Miss Temple will have my hide if her fiancé is found in a compromising position in this house of the rising libido.
Meanwhile, it is all one big chicken ranch party up here. The Fontana bridesmaids are oohing and aahing at the settings and accoutrements of the cathouse trade.
I finally am spotted, of course, but they are all so wrapped up in French ticklers and the like than I am taken for the house cat, Satin. People are just not very observant when it comes to presumed domestic slaves like us. This blind spot is very useful to the undercover investigator.
I am just glad Miss Midnight Louise is not in on this gig. I know she would take the strongest exception to the harmless fun the girls are having as two very different worlds of feminine wiles cross trails momentarily.
“No offense, ladies,” says one girlfriend. “The boys were not supposed to come here. They were going to be driven to an Elvis impersonation, with a teenage-bride Priscilla popping out of a cake. Lots of rock ‘n’ roll music and that one tame peekaboo bit.”
The residents hoot it up. “Really? You are kidding! Well, we will take the night off, since you have paid for it, and you have the run of our facilities,” says Gigi. (I have a photographic sniffer and can match each hooker with her perfume from the roll call in the parlor.)
Another now tipsy bridesmaid confides to a girl in blue, “I know the bride-to-be did not want her fiance kicking up his heels or anything else interesting tonight, but the groomsmen are fair game.”
“Pretty game, I think,” Angela says, “from their expressions and certain other signs.”
“They are all single!” a bridesmaid says, pouting. “Why should they not have fun at a bachelor party? As long as it is with us, their loyal girlfriends.”
“You really hope to get them to commit after tonight?”
“Who thought Aldo would ever get married? Now he is all grins and domesticity. If one can fall, so can the others.”
Not this “other.”
Midnight Louie does not get ’napped, trapped, and whapped with a wedding ring. Never. No way. If the formerly freedom-loving Fontanas want to be sucker-bait, fine. It is nice to see Satin again, and know she is off the streets and safe, but I am not throwing my ruff in the ring for her paw in perpetuity.
The plan for the evening seems pretty clear at this point. The bound-but-not-gagged—and certainly at this point not terribly resisting—Fontana boys are going to have a prenuptial honeymoon in whatever setting their particular girlfriend chooses.
Macho Mario is going to be kept prisoner in the parlor, surrounded by a bevy of beauties who have no interest in catering to his needs or druthers, along with the madam, with whom he seems to have a nodding, but not intimate acquaintance.
Satin and I will have lots of time to catch up on old times.
And Mr. Nicky and Mr. Matt will continue to hide out, as emerging now would be rather embarrassing.
One good thing: given the amount of champagne being consumed by the bridesmaids, I am guessing that the festivities will end in a snoozer long before daylight blinks its eyes open over the desert and shows us all where the heck we are.
I follow the giggling bridesmaids down the stairs for another round of boyfriend teasing before they herd them upstairs for more serious business.
Humans! Cannot live with them, cannot live without them.
Unfortunately.
Dead Spot
Matt heard the commotion in the hall and had hardly dared breathe since, despite being in the place’s best-kept secret room.
The unmistakable sounds of girly celebration were confusing. Apparently the . . . er, pros workforce wasn’t at all threatened by the amateur takeover. Maybe they were all in on it.
His immediate problem was worse than whatever fix the Fontana brothers were in downstairs. God! To be caught lurking in a peephole in a brothel like a perv or a juvenile delinquent.
It was beyond contemplating. He’d have to risk being spotted to find a literal closet to hide out in until he figured out what was going on. He set the spy window to see-through mode. The room looked unoccupied and the last high heels were clattering down the staircase.
It was now or never.
Matt edged through the concealed door, remembering to shut it quietly.
There must be a regular closet somewhere in this place. Certainly a linen closet, he thought with a wince. That would be the safest place until he figured out what was happening.
He moved as stealthily as possible over the bedroom floor, glancing back at the door to make sure no traces of his stay remained.
Then he forgot everything. Safety. Secrecy.
A woman lay on the bed that had been vacant. A half-clothed young, beautiful woman.
He couldn’t think. Maybe she was . . . only a prop. One of those blow-up dolls he’d first learned about only a month ago. This place was a fantasyland of forbidden sex.
He couldn’t just leave her without making sure.
Retracing his steps, he saw with every one that she was real; a young, beautiful, dead woman. She wore a corset missing the cups for her breasts and a garter belt with the silver garters loose and glittering. She was naked enough that he’d hesitate to approach her, but the black stocking wrapped tight around her neck assured the dead part. Or near dead.
There was spittle on those ripe red lips, and her staring eyes were bloodshot.
He put his fingertips to her neck, searching for any spasm in her carotid artery.
Her skin was soft and . . . warm. Like living flesh.
CPR was worth a try. He depressed her breastbone in rhythm until the bed bounded obscenely under her. Then he pinched her nostrils shut and blew into those parted lips, hard. Again and again. The Kiss of Life was not gentle.
“Jesus Christ, Matt! What are you doing with that woman?”
He turned to find Nicky Fontana in the doorway. “You got free? Help me! She’s still warm. She could be revived.”
“Yeah. But—” Nicky came over, swift but quiet, taking in the scene. “Good God, what happened here?”
He pressed the side of her neck, frowning.
Matt took another breather. “I don’t know.”
“Give it up. No pulse. You don’t know?”
Matt was breathless, and now Nicky’s diagnosis had taken his breath away again. It took a few moments for him to straighten up, to look dispassionately down on her as unrevivable, to give up the ghost.
He finally said, “There’s a secret room behind the mirrored wall. A peephole room. I ducked in there to hide, and when the hubbub outside died down, thought I needed a better hiding place. I only saw her when I turned to give the room a onceover before I left.”
Nicky glanced at the mirrored wall, then nodded. “You were in there, and saw nothing?”
“There’s a switch that closes the view window, like some kind of internal blind. I shut it. I didn’t know if anyone could see me with the window operational.”
“Probably not. The whole kick is not being seen.”
“It seemed like the perfect hiding place.”
“It was. Someone felt free to commit murder, never suspecting there was a witness.”
“A possible witness. I was totally in the dark. What are we going to do?”
Nicky washed his face with his dry hands, thinking. “You figure out what’s going on here?”
“The abduction, the laughing women, this? No.”
“I was in the linen closet, under a hell of a lot of scented sheets. I was also a lot closer to the hallway action. I’m getting that this whole thing is a prank. My brothers’ girlfriends decided to crash the bachelor party and railroad them here for some semi-serious ribbing about them not following Aldo into the bonds of holy matrimony. Instead we get unholy murder. Damn! It’s a bitch that you didn’t have some normal curiosity or self-preservation and keep the viewing window open.”
“I don’t know how these things work. I figure if I can see, someone can see me. Maybe it’s magical thinking
, but I’m not used to places like this and figure the less I know about them, the better.”
“Not in this case.”
“If the kidnappers are only a bunch of annoyed girlfriends, we just have to tell them what happened and that the lark is off and we need to call the police.”
Nicky was pacing now, not caring if anyone downstairs heard him.
“Not exactly, pal. What police? Where are we? Who has jurisdiction? And you’ve just found a dead woman in a bordello. She’s been killed in a way that screams ‘sex crime.’ You are a semi-celebrity in this town, a radio personality. An ex-priest. Someone might hear the whole scenario and think that you flipped out and went psycho-religious at being exposed to the sleazy side of Vegas.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not. Plus, we have Uncle Macho Mario bound downstairs. He was a major mob figure in his salad days. Sure, he’s only minced parsley today, but some cops, and some robbers, would really like to see him brought down.
“And then there’s me.”
“You? You have nothing to do with it.”
“I, like you, got away from the girl kidnapping ring. I hid out up here. Alone. Like you. I have a good rep as a businessman in this community, but my name is Fontana. The police always like to hassle a Fontana. We have no alibis, Matt. We call the police, the least we get is humiliation and suspicion and rotten publicity. The worst we get is a murder rap.”
Matt got it. The whole picture. Not blacked out at all.
“Molina—”
“Yeah, she’d probably give us the benefit of the doubt, but the weirdness of us all being here, and now, this murder . . . front page, instant online podcast, paparazzi up the wazoo, no wedding, no reputations, no way out.”
Matt felt his head spinning and it was champagne-free. “What’ll we do?”
“You have my cell phone.”
“I’ve tried using it. We’re out of range.”
“It can be rough out in the desert where these chicken ranches operate.”
“Chicken ranches?”
“An old term. Legal Nevada brothels are way more sophisticated now. Have Web pages. Sell certified once-worn thong panties. Give me my cell phone. We need to ditch the murder scene. I’ll see if I can find a spot where the signal will work.”
Matt did as Nicky said, following him into the empty hall. The other man had his cell phone on and was watching the small screen as they walked.
“This area is a dead spot. If we can find an outside wall—”
Nicky led Matt to a closed door that opened into shelves heaped with pillows and bed linens and lots of strange toiletry items. He ducked inside, up against the back wall, and hit the cell phone buttons again.
“Got a signal. One bar. Here goes nothing.” Nicky squeezed himself against the wall, and then walked his back down it, watching the cell phone screen all the time.
He listened intently. “Van? Van, baby? Can you hear me?” He pushed down until he was sitting on the floor. “Can you hear me now? Great. I’ve barely got a signal. Now listen hard and fast. It’s a matter of life and death and it’s all up to you now.”
Rescue Party
“It’s Nicky,” Van said, giggling. “I guess he just can’t stand being away from me for even one night.”
Temple smiled indulgently.
They were all smiling indulgently. They were all rosy-nosey high. Tipsy. Happy. Girly.
Kit took advantage of the interruption to rise and refill all their champagne glasses. As her left hand hesitated over the Lalique crystal flutes her ring sparkled like the light blazing out from the top of the Luxor pyramid, a light that could be seen in outer space.
“I bet those Fontana boys are getting rowdy,” Electra said. “That many brothers have got to be a handful.”
“I have four older brothers, and they are,” Temple said. “Total teases. It’s nice to be on my own here and not be overprotected and underrespected.”
“The Fontana boys are all darling with you,” Kit said. “Like the world’s sexiest big brothers.”
“I would never,” Temple said with the kind of slow solemnity several ounces of champagne produces, “flirt with a Fontana brother. We have a special relationship. They respect me, and I respect them. You will be marrying into all those brothers, Kit.”
“I can use some brothers-in-law, especially if they treat me the way they do you.”
“They’re pretty . . . nice,” Temple said. “I don’t know why some lucky girls never got their claws into them . . . I mean, converted them to matrimony.”
“Overrated,” said Electra, the much-married, and divorced, woman. She was frowning at Van. “That girl is getting sober. Fast.”
“Van’s always so dignified,” Temple said. “It’s nice to see her loosen up.”
“Van’s never as white as a Halloween sheet,” Electra said, her fingers patting the air to quiet Temple and Kit. “Something’s going on.”
Van was making writing motions with her right hand and looking way not tipsy. Or happy.
“The Sapphire Slipper. I’ve heard of it, but—”
Kit ravaged a distant desk for pen and paper. Temple pulled a two-inch-thick Vanity Fair magazine off the coffee table to offer it as a writing surface. In a few seconds, Van was jotting down frantic phrases.
They were all listening hard now, memorizing the words Van repeated as she made huge, sloppy, slanting notes.
“Isolated. Iffy cell phone. Temple. Take the . . . Rover. Kidnapped! By whom? Murder?”
While Temple and Kit stared at each other in utter shock, Electra disappeared.
“Nicky,” Van was shouting. “I’m losing you! The connection. Nicky!!!”
Cool, cool Van von Rhine was shaking when she reluctantly snapped the cell phone shut. Her hands were smoothing her mussed French twist.
“Nicky swears it will soon all be under control,” she said, “but he says we have to get out there ASAP.”
“We?” Temple asked. “Not the police?”
“He says the bachelor party—him, Aldo, their brothers, Uncle Mario, and Matt—” Van glanced sympathetically at Temple. “They’ve all been kidnapped. Even Midnight Louie is there!”
“My cat? Who’d kidnap a cat?”
“He must have been along for the ride. They were hijacked to a different location than the expected bachelor party in town. This . . . notorious brothel in the desert. Somebody look up the address—”
Electra bustled in. “I’ve got the coffee on and found the telephone book. Just give me a minute. Van, you need to get online and get a map to this Sapphire Slipper place. They’re sure to have a Web site.”
“Of course. Online.” She stood up. “Nicky said—”
“What did he say?” Temple demanded, jumping up.
“He said they need you out there to solve a murder. They need a cool head and an outside eye. He said that Matt discovered the body, and Nicky discovered Matt with the body, and they’re the most likely suspects. We get a jump on the police, or they . . . jump on them. It was a prank. Just a prank. The bridesmaids went berserk. It was supposed to have been funny. Now maybe one of them is dead. Murdered.”
“Who can drive?” Kit asked.
“Me,” said Electra. “I was planning on ‘cycling home, so went light on the champagne. Plus, I’ve got the extra poundage to metabolize it. Sometimes fat girls do have less fun. Van, you get the map and order the Rover from the valet captain. If cell phones don’t work out there—”
“There’s a satellite phone in the Rover,” Van said, racing for her home office and the computer.
Temple sat down. Everybody seemed to have it together.
All anyone needed from her was on-scene detective work.
All?
Matt? A suspect. Matt at the Sapphire Slipper brothel? Oh, my. Oh, Matt.
She was starting to shake like Van had at first. Nicky vulnerable, too.
Something soft intruded on her crazed, anxious mental soliloquy.
/> Midnight Louise was rubbing against her calf, looking up through serious, round, gold eyes.
And Midnight Louie out there too!
Midnight Louise spoke. One meow. Loud and strong.
“We’ll get them all out of it in the twitch of a cat’s whisker,” Temple said, stroking the little cat.
She didn’t believe one word of what she said.
Hitchhikers
Sorry, Miss Temple, I do not need a pat on the head, I need wheels and some armed and dangerous backup.
The women are still a bit shocked and shaky despite their brave talk, but it is no surprise at all to me that a midnight phone call reveals that the old man is ruff deep in a hotbed of shady women, dangerous men, and murder most sleazy.
I am surprised, though, that Mr. Matt Devine, who provided my first temporary shelter after I showed up as a stray at the Crystal Phoenix, would be in any danger of a murder rap.
No way, Bombay! That is not going to happen with Midnight Louise around.
I let the women-behind-the-men on the hot seat out in the desert run around and mount what passes for a rescue party.
I take careful note of their urgent shouts and consultations.
My sharp ears (both in their external appearance and aural effectiveness) twitch this way and that to take it all in. This Sapphire Slipper is tucked away on the backside of any reasonable distance, but where there is a will, there is a way.
“Won’t we need, uh, weapons?” Miss Kit Carlson asks, sounding as fierce as her frontier gunslinger namesake.
“No. Nicky said not.” Miss Van von Rhine is her sharp, efficient self again, her hair slicked down and smoothed for a rumble. “The brothers were traveling fully loaded, and the mock-kidnapping has turned into a hysterical hen party, he says. The boys will soon be in charge again.”
“When were they ever not?” Miss Temple Barr asks.
Miss Van von Rhine lifts an almost-invisible eyebrow. These pale human show cats have barely any vibrissae over their eyes, unlike my lush black spidery lashes.
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