said over me as she sauntered over to Cat and took her by the arm, and the two began trotting in the direction of the elevators.
``Coming, Abby?'' Cat said over her shoulder.
``Oh, for Christ's sake!'' I said, giving her the full eye roll before stomping after them just the same.
Five minutes later Cat was knocking confidently on Mark Hamilton's door, and after a short wait it opened abruptly to a bleary-eyed and much-disheveled man who looked like he'd just been run over by a Mack truck. The three of us recoiled as the smell of vomit filled the hallway from the open door.
``Yeah?'' he asked, swaying a little in the doorway.
``Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton,'' Cat said gamely. ``We're so sorry to disturb you; however, we were wonder- ing if we could ask you a few questions?''
Mark bobbled slightly in the doorway as he tried repeat- edly to focus his bleary, bloodshot eyes. ``Wha?'' he man- aged after a series of rapid blinks.
``Some questions?'' Cat tried again, ``We have a few questions for you?''
``You the police?'' he mumbled. `` 'Cause I've already talked to you guys once today . . .''
Cat laughed politely and waved her hand as if she were shooing a fly. ``Of course not! No, you see, we're actually members of Deirdre Pendleton's fan club, and we're trying to get the monthly newsletter out to our members. We just wanted to do a small blurb about Deirdre's manager . . . you know . . . for the newsletter.''
Mark blinked furiously a few more times, trying to focus on us. As he looked at me I could tell his memory was working to place my face, so I discreetly moved a little farther out of view to the side of the door. ``Where you from again?'' he asked Cat, scratching his head and sighing with the effort it took to concentrate.
``From the Deirdre Pendelton Fan Club, which, as her manager, I'm sure you know all about. We have a lot of members, and the fan base is always growing. So anyway, as I was saying, we'd like to do a story on you, if you
