“So Shoofly is likely to go to prison for quite a while?”
“As soon as they figure out what gender he or she is.”
Miss Midnight Louise licks her vibrissae with the tip of her dainty red tongue and considers.
“So they have the pseudonymous Gherken for murder one, and Shoofly and Asiah as accessories. Will the showgirl get big time?”
“Maybe not, but Ralph is through with her, although he was pretty upset about the trouble she got herself into. She did it for kicks really, not knowing something was up.”
“Not even when a woman was murdered?”
“Maybe then. She changed into pants when she came into the bordello for good, Gherken was lurking and smart enough to grab her discarded hose from the trunk for the murder weapon. Then she kept her mouth shut, not knowing how they’d turned up around Madonnah’s neck.”
“Is not one pair of fishnet hose like another?”
“Apparently not. Asiah’s were from Frederick’s of Hollywood, and they had a lurid little label on the back rear seam. They were the trashy, real thing. The other girls, including Madonna, had more fashionable seamless fishnet hose.”
“So the only one of the bachelor party to take a loss is Ralph?”
“Yeah, but a dame gone bad is worse than no dame at all. You hear anything on this end about how he and your other proteges here at the Crystal Phoenix are taking the girlfriends’ prank turned deadly?”
Miss Midnight Louise looks around, as if the fish have ears. “I know, Louie, that the male of the species does not like to listen to the idle speculation called gossip—”
“In this case,” I say quickly, “I will be idle.”
She rises to look around again, then bends my ear, quite literally, with a cupped paw.
“Wedding plans proceed apace, but the Fontana brothers are still mightily annoyed with their abducting girlfriends. The rumor is that they all have been fired as bridesmaids.”
“No! But who will they find to escort to the wedding on such short notice?”
“You think Giuseppe, Rico, Ernesto, Julio, Armando, Emilio, Eduardo, and Ralph cannot find alternate dates on the spin of a dime?”
“No, but there is the matter of the bridesmaids’ gowns. They are already altered to fit a bevy of lithe beauties.”
“Do not worry, Louie. Miss Van von Rhine and Miss Temple Barr would not permit Miss Kit Carlson’s nuptial moment to be tarnished by the actions of a flock of jealous and impulsive girlfriends, one of whom is currently in custody.”
“Of course not. So who will replace the eight bridesmaids?”
Miss Midnight manages to look both smug and coy.
“Let us just say that ‘something blue’ for the wedding is a set of eight garters and their wearers, out from Beatty way.”
I gasp. Yes. Literally. Like a fish, like the oh-mouthed koi crowding to the pond’s edge to mock me with their piscine kisses.
Midnight Louise goes on. “Miss Kit Carlson will wear the ninth garter as an honorary badge of courage for having her bridegroom held in durance vile at the Sapphire Slipper.”
I nod. There is a certain satin-smooth justice in the solution to the wedding party problem, for, of course, bridesmaids behaving badly must not be rewarded.
Family Circle
Temple and Kit clasped hands before leaving the Circle Ritz for their dinner date at the Crystal Phoenix.
“My mom is going to flake out,” Temple said.
“My sister is going to go ballistic.”
They took a deep, simultaneous breath.
“Do you think,” Temple asked, “it’s all right to have the guys waiting in the wings?”
“We can always cancel the introductions in case things look too . . . dreadful.”
“Leave them waiting in the bar all evening, deny them dinner, and then brush them off at the last moment?”
“That would be rather tacky,” Kit agreed. “But better tacky than homicide victims.”
“My parents would never overreact so badly.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, maybe so. So you think we’re better off not wearing our rings?”
“Absolutely not. Karen would spot them instantly. We want to ease the Old Folks at Home into the current realities, not give them strokes.”
“She’s your sister. Almost your age.”
“I’m almost her age,” Kit said icily, “were I about to give such privileged information out hither and yon. I’m sorry, Temple, but you do not look like a hither or a yon to me.” Kit thought for a moment. “They probably don’t even have sex anymore.”
“Kit! These are my parents. I don’t want to think about such things, the lack or presence of them. Please!”
“Why not? That’s all they’re going to think about us. About you deflowering that nice ex-priest and me succumbing in the vulnerability of my ‘certain age’ to a sleek Italian gigolo.”
Temple paused to think. “Actually, those scenarios sound rather hot to me.”
“Me too,” Kit said with a giggle. “Wanta trade? Just kidding, kid! Only a good sense of humor is going to see us through tonight. Why do my sister and her husband seem like parents, even to me?”
“Because that’s all they’ve ever been to me. Parents.” Temple swung Kit’s hand. “I feel naked without my ring.”
“Me too, but we must not feel naked in front of your parents. Parents sense that kind of vulnerability and exploit it like cardsharps. We are independent women of the world and no one tells us who to sleep with.”
“Right. My latest bed partner has been a big black cat.”
“Do not go there. Parents will immediately think bestiality. Trust me.”
“Come on! How bad can it be, Kit?”
“Worse than we can imagine. Look. We arrive. We chitchat, we idly mention our significant others. . . . ”
“Nothing ‘idly’ about that for me. They’re sure to think I’m still being hoodwinked by that rat, Max.”
“Are you?”
“Only when I stop to think about it.”
“Oh, Temple,” Kit said, squeezing her hand. “I’m sure he would never have left you if he’d had a choice.”
“You mean dead or alive?”
“I mean dead or alive. But you’d never leave Matt standing forever in the wings, waiting for an interrogation by your parents, would you? They can be soooo Midwestern.”
“So can we. Sometimes. Let’s go do it. Maybe we can make them feel guilty for a change.”
“Excellent plan. We are women of the world.”
“We live in Manhattan and Vegas. They live in the Grain Belt.”
“We drink martinis and absinthe, they drink—”
“Absinthe?” Temple asked. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“It was banned, but one or two brands are now allowed on sale, and I also do smoke the occasional cigar.”
“No!”
“That’s very hot in Manhattan. Cigar bars. A girl has to adapt.”
“Let’s adapt our way into the worst shock and awesome disapproval Karen and Roger Barr can deliver.”
“Right.” Kit linked arms with Temple in a Yellow Brick Road sort of way. “Off we go.”
Of course, Nicky and Van had seen to it that the Barr party had the best table in the house, overlooking the Strip shooting due north far below on a shimmer of glitter and neon and fairy dust.
Temple was wearing her solid Austrian crystal pumps with a black cat on the heels with a silver knit two-piece suit. Kit was electric in a teal satin dressy suit.
Temple choked when she saw them sitting at the table, eyeing the Strip, Dad in a navy sport coat, Mom in a lightweight blazer.
“Just think American Gothic,” Kit whispered, tightening her grip on Temple’s hand.
Temple had to laugh. She hadn’t seen her parents since leaving Minneapolis with Max to come to Las Vegas more than two years ago. She’d left under a blue-black cloud of parental skepticism and dismay, but she was almost nine ye
ars past twenty-one and had the right to follow her heart.
They surprised the Barrs, who turned to see them standing there, smiling, thanks to Kit’s little joke.
Karen gave a little cry and stood up to hug Temple. “Your hair! It’s. . . faded. But otherwise, of course, you look wonderful.”
“A cosmetological accident,” Temple murmured, not mentioning she liked the lighter strawberry blond-red so much she might keep it. An engaged woman had a right to change her hair color.
Her dad gave her the awkward fatherly hug perfected in the Midwest for occasions from weddings to funerals. Next it was Kit’s turn to be embraced by Karen and shake hands with Roger.
“This is a fairly subdued hotel,” Karen said after they’d all seated themselves again. First, Temple and Kit insisted the Barrs keep their seats facing the view. They’d been set on giving them up. “For Las Vegas.”
“It’s a client of mine,” Temple said.
Her mother was gazing at the padded closed menu as if it needed dusting. “That’s nice, dear. Roger, I hope you brought your bifocals, this menu is as thick as a phone book.”
“I know what I want,” he said, pushing the glasses in question up his nose. “I always get a New York strip steak and a baked potato.”
Kit and Temple exchanged agonized teenage glances. Too bad they were both so far past the teen years.
Temple eyed her mother. She wore a figured silk blouse and rose slacks under the beige blazer. Her father wore a sport coat and long-sleeve shirt, no tie. Their clothes were perfectly suitable for a fine restaurant in casual Las Vegas.
Why, then, did they look so stuffed shirt?
“I see,” Temple’s mother said, “you’ve opted for going barelegged.”
“It’s always hot here, outside at least, and I hate pantyhose. And this is a desert climate. . . .” Templelet her apologia trickle off.
“Me too,” Kit said. Karen eyed her over the menu. “I never wear hose in Las Vegas. This is the West.”
“But in Manhattan,” Karen began.
“Oh, in Manhattan. Yes, of course. All the time. Sliding into the hot, broken-down cab seats, out of the hot, broken-down cab seats; panty hose, every second. Racing crosstown on the crowded sidewalks, all of us women in panty hose. Every minute.”
“You chose to live there,” Karen said. “What is this cerviche stuff?”
“Spanish,” Temple said hastily. “Undercooked and overex-pensive. Not that we have to worry. Our meal is on the house.” She didn’t add that it was raw fish in lime or lemon juice. Min-nesotans didn’t eat anything but vegetables raw.
Her father frowned over his glasses frames. “We’re perfectly capable of paying.”
“I have a permanent free pass to all the Phoenix’s restaurants.”
“Food is very cheap here, Roger,” Karen explained. “They practically give it away.”
Temple took a deep, deep breath. Not these high-end days. A dinner for four here could run close to three hundred dollars. If they had cocktails and wine with the meal, it would be more. Temple desperately wanted cocktails and wine with the meal.
She met Kit’s eyes as the waiter breezed by with a question. “Cocktails?”
“A green apple martini for me,” Kit said smartly. “Temple will have one too. Karen? Roger?”
“Do you have beer?” Roger asked.
“A hundred and forty varieties, sir. What would be your pleasure?”
“Schlitz would be fine.”
The waiter was momentarily tongue-tied.
“Anything Scandinavian,” Temple offered.
“Certainly,” the waiter said.
“I’ll have a daiquiri,” Karen said.
The waiter blanched and asked, “And wine for dinner?”
“A nice Chablis,” Roger said decidedly.
“Very good, sir,” the waiter boomed, as if just asked to deliver a jeroboam of champagne.
Roger beamed. “Nice fella.”
“This is a hospitality industry,” Temple said cheerily.
“Are you eating enough?” her mother asked. “You’re not drinking too much?”
“Green apple martinis are a health food,” Kit said. “No nasty salty olives or onions, just fresh Granny Smith apples and a touch of vermouth.”
And a few jiggers of gin.
“They do have a strip steak,” Karen told Roger encouragingly. Then she smiled at Temple. “I’m glad we managed to come for Kit’s wedding. It’s so good to see you. You haven’t been managing any visits home.”
“It’s been so busy—” she began, sounding lame even to herself. Her mother certainly wouldn’t want news of Max Kin-sella. Even if it was bad, which it was, as there was still no news of Max Kinsella. Which would be good news to Karen Barr, so Temple was going to be very vague about how and when Max split, and they split up.
“I can’t believe it,” Karen went on, eyeing Kit. “You, getting married! After all this time single. And you had to leave that miserable New York City madness and come to Las Vegas to visit Temple to find Mr. Right. Is he . . . retired here? I understand a lot of people do that.”
Aldo? Retired? Temple was glad her martini had arrived and she could take a tart sip and cough slightly. Only in a circular water bed.
“No,” Kit said. “He’s in business with his brothers.” She sipped, savored, and added, “One of whom owns this hotel-casino.”
Minnesota eyebrows raised in tandem.
“The Fontanas are an old Las Vegas Family,” Kit added demurely.
Roger folded away his reading glasses. “How ‘old’ can a Las Vegas family be,” he joked. “They didn’t start up the place until the 1940s.”
“If that’s when you arrived here, then you’re an old Las Vegas family,” Temple explained. “They also call this end of the country the ‘New West.’ It’s all spin.”
“Is it exciting,” Karen wanted to know from Temple, “to be doing public relations work in a tourist destination like Las Vegas?”
“Oh, yes. Sometimes too exciting.”
“And cultural too,” Kit said. “Temple handled the opening of the Treasures of the Czars exhibition here just last month. Fabulous Imperial artifacts and stacks of uplifting, interesting information about the new order in modern-day Russia.”
“And, then,” Temple added, “I do PR for a lot of conventions that come to town. My most recent was for the Red Hat Sisterhood. They’re—”
“I know who they are,” Karen said excitedly. “Some of my friends belong and have been trying to talk me into joining, since Roger’s retired and you’re gone and your brothers are all busy with young, growing families.”
Temple counted two possible digs: her moving away and her not producing children. Her brothers were in their forties, as Temple had been either an accident or an afterthought, and coming from a family with five kids, they had gone forth and had three each, defying statistics of the times. Not that her brothers had done the actual having, which made it a lot easier to do.
Karen was watching Temple closely, no doubt with Max in mind.
Luckily, the waiter buzzed by, recited the evening’s specials, and they spent the next ten minutes oohing and ordering.
“Won’t tournedos of beef be a little rich for your stomach?” Karen asked Roger in an undertone once the waiter had left.
Temple was proud of him for venturing beyond the usual New York strip steak.
“That’s what seltzers are made for,” he answered. The red-gold beer in the iced glass must be mellowing him. “When is your fiancé joining us?” he asked Kit.
She lifted her small evening bag from the tabletop. “As soon as I call him on my cell phone. I wanted us to have some time to relax and chat first.”
“Kit,” Karen said, “we won’t bite. I’m just so tickled you finally found the right man.”
Kit tried not to squirm. Temple knew that her getting married had just happened. It wasn’t a lifelong search. Aldo was there, feeling a bit burned out after the
loss of his longtime girlfriend, and along came Kit, full of postmenopausal zest and a tad of hormone replacements.
“Oh, now isn’t this something?” Roger asked as the waiter lofted the appetizer tray Temple had ordered for them to share. One of the four delicacies was fried in batter, which she knew her dad would go for.
He grinned at the women and, after a glance at the many plates and pieces of silverware, moved half the batter-fried items to his plate.
Kit flashed Temple a happy smile. Papa had his beer and batter and would be cool from now on in. Mama, on the other hand . . .
“That looks fatty,” Karen said.
“They only use olive oil here,” Temple said. “That’s the kind that’s good for your heart.”
“Oh? I thought that cheap food was oilier in general.”
Temple was glad they’d never see the bill. Her mother was thinking of the days of cheap three-dollar buffets laden with sugary, greasy comfort food, back in the unenlightened eighties. Las Vegas was a class, and costly, act these days. Sure, there were always economical fast-food places in every Strip hotel, but even those menus were healthier and more palatable.
Temple sipped her sweetly tart martini, feeling a little mellow herself.
“So,” said Karen to Kit, sipping her daiquiri, a vintage cocktail with a funny little hazelnut bobbling in it, “how did you meet this Aldo?”
“Through Temple,” Kit said brightly. “She introduced us.”
“Oh, that’s nice, dear. Meeting through family is always best.”
“Yeah,” said Kit, thinking, no doubt, of the whole, big, slightly mobbish Fontana family, from Uncle Macho Mario on down to Nicky.
Speaking of which, at that moment Temple was surprised to see Nicky and Van stroll over, a very handsome couple blending dark and light looks.
“Everything all right here, folks?” Nicky asked, his bright white teeth flashing against his smooth olive skin.
Van, always the elegant Hitchcock blonde, merely smiled.
After introductions, Roger took the beef tournedos by the horns. “So it’s your brother that’s stolen our Kit away.”
Cat in a Sapphire Slipper Page 29