The dimness behind the dark tinted windows soothed unsettled nerves and Ernesto did more to achieve that by getting to work again as mixologist at the glittering bar. Temple leaned back in the channeled red leather upholstery and sighed deeply.
Ernesto smiled. “For the sophisticated lady recovering from a wearing interrogation, I recommend the Daiquiri, a drink created to soothe the vintage soul.” He handed Temple a delicate, footed cocktail glass.
“For the dyspeptic, displeased gentleman, I suggest a Peppermint Schnapps.”
“I’ve got reason to be dyspeptic,” the usually affable Matt snapped, accepting the Schnapps.
Temple hid her amused expression behind a sip of the Daiquiri, fearing it was far too ladylike to soothe the savage soul of a dishonest hussy like her.
“Ernesto,” she asked, “how did Electra’s husband die? I hope it wasn’t by gunshot, because Electra brought one in her purse to the Araby Motel. I’m afraid the ladies of the night saw it.”
The limo slipped smoothly into motion with Julio at the wheel, but the emotions inside decidedly did not match the ride.
Matt turned into Molina and started interrogating Temple. “You went out in the dead of night with Electra to a notorious local motel and didn’t tell me? Makes me wonder what else you didn’t tell me.”
“It was Electra’s secret, and her ex-husband. She couldn’t sleep not knowing if he was selling his interest in the land adjacent to hers.”
“Excuse me,” Ernesto said, “your discussion should be private. The police are not giving out details of the killing because they are rather bizarre.” He had their rapt attention. “However, there is not a detail, no matter how closely guarded, that a Fontana brother somewhere will not find out some part of it. Between us and the color-coordinated cat lying on the black carpeting—”
“Louie’s here?” Temple interrupted, inspecting the pooling dark at her feet.
One slitted green eye opened near the door.
Nodding, Ernesto went on. “The late Mr. Dyson was not killed at the Araby Motel that night, as one would think, which is good for Miss Electra. He was found dead the next morning, in that old building near the Circle Ritz he owned, or perhaps had just sold, which I’m afraid is not good for Miss E.”
“How…truly strange,” Temple said.
“No matter how he died,” Matt said, “the fact is you and Electra put yourselves in the middle of a murder case by running off like hotheaded teenagers to an unsavory place at an unsafe time. Who’d you think you were? Max Kinsella and his cousin Sean?”
“Matt, that’s not fair!”
“It’s a pretty fair summary of the situation.”
“Piano, Piano,” Ernesto urged, fanning his fingers in a quieting gesture. He then excused himself to ride with the driver and left them to it.
“And this took a nighttime visit?” Matt asked as the limo proceeded after a pause.
“Electra needed to know what Jay had really done. We’d seen the people who were planning on putting in a strip club just down the street—”
“Must have been a classy crew.”
“Hardly. And the exterior of the Lovers’ Knot chapel had been vandalized—”
“Even worse if there were vandals about. How did you get to the Araby Motel?”
“Electra drove.”
“The Elvis edition Beetle I won and gave her?”
“No, she’d never risk that. Her old white Probe.”
“But she’d risk herself. And you.”
“She was the only person who could make her ex tell her the truth, and make him feel guilty enough about it to spoil any deal he had going. With, perhaps, mob elements.”
Matt threw back some peppermint schnapps and nearly choked. Schnapps was potent stuff. “How’d Electra even find out about this fishy deal?”
“Bits here and there. Diane, Jay’s most recent ex-wife, warned Electra Jay was in her neighborhood.
Temple went on. “When the Circle Ritz had the Incident of the Cat in the Night-time—you may recognize that the animal in question was a dog, not a cat, in the Sherlock Holmes story, but Midnight Louie gives it a whole new twist—when that intruder showed up in my bedroom, I thought maybe Stalker Kathleen was still around. Electra said, maybe not, and then showed me the defaced front of the chapel. Vandals had already been attacking the building. I can’t see Kitty the Cutter wasting her venom on architectural details when there are live people around to harass.”
Matt nodded, ruefully. “The only inanimate object Kathleen O’Connor had it in for was stealing your one shoe of the pair you planned to wear to my mother’s wedding in the chapel, and Kathleen actually gave that back to you.”
“Yeah. Dangled it off my balcony. So,” Temple said. “I wondered who would attack the building. Electra surprised me with a tour of some of her other properties surrounding the Circle Ritz. I then wondered if the vandalism was more general.”
“Was it?”
“No. Her tenants are having a hard time, though, being mom-and-pop businesses post-Great Recession. At the end of our walkabout, we found the empty building down the block that Electra doesn’t own was looking ready for revamping into a raunchy strip club.”
“Is there any other kind than raunchy?” Matt asked.
“Uh, there are traditional strip clubs and nowadays there are nudie bars,” she told him gingerly. “You would not believe what they are like.”
Temple hated to disillusion Matt about how low Las Vegas could go, but she could tell her last comment had given him pause. He had a funny look on his face, and it couldn’t all be the peppermint Schnapps.
She pushed her advantage. “You can see that would devastate Electra’s livelihood at the wedding chapel, not to mention the quality of future Circle Ritz tenants and possible condo investors. We may leave, you know, but she’ll always be there.”
“Yeah.” Matt was looking even sicker. “I see you were trying to help her out. How did you know where the old rogue—what’s-his-name—was holing up?”
“Ex-wife Diane again. She kept tabs on him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going. I know you’d never sneak around investigating stuff without telling me, but this came up, and Electra’s livelihood was at stake, and I owe her. And…I was afraid she’d go alone. At least I can alibi her now for that time.”
Matt nodded slowly. “You probably don’t know this. I wouldn’t want to upset you, but the Araby Motel is one of the places I looked for Cliff Effinger when I first came to Vegas. I hate thinking of you visiting such a scuzzy dive.”
“Oh. Yeah, that joint so totally has ‘Cliff Effinger’ written all over it. No wonder it gave me the creeps. The hookers were nice, though.”
“Temple!”
“Sisterly solidarity overcomes all lifestyle biases.” She drained the Daiquiri as the limo oozed to a stop so smooth and slow it felt like slipping into a bath of warm molasses.
She put Matt’s empty glass back in the bar, then laid a penitential hand over his. “I know you’d never go out somewhere scuzzy alone at night without telling me, Matt. Not now. Not now that Kathleen’s not around to blackmail you into secret rendezvous with her poisonous self. Oh, maybe back in the day when you were hunting Effinger too, but that’s over now.” She tried a smile.
Matt looked embarrassed and something else Temple couldn’t name before he swept her into an encompassing hug. “You are much too good for me, Temple Barr,” he said.
“Not really, but I’m working on it.” She grinned. “I’m sorry I left you out of the loop. I just had a relapse of Nancy Drew-itis and was so curious to see what Electra’s ex was like. She can’t have murdered him, not morally or physically. Anything we can do to help clear up that mess, we should do.”
“Amen.” Matt nodded to the unseen chauffeur and his sibling behind the dark-tinted privacy window. “And those guys up front are just the dudes to help out.”
“So Vanilla—as in Fontana brothers’ ice-cream suits—is the New Bla
ck. And…the Fontana brothers are New Max?”
Matt nodded slowly. “Never thought of it that way, but probably.”
“Well, I happen to know that Julio is on Lieutenant Molina’s cell phone speed dial.”
“We might need an inside man at the Circle Ritz,” Matt said, exiting the dim, cavernous cabin for the sizzling sunshine in the building’s parking lot outside.
Temple blinked as she was caught between the cool dark inside the limo and glaring daylight. The wink of Louie’s single eye gleamed like an emerald ear stud on the inky-black floor carpeting. Apparently, he was riding shotgun for the Fontanas now.
23
Just Hanging Around
As the saying goes, “A cat may look at a queen”.
I get a bit confused by that. A pedigreed lady-cat who is breeding stock is called “a queen”. And then there are England’s Elizabeth the First and Elizabeth the Second, queens of England. And though one was and one was not breeding stock, they are called queens too.
I mention this to Miss Midnight Louise when I drop by the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino to look her up.
I had slipped back into the Gangsters limo when we passengers were unloaded at the Circle Ritz. The lovebirds were distracted by “discussing” Miss Temple’s Unsanctioned Midnight Adventure. When I followed Ernesto into the driver’s compartment, he and Julio just shrugged at my presence. They know me well from my Crystal Phoenix days of old and have learned to accept that my druthers are the equal of theirs.
“We would not want to continue in the middle of that lovers’ spat either, Louie,” Julio said, chuckling.
And there I am back on my chauffeured way to the Crystal Phoenix and Miss Midnight Louise, as planned. I was unofficial house detective there before she showed up—from who-knows-what no-name littering and dismal alley—so I have no trouble locating her office in the lavish indoor flowering greenery surrounding the Crystal Court eatery.
I am thankful Louise scorned my old outdoor stand beside the hotel pool’s canna lily and koi pond for office use. I can visit it to commune with my old pals, the koi, and see if they require any services, like population control, I might be happy to provide.
“What,” Miss Midnight Louise inquires, “has bestirred you to make the long hike from the Circle Ritz to here?”
“Hike, hah! I was chauffeured here, but I am seeking a companion for a long hike back to the Circle Ritz.”
“You are as out of luck as any empty-pocket gambler, Daddy-o. Why should I wear out pad leather on your impulsive say-so. An elderly screen queen traveling with a pair of afghan hounds has just checked in, and I must ensure her high-strung canines do not disturb the other guests.”
This is when I bring up the queen/queen conundrum.
“Well, that is off-topic to both our jobs. The definitions of ‘queen’ have nothing to do with our firm, Midnight Investigations, Inc.”
“I beg to differ. I am keeping in mind that whereas crime scene tape prevents all curious humans from crossing invisible thresholds, we as a species have a particular free pass.”
“I have responsibilities. I cannot go gadding about just because you have found some Crime Scene tape to violate.”
“Ah, well. I suppose I will have to clear Miss Electra Lark of murder by myself. I work better alone anyway.”
I have already turned away, and would have been out of hearing range, except that I have spotted a bit of Shrimp Diablo a guest has dropped on the floor. Such culinary carelessness is not tolerated at the Crystal Phoenix, and would not be allowed to lie undealt with for a second during my administration.
While I am tsking over this sad state of affairs, Louise catches up to me, snags the tidbit with one front shiv and pops it into her mouth. “What do you mean ‘clear’ Miss Electra. I was not aware that she was cloudy.”
“What? I cannot understand you when you talk with your mouth full. And Miss Electra is indeed under a cloud, a cloud of suspicion. Of murder.”
“Ridiculous,” she comments. I am not sure to what precisely she is referring. Usually it is me. “Of course we must observe the crime scene, but we need not walk. I just saw a Fontana brother passing… There is sure to be another around.”
She bounds off, expertly threading through milling tourist feet and ducking behind hotel floral displays and luggage carts until we near the main entrance. There we slip out on a trolley, hidden behind piles of leather-scented luggage ripe for a thorough and joint shiv sharpening. I even leave my initials on one. Customizing indicates the finest brands.
We go public at the curb, where Miss Louise blatantly sits at the valet’s desk, curling her long black train around her dainty front feet. Normally, I prefer to come and go undercover, but now am forced to join her. Luckily, people are concentrating on wrestling tips and baggage and we go unnoticed.
When a low black sports car pulls up, Louise trots across to the closed passenger door. “Come, Louie,” she calls me (like a dog). I follow with a feline slink in time to see a Fontana brother unpretzel his long, pale-attired legs and stand. It is the Crystal Phoenix Hotel boss man himself, Mr. Nicky Fontana.
Miss Midnight Louise looks up at him, and blinks her round gold eyes. I back her up with an unblinking green stare.
“What is this?” Mr. Nicky asks.
The driver comes around and turns out to be Mr. Julio Fontana. My Miss Temple seems to have some difficulty telling the ten suave brothers apart, but it is no problem for me and Louise. Every human has a different scent, including traces of recent meals. Umm. Sea bass in a white wine and herbed butter sauce. I could do without the white wine, but it is nice to see adult litter-brothers socialize—whether in Ma Barker’s clowder by the police substation or on two legs along the Strip.
“Louie and Louise,” Julio says. “Seeing them making the scene together would sure get Carmen Molina’s hackles up. Have you had a recent murder at the hotel?” He chuckles.
“None, thank God,” Mr. Nicky says.
“Are you sure?”
Mr. Nicky is looking a little worried, but not too worried to jibe his brother. “And…’Carmen’ Molina, huh? She does not give out that first name for public consumption, bro. Is the Iron Maiden of the Vegas police force moving from Mexican to Italian cuisine?”
“Not drastically, but she is definitely weary of black cats cluttering up her crime scenes. Why are these two together? The big guy usually hangs at the Circle Ritz.”
“And our dainty house cat does not leave the premises.”
(Little does he know.)
We listen to the brotherly byplay and keep mum. We are the strong, silent types.
Unlike dogs, we do not have to yip, gurgle, scratch, whine or paw to make our druthers known. We just stare straight at them until the people figure it out. Maybe it is some secret power known only to Bast, but if we wait long enough, and stare long enough, we will get what we need or want.
“You know,” Julio says, nervously jiggling his car keys. “Maybe I better get Midnight Louie back to the Circle Ritz.”
Midnight Louise finally stirs. She nestles her shoulder against mine—ugh, and blinks her short black lashes.
“She wants to go with?” Julio asks his brother. “I thought she was fixed.”
“Sure is, so no harm done. Just make sure you bring her back after the visit.”
“So I am chauffeuring a cat? Crazier things have happened in Vegas.”
“And stayed in Vegas,” Mr. Nicky adds. “I wonder what got into these two? They nailed a pickpocket at the hotel recently, so we better let them do what they seem to want.”
Louise and I have minded our manners and ridden on the Tesla Roadster’s black floor carpeting, not the leather seats, in case a claw should snag. When released in the Circle Ritz parking lot, we scamper for the surrounding oleander bushes, leaving Julio scratching his head as Miss Electra, happening to exit her own car, jumps as if she had just seen a ghost. (The electric-powered Tesla arrives as silently as a stalking lion and te
nds to startle people, which the Fontana brothers appear to enjoy doing.)
Among the oleanders, Ma Barker awaits us with a voice as sharp as her claws.
“About time,” she growls. “I have stationed all the shades and patterns of brown and gray from the clowder around the building in question. That’s the best camouflage color inside and out, and the police seem to have it in for us black cats lately.”
“So no Black Cat Ninja Brigade?” I ask. Browns and grays are, well, pedestrian.
“This is a dead scene,” Ma answers. “The crime has been committed and the forensic team has recorded and dusted and scanned the place from asphalt to attic. As you suggested, Louie, people have come lurking around. Perhaps word of suspicion falling on your clowder leader at the Circle Ritz has disturbed her charges.”
(I should point out here that Ma Barker is feral to her fingernails and not attuned to human social structures. Since she is the female leader of the pack, she considers Miss Electra Lark as an equal, and considers Miss Electra’s human residents as both Miss Electra’s underlings and responsibility.
That is not much different from my position inside the Circle Ritz, or indeed, any of our breed’s. We all have underlings and thus responsibilities.)
Louise and I hustle around to the other side of the Circle Ritz, strolling by the half-occupied shopfronts to the huge abandoned building where Jay Edgar’s body was found. The police are keeping the COD top secret. That means Cause of Death, not Cash On Delivery. Although, it could have been a hired hit, who knows?
Even now Ma is pacing toward the banned building, strutting under the yellow crime scene tape like she was queen. It is a cakewalk for us to survey and sniff the perimeter, then slink inside through a sloppily boarded-up back door.
“Hmm,” Ma pauses to note, wiggling her skimpy black whiskers. “A rodent-rich environment. I see why people find this a desirable property.”
Louise and I exchange head rolls. Ma is a product of her times. She even thinks the cages of the Trap, Neuter, Return groups are alien UFOs landing to abduct our kind and her gang to some distant planet. She will complain about not seeing a clowder member for a day or so. Then sniffing alcohol on him or her (or should I say, the new “It” cat?)—after said abductee returns dazed and unsteady, she will accuse the poor soul of cozying up to a human out on a binge.
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