Cat in an Alphabet Endgame: A Midnight Louie Mystery (The Midnight Louie Mysteries Book 28)

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Matt’s blond head blazed like a candle flame in the dark-of-evening nave of the stained glass-crowned church.

  A Fontana brother, princely in mien…but Temple was suddenly too throbbing with stage fight to identify him specifically, darn it…offered her mother his arm.

  Practical Karen was a vision in a jade-green silk suit topped, for the first and probably last time in her life, by a totally frivolous veiled hat that tilted over her crown of silver-and-red curls, marched down the aisle for real.

  Beside Temple, her father sighed to observe Karen’s dainty erect figure. Temple glanced over to see his own wedding replaying with pride in his eyes.

  Kit pranced solo down the aisle, sizzling as always in an orange organza ballerina-length gown that thumbed its nose at her well-maintained red hair. No envisioned lilac for her, but Totally Kit.

  Little blonde Crescent in yellow organdy frills and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes went last, scattering white rose petals on the red aisle runner.

  And then the full-throated church organ played the song Temple had first heard Matt playing on the little Hammond organ in Electra’s wedding chapel, “Love Minus Zero, No Limit”. And she heard a mother and daughter in the choir loft singing counterpoint, entwining the lyrics from the organ melody in a way that spelled Harmony with a capital H.

  She scanned so many familiar backs and heads in the pews—Electra had brought her soft-sculpture Elvis from her Lovers’ Knot wedding chapel, she noticed. All of them blended through her loving gaze into a soft-focus blur. What terrific friends and relations she and Matt had, Temple thought.

  She smiled at her father, slightly sweating brow and all, and stepped forward into the rest, and the best, of her life.

  26

  The Wedding Party Party

  Well, somebody here must keep his eyes undimmed, his ears unstoppered and his powers of observation unsullied.

  You will notice that there is only one captive observer in this candlelight and silver silk crowd.

  It is not that I expect additional mayhem. No, now that the real wedding ceremony is finally in gear, I am panting in expectation of nauseatingly prolonged versions of what Hollywood has made famous. “After the Main Event parties.”

  For weddings, these are called receptions and will include the wedding party and all the invited guests here in the church. Nicky and Van will surely make the red carpet installed on the church aisle look like an amateur operation when it comes to the “Red Carpet” treatment at their Crystal Phoenix.

  For days, I have been an unwilling confident on all the details of The Dress, The Wedding Procession, The Vows, The Kisses, The Reception, The Going-Away.

  Amazingly, there is not a Coming Back celebration. That is the status I am really interested in.

  So nothing here can surprise me…except a little something I glimpsed among the empty pews as I was carted up to the altar by a Fontana brother in advance of anyone else involved in the main event. No processions for me. Just a crude, caged presence in place, and then left last to be carried out.

  I have sacrificed much of my dignity and free will, not to mention a bathroom break, to stand up for and beside my roommate on her day. I have had to crouch in this silly zebra-striped carrier wearing a white bow tie with a small white box affixed to it by a red ribbon. (I must admit that white and red are my best colors, at least.)

  I hunker down and prepare for unbridled droning. At least the Jackhammer mob wedding crashers offered some fresh “optics” to the rehearsal and commanded a lot of buzz at the rehearsal dinner, to which I was not invited, much to my relief.

  Once Eduardo released me while he did most of the work: opening the ring box and passing up the rings, he lifted me up for photo and filming ops. I held my head extra high for a full view of the white formal bow-tie and so no regrettable double chins should show. I gazed serenely on my subjects. I accepted Miss Temple’s cheek-to-cheek pose with Mr. Matt hovering above.

  I did not break a sweat. This was the matter of a minute or two and earned a bit of applause among the congregation, which Father Hernandez frowned upon.

  At last I am forgotten and returned to my cat cave at Best Man Frank Bucek’s feet, where I hear the vows, etcetera, while thoroughly grooming my face, mitts, chest hairs and everything else I can reach that has been ruffled by the formalities. I am longing for free rein.

  So has the audience, evidently…I mean congregation, I guess. Suddenly, they have been liberated.

  Everyone penned into the pews stands and crowds to the aisle to take pictures. Flashes twinkle in the interior twilight. Most people hold their cell phones at arm’s length, but I recognize some expensive cameras and camcorders. A hired professional photographer darts like a madwoman on the fringes.

  I finally see my Miss Temple’s precious train as she marches out on Mr. Matt’s arm to the organ and a rousing solo by Miss Carmen. Why is it called a “train” rather than a “tail”? That is so misleading. I envisioned something like a clacking chain of those cans one sees tied behind honeymooners’ getaway cars.

  No. This train is a sumptuous graceful plume of gleaming white silk, much like the terminal member of my lost love, the Divine Yvette. I knew my Miss Temple would have been a dainty purebred shaded-silver Persian, had she been fortunate enough to be born a cat.

  I am lost in reminiscence, regret, and admiration. I am so fixated, I notice when Mr. Matt hesitates and whispers to my Miss Temple who looks at a side aisle.

  In that moment, I remember that “some little thing” I spotted in the back pews as I was carried in, that I was not free to investigate…until now.

  A bright flash from that very location has my hackles bristling. The bridal party members at the altar are moving into the aisle to follow the couple, so I lose sight of my erstwhile roommate’s divine new tail anyway. I dig my pitons into crimson carpet and rocket out ahead of the procession. Flashes triple in number as people ooh and aah and laugh and blink at my rushing to the head of the queue. It is a long, long way. I am a rocket cat…

  I dive into a pew, all sixteen shivs and four dew-claw scythes out and into the body crouching there.

  “YEEEOWWW!”

  That is not my battle cry, it is what my prey hollers. Something springs up into full view…and the immediate custody of a deuce of Fontana brothers that appears as if beamed there by the Starship Enterprise just as the wedded couple march up.

  “Crawford Buchanan,” my outraged Miss Temple IDs the lurker. “You crashed my wedding. I knew you were low, but I did not know you were that low.”

  Between two Fontana boys, Crawfish Pukecannon, looks punier than ever, and he is now wearing his graying hair in that trendy Asian topknot you see on men appearing on TV martial arts and celebrity dance TV shows. The ubiquitous man bun! I hope Mr. Matt will not have to affect such a hairdo on his new talk show!

  My hair is always impeccably clean and buzz-cut and timelessly elegant in the manner of black velveteen.

  My Miss Temple’s new Mister glowers down at the guy. “So you are the rival PR guy. I have heard plenty about the dirty tricks you played on my wife. You are leaving here now, quietly, without any recording device on your person.”

  Meanwhile, the organist has amped up the music to cover the conversation. Mr. Matt nods at the brothers and swoops his bride back into a graceful departing pace, everyone following.

  I remain to enjoy the sight of the brothers turning Crawford upside down and shaking until his wallet, cell phone, car keys, nail clipper, mascara wand, allergy inhaler…mascara? Duh. Well, he is noted for his deep radio-deejay voice and long silky Daddy Longlegs eyelashes.

  A third Fontana brother bends to sweep his belongings into a shallow woven collection basket. The three Fontana brothers hustle Buchanan out, discreetly, to the parking lot.

  I am not about to make a scene at my roommate’s wedding—any more, that is—and amble unnoted outside to the church steps.

  I am just in time to weave my way to the f
irst row of assembled ankles and find everyone looking up.

  The wedded couple pause and do likewise to see what I see…two matched white doves spiraling up and up over the gaping crowd.

  Oh, sure, they look graceful and lovely-dovey, all right, but I would not gaze upward without my mouth shut. Birds do manufacture something called “droppings”. I have heard these ceremonial birds are really white carrier pigeons and that makes sense, because they fly away home to shock and awe another day. But pigeons are the most notorious droppers of all.

  Several more white birds of bridal paradise join the first pair, to a concerted aaaah, their fluttering wings producing the sound of paper caught in a fan. Me, I would only drop my jaw in this instance to make a heroic leap at dinner.

  It is not lost on me that this display may be a last good wish from Mr. Max Kinsella.

  As I am musing on the quaint ways of humans when it comes to winning and losing the mating game, I sense a sudden impending doom.

  A fourth Fontana brother out of nowhere bends down from behind to sweep me into the open maw of the zebra-striped carrier.

  So with a parting hiss at the vanished Crawford Buchanan, I gently go into that dark night. I am sure such a prominent member of the wedding as the Ring Bearer will be feted at the Crystal Phoenix reception.

  27

  Lofty Endings

  The church was empty and silent. The choir loft organ was silenced. The organist en route to the reception. Only one person lingered in front of the huge organ, brushing the keys as if debating playing.

  “You can come out now,” the hesitant organist said. The sing-song tone used in kiddie games of Hide and Seek sounded come-hither in Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s rich contralto voice.

  Max swept a red velvet curtain aside as if tossing off a cloak and let it fall back behind him.

  “All in black,” Molina observed. “For a funeral, not a wedding? You look like a cat burglar matador. I’ve been wondering whether you’re the ‘something old’ or ‘something blue’ for our recent bride.”

  “I’m not singing the blues like you do, believe me.”

  “I seldom do believe you.”

  She, meanwhile, finished hiking up her long crimson velvet skirt to pull a compact pistol from her ankle holster, clasped above a forties-style magenta platform sandal.

  Max owed his shoe sense to living with Temple, so he felt like he was eyeing the cover of a dime pulp detective novel, except the gun was a sleek modern Walther.

  The ankle wasn’t bad either, escaping its usual prison of navy or khaki boot-cut slacks.

  Eyebrows could use plucking, according to Temple as well.

  “Your voice on the wedding march was in even better form the second time,” Max said, stepping away from the convenient red velvet curtains bracketing the church organ, now no longer the stage for a feline love-in howl. “You have the alto undercurrent to make that Dylan song rock.”

  He ran a hand over the curve of the organ’s side as he came around it into view. “What a magnificent instrument,” he said. “Phenomenal wood-carving and brass pipes to die for, speaking of your voice as well.”

  “And speaking of your ‘brass’…” She slipped the weapon into her sequined envelop purse from the forties. “Going next to the reception, are we?”

  “You think I should?”

  “It was a shame I was stuck up here in the choir loft when you pulled your bride-napping stunt up at the altar at the fake rehearsal yesterday. Frank Bucek neglected to forewarn me. You almost had me fooled. It flashed through my mind that I should plug you for Matt Devine’s sake. It’s risky to leave the one person always armed out of the loop.”

  “That was a risk,” he admitted. “A last-minute distraction I suggested to Bucek.”

  Max grinned. “The way you rushed the loft railing, braced your hands on it, aimed at me and shouted, ‘This is not happening on my watch’ was so authentic, the attending bad guys fell for my bride-swiping act at once.”

  “Only on TV.” She looked at the deserted scene of decorous ceremony below, a candlelit still life. “I believed you’d do it. Swing down like Tarzan and then swing the bride up and away, Quasimodo whisking Esmeralda the Gypsy girl to the top tower of Notre Dame. You always had that corny movie swashbuckler air.”

  “Thank you.” Max gave a small, mannered European bow.

  “And shouting that you’d recovered your memory, that Temple mustn’t marry Matt. Really Vegas Strip encore quality.”

  “Rather riveting, if I say so myself.”

  “The faux Temple seemed actually stunned, stunned into inaction as you’d planned, as you swooped her away from the oncoming thieves on a hope and a bungee cord. The famous The Graduate movie climax all over again. ‘Climax’, get it?”

  “Sadly, yes. Dustin Hoffman snatching bride Katherine Ross from the altar. They used a bus, though.”

  “Definitely too pedestrian. Too bad Merry Su wasn’t Temple Barr, but I bet you could get a date with Detective Su now. You knew Temple would hear it up here, of course.”

  “I’d promised Temple that if I ever recovered my memory, our memories, I’d tell her at once.”

  “So have you?”

  “Told her anything more or recovered my memories? No. And I was too busy with thugs after getting her safely into your ex-squeeze’s arms off stage. Rafi’s a good man in a pinch. You should be nicer to him.”

  “Don’t distract me.”

  “Distract you?” Max stepped closer. “I never thought of that. You might have a concealed holster elsewhere under that floor-length gown.”

  “And no desire to arrest you now. For what? To ruin so many decent people’s sense of ordinary happiness?”

  She slapped lightly at his shoulder. He was six-four. She was maybe five-ten and now wearing vintage five-inch platform heels to be visible in the choir loft. They were well matched for wrestling. And she was maybe enjoying playing the femme fatale off the nightclub stage for once. For real.

  Max stepped away, suddenly. “If I had anything to report for reasons other than a desperate ruse, it would be for me to tell Temple and only Temple. And I’d be a cad to do that even if I did recover my memories of our relationship. So…that’s for me to know and you to find out, as they say, in whatever way you can use. Lieutenant. Or Carmen.”

  She laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth, remembering the serious vows recently said below.

  “If you don’t want to be the ghost at the real wedding, Mr. Kinsella, I suggest you’ve seen enough, and should leave before somebody lingering from the happy departing wedding party spots you.”

  “Just wanted to recognize your stunning vocal performance.” He looked one last time over the railing, as if to memorize the scene. “The perfect preface to a wedding, a hidden treasure found under the altar. Symbolic somehow.”

  “Could be Fool’s Gold. It will take a while to total how much is there. I don’t know how long. I’m just a humble wedding singer.”

  “It was generous to do that for Temple and Matt. And just think, from what I hear, your enormously talented daughter is growing up and getting ready to sing at your wedding.”

  “Life moves on,” she said, tilting her head.

  He nodded. “We all have to leave our pasts like a train of flowers and tears trailing behind us. Best to gather up the petals and leave the rest behind.”

  And then Max Kinsella was gone, just as she’d opened her mouth to reply, because his words, unintentionally, reminded her she’d never had a wedding of her own, nor ever expected to—

  And the pang of that realization cut deeper than she’d ever dreamed, and she heard the microphone-magnified vows drift up again. I, Temple, take thee, Matthias…. Father Hernandez would use the full formal disciple’s name, Old Latin-mass-saying stick-in-the-mud. Perhaps, sooner than she’d think, she’d be here like this for Mariah.

  And, sadly, it had felt like Molina was losing a welcome thorn in her side, and gaining another daughter as her e
yes became a wavering screen.

  It was a wedding, dammit, and people, even cops, were entitled to get mushy.

  “Mom?”

  Mariah, sweetly attired in a violet dress halfway between teen and Grammy fashion maven, stood at the top of the choir loft stairs. “Rafi’s waiting to drive us home.”

  She would never call him “Dad”, thanks to the past and the limited role her mother had allowed him in their lives.

  Carmen regretted that more than she could say.

  But hey, Mariah accepted him as mentor and friend and the one person she was fiercely afraid to disappoint, and maybe that was even better.

  “We sang well. I think,” Mariah said. “You really knocked the recessional out of the roof.”

  “Thanks, chica.” Carmen put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Wowsa, Mariah was going to be tall like her mother and her undiscovered maternal grandfather, certainly.

  It would be good to look ahead to standing shoulder to shoulder.

  28

  Purple Heart

  The Crystal Phoenix had prepared a sparkling, extravagant reception area where everyone awaited the bride and groom. Temple held her breath at the sight. Matt’s parents, all three, her parents. Her four brothers, wearing suits, could she believe? With kids in tow. Van and Nicky, her perfect bosses. And Tony Valentine and assistant Danielle. All the Circle Ritz residents and Electra. Carmen Molina, now wearing a snazzy black outfit with Mariah and Rafi. Letitia and Dave from WCOO. My gosh, Courtney!

  Courtney dipped at the knees to embrace Temple. “I’m so proud I was able to help you be so beautiful. Perhaps we could have a copy of the formal portrait for the shop?”