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

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  She tugged again.

  “Dear,” he said, “you’re going to get Aldo’s Emperio Armani underwear in a wad if you distort the tailoring by jerking away at it.”

  “Oops.”

  “After all, we’ll be seeing Aldo tonight at the real wedding and reception and he’ll want a full accounting of your and the sports jacket’s adventures—”

  Temple heaved a dramatic sigh and turned to Molina. “What you’re not saying is that my dear, overprotective, mad-as-hell fiancé nailed Jack the Hammer thirty-some years after his ‘death’, didn’t he?”

  “Nicely done, Miss Barr, sweet deduction, despite having wedding cake and trip-worthy trains on the brain. There may be hope for you yet.”

  “What?” Matt was indignant. “The old cop was the murderer of the criminal, not the criminal.”

  “Miss Barr?” Molina tossed the ball.

  “Oh, call me Temple. Anyone who sings as well as you do and volunteers for my wedding should be on a first-name basis.” Temple leaned forward in her chair. “It’s obvious. Giacco Petrocelli was aging and out of favor with the mob bosses, and off his game, just as his dogged pursuer, Woodrow Weatherly, was facing putting in his thirty years and retiring. The Mojave desert is no country for old men. Giacco lured Wetherly out there, and buried him with his famous namesake weapon nearby in no man’s land.”

  “What?” Matt was stunned.

  “And…” Temple loved her scenario as it blossomed in her mind, “since age makes most men lose their hair, their waistlines, and swap their twenty-twenty vision for glasses, what was to distinguish one absent, aging, liver-spotted sixty-year-old fading from potency in both crime and law enforcement from another?”

  Molina laughed. She’d been watching Matt. She could hardly stop, a first occasion of unbridled public mirth from the Iron Maiden of the LV Metro Police.

  When Molina could finally talk again, she addressed Matt, who looked like he’d been slugged with a jackhammer. “She certainly makes men’s vows of eternal loyalty and fidelity sound unattractive thirty years on.”

  Temple glanced at Matt. He did look confused. She hastened to reassure her white knight, who had gone charging out after the wrong man entirely.

  “You see how cleverly it happened,” she explained. “‘Missing’ Giacco Petrocelli killed Woodrow Wetherly, then ‘disappeared’ by taking over his victim’s house and identity. He had the driver’s license, and you know how bad those photos are even with young people. He became a post-retirement Wetherly, bitter and ready to float a lot of schemes with a new generation of would-be mobsters, principally aimed at finding the last of Benny Binion’s buried fortune.”

  Molina wiped her eyes. The laughter flush was almost as becoming as Urban Decay cheek tint. Temple resolved to get Danny to improve Molina’s makeup for the wedding tonight. Meanwhile, they needed to get out of there and finish reception arrangements.

  Meanwhile, Matt was puzzling out his own scenario.

  “So I was dallying with Jack the Hammer? Why would he have or keep the jackhammer buried in the desert and then import it to his basement?”

  Molina shrugged. “A lot of cops, when they retire, are allowed to buy their service weapon. K-nine cop retirees can often purchase their partner dogs at a very reasonable price.”

  “A jackhammer is not a pet,” Matt said. “And Petrocelli was no cop.”

  “A K-nine dog is also a deadly weapon,” Molina reminded him. “Cops and crooks can get strange attachments to their tools.” Molina smiled and glanced at Temple. “The animal-partner bond is the most understandable one. These creatures have extraordinary instincts that have saved lives.”

  Temple nodded, accepting the unspoken accolade for Midnight Louie. When it came down to it, a cat “walks by himself”, as Kipling put it, and is more suited for subtle investigative work. A canine, with its pack loyalty, tracking gifts and noisy bravado, does the advance scouting and takedown work.

  “And don’t forget Louie’s key role in luring Wetherly’s gang to the faux wedding. Electra Lark, the target of your suspicions twice, Lieutenant,” Temple said sternly, “had a photo of Louie as Ring Bearer in white-tie collar and ring box. She ‘leaked’ it and the place and date of our ‘faux’ wedding to gossip columnist Crawford Buchanan. The piece went viral and Giacco couldn’t have missed it.”

  “Good thing Buchanan didn’t show up,” Molina said.

  “He ran into a Fontana brother and had car trouble,” Temple said. “I would never want that oozy, oily sexist to attend even my fake wedding.”

  Matt was still processing a total turnaround of dead bad cop and live crook. “So no one ever found poor old Woody’s body and IDed it?” Matt asked.

  “No. Presumably buried in the desert. Miss Barr must have a theory.”

  She did. “I’m remembering the ‘pre-buried’ dried-out body found on the site of Mr. Farnum’s futuristic ‘invisible’ attraction recently. Later, Santiago, who seemed to be on a treasure hunt of his own, died there. Could that first body have been the real Woody’s mummy? Can DNA be done on it?”

  Molina knitted her wooly dark eyebrows. That Brooke Shields look was decades out of date. Temple so itched to give them a wax job. Or sponsor a bachelorette party ice-cube, eye-brow plucking marathon. Maybe, in Molina’s case, for past snubs…without the ice cube to dull the pain. Too bad there wasn’t time.

  Temple’s thought must not have shown on her face.

  “What did that phony environmental art huckster Santiago have to do with any of this?” Molina asked.

  Matt gently removed Temple’s hand from its clutch on his sleeve. She’d been seriously unnerved by his artless confrontation with a notorious monster and his favorite jackhammer in a creepy basement. Knowing about Chuck right now would freak Temple out and would do nobody good.

  The lost IRA money and guns Kathleen O’Connor and Santiago had amassed in the Americas over the years seemed as legendary an object of obsession as the seven lost cities of gold known as Cibola to the Conquistadors, unlike the post-modern Ted Binion stash.

  “Santiago?” Matt asked. “Caught in the middle, maybe. Being the kind of arty showman he was, he was probably just investigating Temple’s client and his use of a genuine light-bending technique to make objects ‘invisible’. Figuring it out and using it would boost his reputation.”

  Molina shook her head. “This is Las Vegas and, yes, this Cirque du Surveillance scenario you describe fits right in. There may be almost as many pretenders to the under-church vault contents as the thousands of remaining claimants to Howard Hughes’ land in Summerlin. What time is your real wedding? I’ve already helped Mariah for her solo and need to coordinate our vocals with Danny Dove.”

  Molina struck a palm to her forehead. “Lord, I never thought I’d live to say such a thing.”

  “Cirque du Surveillance?” Temple asked, surprised.

  “No, working with Danny Dove. You two are going to have the biggest, small church wedding in Las Vegas history, a good kickoff to your new media careers, God help us.”

  Molina smiled. “I do hope my opening solo during the procession fetches a five-second clip on your new show.”

  “You’re coming out as Carmen.” Matt was surprised.

  “This is Vegas, baby. Gotta keep up with the budding teen sensation daughter. Mariah and I will do our first duet on the recessional.”

  “But you’ll be armed, just in case?” Temple asked.

  “This is Vegas, baby. No one is going to mess with your precious tablecloth train while I’m in that choir loft.”

  “It seems Midnight Louie handled that choir loft ‘mews-icale’ direction job pretty well during the mock rehearsal,” Temple noted.

  “And every darn note off-key.”

  “That being the point of a distraction.”

  Molina held firm. “No armed and aurally dangerous cats invited this time without wearing white tie.”

  24

  Altared Circumstances

 
Here I sit, a Member of the Wedding, but the lowest, literally, and the last.

  I again am confined in a zebra-print carrier. Out of sight behind a pot of chrysanthemums that make me sneeze. On the floor in front of the reinstated altar, only this time everything is for real.

  My neck is again circled by a black collar sporting a white bow tie.

  I deserve more respect. I am bearing a lot of gold and diamonds today. You would think they could spare a few diamond collar studs for the occasion, after I have saved the day, this day, in two fashions.

  First, I am still fuming over sacrificing myself to be an object of ridicule by the terminally annoying Crawford Buchanan, whose piece of Yellow Journalism mocked my Ring Bearer role so successfully that a gang of nearly deaf and blind and media-moronic, heavily armed crooks got the idea to try to knock over the faux wedding rehearsal, and the church altar, and got caught.

  In addition, anticipating possible criminal matters, I organized (in the literal sense of the word) an unexpected performance in the organ loft by my personally picked cat chorus, which was pitch perfect in assaulting human ears.

  Granted, all persons present were equally driven a bit squirrelly by the sounds, but my friends were expecting some sort of invasion and were better prepared to press on despite the ear-piercing diversion. And hard-of-hearing thieves require a full operatic assault.

  Anyway, if I were not indignant I might succumb to something worse, sentiment. My kind has to be strong enough to walk the mean streets from an early age, to prepare for a sudden sundering from family and clowder at the swipe of a speeding car or the jaws of rogue canine or capture and a long, fruitless stay in a shelter cage. The lucky ones will find a loyal and considerate human partner. I have done that, but am feeling a bit crotchety over a possible changing of the guard.

  My Miss Temple’s father is not the only dude here giving away the bride.

  I reserve my right to pout, and never undertake such a traumatic role again.

  Something black and fluffy sideswipes the black mesh side of my container.

  “Do not worry, Pop,” says Miss Midnight Louise. “I will never leave you.”

  I do not know whether to be consoled, or horrified.

  I hear my roommate’s voice echoing from underneath the organ loft’s projection.

  “It will be fine, Mom. Electra will arrange my train after everyone is seated and then run down the side aisle to her chosen pew on the central aisle, so she can still get photos.

  “And the Phoenix wedding photographer will cover the entire ceremony from every angle. Once the Fontana brothers have seated you all, Dad and I will nod to cue the wedding march and will move slowly forward.”

  “You have chosen an oddly named song, Temple. ‘Love Minus Zero-No Limit.’ What does that even mean?”

  “Unconditional love. You will hear it in the words during the procession. You know, by the famous Minnesotan, Bob Dylan. His words sing and the melodies are grand.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. B,” comes Danny Dove’s assuring stage director’s voice. “Every step will proceed with the precision of a cuckoo clock Maypole dance, I guarantee it.”

  “But, as Mother of the Bride, I am to go first,” Karen objects. Like her daughter, she is tiny, red-headed, and stubborn.

  “Not to worry,” Danny repeats as I hear his quick steps waltzing her into place. “That is why I have given you the most reliable and suave Fontana brother as an escort, Julio.”

  “Oh,” Miss Mrs. Karen says with a pleased lilt in her voice. Fontana brothers tend to have that effect on females of any species, age, and state in life.” She adds, sounding relieved. “That was most thoughtful of you to keep it in the family, Danny. We are privileged to have such a Las Vegas star managing our little wedding.”

  “We are all family at the Crystal Phoenix, my dear Karen. For a Mother of the Bride who looks like the bride’s sister today, I would do anything.”

  Miss Mrs. Karen sighs. I cannot tell whether she is impatient or flattered.

  Danny goes on. “Then the order is the Matron of Honor alone, Miss Kit. Flower Girl, Miss Crescent. The Ring Bearer will be borne to join the party at the altar.”

  “So then,” I hear Miss Temple’s voice. “Last but not least, Dad and I march down the aisle and then Dad peels off my left side—”

  That sounds a bit gory to my ears.

  “—to sit beside you, Mom, on the first pew allocated on ‘our’ side. Alone, I mount the four shallow steps to the altar and make my Vanna White train-whipping turn. Every fold will fall into place perfectly, with Aunt Kit, my most ‘un’ matronly Matron of Honor already waiting on my right side, and Crescent joining her. Matt and his Best Man, Frank Bucek, having come from the right side of the altar, are waiting for me. Father Hernandez holds the middle ground.”

  “It sounds like a football play,” Roger Barr grumbles, “with my little girl in the middle of a scrimmage. If I do not trip on that foolish train I deserve a Most Valuable Player award.”

  “Gosh, Dad,” my Miss Temple says, “everything goes out over the mic. Remember, we are being taped.”

  “It is my ribs that will be taped if you do not wrangle that five feet of train well. All that filmy white stuff kinda looks like you stepped on a roll of toilet tissue That Time Forgot.”

  “Dad!” But she is laughing. “Play nice. This is your only time at bat.”

  Oddly, those are sobering words to me. If I were inclined to think I was on anybody’s mind right now, this is my only and last time “at bat” too. It was one thing to act as Ring Bearer for Mr. Matt’s sadly mistreated Mama after she found true love in midlife, but now I am doing it for my own fate-chosen roommate.

  Ah, the times we have had together, when I ripped the face off an assailant and she cradled me and praised my sharp claws and velvety little ears. The times when my place of pride on her zebra-stripped coverlet with the red piping so reminiscent of my best dueling scars was shifted aside for an interloper of her species.

  Luckily, there were not many such of those occasions. At least she is choosier than Ma Barker before her recent involuntary celestial conversion.

  And now my Miss Temple has committed the terminal human sin against my kind. She has chosen a dude of her kind over me, forever and ever, amen.

  Hmmph. Forget zebra-striped anything. I get custody of the faux goat hair area rug and the TV remote.

  Watch me and weep.

  25

  Here Comes the Bride

  Temple stood at the back of the church, her right arm hooked onto her father’s left one clad in a his new tuxedo jacket.

  He winked at her.

  Behind her, her mother, Karen, and Matt’s mother, Mira, fluttered in tandem at the fringes of Temple’s ankle-length hem, then her fluid filmy train, then the “fingertip” length Illusion lace veil that arched like a thunderhead cloud from the crown of her head, giving her—hallelujah!—that so deeply desired attribute, height.

  As did the diamond dazzle of the Midnight Louie Stuart Weitzman Austrian crystal-studded pumps on her feet.

  Aunt Kit, Matron of Honor, flitted in front of her, fingernails fluffing the mounded red-gold curls atop her head, teased into giving her height. She last fluffed the longer side curls framing Temple’s face and shoulders.

  Kit sighed. “You are so perfectly Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, my dear. If she’d been a redhead. Or worn a wedding dress.”

  The real Audrey Hepburn had worn such a gown in her real life, Balmain in the fifties. High neck, long tight sleeves. She’d starved as a child in Europe during World War Two, this elfin actress. She probably hated her bony frame, even as it became ultra fashionable and thrived when the post-War fashion world went to emaciated models, like Audrey and Twiggy and Kate Moss.

  Temple, always the cultural cataloguer, was happy to celebrate and share Audrey’s forever girlish style. Little women, the title of an iconic girl’s book by Louisa May Alcott for almost two centuries, could grow up t
o do very big good things. Audrey and her charity work for UNICEF, being one example.

  The organist began an introduction.

  Temple checked the three wrist buttons of her elbow-length white satin ruffle-topped gloves. She would have to undo them during the ceremony so Matt could slip the wedding rings, diamond guards and the engagement ring, on her finger and she put his gold band on in turn.

  She liked that the process involved legerdemain. Some silly hidden tradition. She was beginning to appreciate church ritual.

  “Oh, if only I could get married again,” her Matron of Honor whispered.

  “That was just months ago, Kit.”

  “I’d waited almost a lifetime for Aldo.”

  Temple took a deep breath. A bride knows when she has embarked on the right lifetime. She knows when she has found the exact ritual gown for the journey.

  Aunt Kit knew too.

  The gown was a halter-style, cut away at the shoulders, but demurely filled in over the chest. The stunner was a high elegant neck ruffle to the chin, too frilly to be Victorian and framing Temple’s face and hair. The fabric lines gathered tight at the breastbone in front and under the bare shoulder blades in back, and then flared with the grace of a Greek statue to the ankle-length in front like a ballerina’s skirt. The back pooled into a loose liquid cataract of embroidered and crystal-studded silk ending in a long, airy white train.

  The style was girlish, yet subtle and elegant. Not pretentious, but pure of line. It was perfect for a short woman, it was perfect for a sincere woman. It was perfect for her.

  “If I’d had a daughter,” Kit whispered. “I could not be more proud. Thank you for sharing your wedding moments with me. My sister Karen behind you is so choked up with Minnesota stoicism she can’t say this herself, but I’m sure she’s as blown away as your bridegroom will be.”

  Wow. Temple looked down the long crimson carpet and along all the pew-ends draped in flowers, candelabra, and white silk falls of petals, and the backs of familiar heads to the small, all-masculine group waiting at the end of her march. Father Hernandez in shining satin vestments, the men in silver-gray white tie and tails, the edge of a zebra-print carrier visible behind Eduardo’s shiny black-patent formal slipper, stationed at the first pew on the right.