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

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Kit whisked Temple to a private room to divest her of the train and fountain of veiling, leaving only the Lover’s Knot headpiece.

  “And the gloves,” Temple said. “They’re so elegant.”

  “Ah, you look so lovely pared down, m’dear. Audrey Hepburn revisited. You’ll tire of those gloves. They’re a pain to eat and drink in.”

  “Well…maybe I shouldn’t risk them getting dirty.”

  “Did you see? In the Church. During the recessional?” she whispered to Matt during the bridal couple’s first dance alone on the floor.

  “I didn’t see much, except for you.”

  “Your mother. She met your father, Jonathon, at a side altar as the bridal party marched out. They lit a candle to Our Lady of Guadalupe together. I’m sure the pro photographer got the shot. She’s good. Gets the unexpected moment.”

  “It’ll be wonderful to have that in the wedding album,” Matt agreed.

  “And we’ll send an album to all the older-generation attendees.”

  “So they’ll each have a copy.”

  Temple nodded.

  “You never stop making people more than they can be,” he said, sweeping her into a swell of waltz music. “Are we doing this all right?”

  “Are you kidding, Mr. Celebrity Dance contestant?”

  “We’ve had a bad review.” He glanced at Mariah in her Purple Rain finery.

  “Teens, always so critical,” Temple said. “Wait until Zoe Chloe Ozone shows up in TV clips.”

  They laughed and at that moment…cousin Krys came up to them.

  “You made it,” Temple said, startled.

  “Yeah. They said an extra ticket would be okay.”

  “Better than okay,” Matt said, embracing her and kissing her cheek. “So good to see you, Krys. You look great.”

  “You too,” Krys said, a little too crushingly. She turned to Temple. “Good show. Some Ultra Violet gel nail polish for the ring thing would have been a major pop, but you really got your girl on.”

  “Thanks,” Temple said, shaking her head as Krys moved on. “One dedicated fanatic already.”

  As the dance music stopped, everyone applauded, and Tony Valentine stepped onto the empty dance floor. Tall, crowned by dazzling white hair, patrician, he brought the happy buzz to absolute silence.

  “My name is Tony Valentine, and I’m here to give out some valentines. I’m here to toast the future of this lovely couple.” He raised a champagne flute as everyone present with one to flaunt mimicked his gesture. “And to announce that they will be staying in Las Vegas, after a suitable honeymoon elsewhere, to head up their own syndicated television talk show.”

  Gasps. Buzz. Applause, applause. Smiles.

  “The Crystal Phoenix will deeply miss Temple Barr,” Nicky Fontana stepped forward to say, “but we have always been her fans and will follow her to assured triumph in her new career. And,” he added, “I think Mr. Valentine has another heart up his sleeve.”

  Tony stepped back into the spotlight. “Also, I wish to announce that another beloved personality at the Crystal Phoenix is stepping into the limelight.”

  There was a pause. Two waiters carried a linen-clad dining table to the center of the dance floor.

  A purple velvet pillow was imported to the table by Aldo Fontana, who fluffed it.

  Eduardo carried in a zebra-stripe cat carrier and deposited it on a white velvet dining chair Ralph placed center stage.

  Chef Song, the executive chef whose white cap was far higher than Tony Valentine’s natural Lyle Lovett-style pompadour, placed a simple low bowl on the table.

  Something savory was heaped therein.

  Eduardo unzipped the carrier with a dramatic gesture.

  Midnight Louie poked out his jet-black nose, surveyed the room left and right, up and down, sniffed the zipper edge and the tablecloth edge, wrinkled his nose and jumped onto the purple velvet pillow. Cameras and cell phones clicked and flashed.

  Nicky Fontana stepped forward again. “From a humble start as a homeless stray on the Crystal Phoenix grounds, Midnight Louie has captured our regard for his transition from a canny yet perhaps desperate wanderer to a productive resident guardian welcome wherever he goes.

  “He is small, but fierce.”

  Midnight Louie sat, leaned forward to inhale the aura of the single exquisite bowl, nodded, and proceeded to lap and chomp the contents. Right in front of Chef Song. It was not koi, but it was exquisite seafood. He would endorse nothing else.

  “The first bowl of Á La Cat International Chef tidbits,” Tony said to applause, “and there will be a ground-breaking commercial series featuring Crystal Phoenix favorites Miss Temple Barr and Mr. Midnight Louie, Esquire.”

  A roar went up from the crowd.

  Miss Temple came to pose cheek to cheek again with Louie. She lifted her leg and ankle bearing Midnight Louie Austrian crystal pump to the center of the white velvet pillow on the chair as cameras and films captured every image and wolf-whistles abounded…

  Midnight Louie burped. He opened a heavy-lidded eye. He seemed to be on the floor, in his carrier, behind an uninspired hotel convention tablecloth of burgundy linen.

  Had he been dreaming?

  29

  Reception Deception

  Matt and Temple, a bit worn from the festivities, had escaped the reception to stand in a small wood-paneled library with a bar so discreet no barman waited to serve them.

  The “them” included Max’s bewildered parents all the way from Racine. And another Racine couple, his aunt Eileen and her husband Patrick Kelly.

  Temple took quick mental notes to match with her Skype impressions.

  Kevin Kinsella was tall like his son, thick black hair dramatically streaked with white. Max’s mother, petite Maura, had deep-mahogany red hair Temple envied. It gave her presence. Gravitas. No one would ever dare call her “carrot-top” or “cute”. Her sister Eileen’s similar color hair was feathered all over with white, like wedding cake frosting.

  “You’re a lovely young couple,” Eileen Kelly said.

  “And it was a fine Catholic wedding in a beautiful church,” Maura added. “The Spanish style is stunning. But Eileen and I and our husbands, the Kinsellas and the Kellys, don’t know why we’re both here, except for an even more-than-usual rare and cryptic message with the wedding invitation that this ‘Private Reception’ is courtesy of our literally prodigal son, Michael.”

  Matt exchanged glances with Temple, both of them startled to hear Max’s real first name used.

  These sets of parents resided in a sixteen-year time warp. One pair had grudgingly accepted the puzzle of a long absent son, one had become long reconciled to having a dead son.

  Matt cleared his throat. “Michael Aloysius Xavier Kinsella. We know him as ‘Max’.”

  The two sets of parents blinked for a moment to translate the string of given names to “MAX.”

  Kevin Kinsella answered. “Michael or Max, we thought this was some crazy ‘surprise’ and we’d end up really being at his wedding.”

  Temple felt a pang echoed by Matt’s sudden pressure on her hand.

  Once it could have been. For a few surreal, crazy moments yesterday it had been.

  “I’m sorry,” Temple said. “Yes, magicians love surprises, but that would have been cruel. This is as gentle as we could think to make it, since we know Max and you don’t know us.

  “You saw our names on Skype, on the wedding invitation. You know I’m Temple Barr, a public relations freelancer, and the Crystal Phoenix is my best and most prestigious client.

  “My husband”—first such reference!—“Matt Devine is a syndicated radio show counselor and we’re about to go national with a TV talk show.”

  “Most impressive, young woman.” Kevin Kinsella leaned back into the goose down cushions. “But what do TV celebrities have to do with us or our AWOL son? We were deceived into hoping for a reunion.”

  “To have come all this way, no matter how lovely and festive
the occasion…” Maura’s voice began to shake.

  “Oh,” Temple pled, “we have such good news for you all. Please let us take our time with it. We don’t want to shock you.”

  Eileen stepped forward. “And you have affixed these family matters of strangers to your own wedding? Why?”

  “Simple,” Temple said, stepping forward to meet her, “my and Matt’s work, our hearts are committed to being good with people, and you, dear people, have been living under a cloud of well-meant misconception for almost two decades.”

  “You certainly are direct,” Patrick Kelly said.

  “I’ll be more direct.” Matt went behind the bar. “There’s some world-class Irish Whiskey here. I understand your families’ separate devastating losses have caused a breech between the sisters and their husbands. How about a toast to new understanding? Also, we have a toothsome nonalcoholic champagne for anyone, and especially Father Hernandez, when he comes along.”

  “He’s—?”

  “One of the finest and dedicated priests I’ve known. And I’ve known many. I used to be one.”

  Jaws dropped.

  Keeping separate, but edging forward like newborn zombies, the couples approached opposite ends of the bar to accept the Irish “water of life”, pronounced ‘whiskey’ in Gaelic, in glittering Baccarat glasses.

  Kevin sipped the straight drink the color of his wife’s hair. “Now you are my kind of ‘Whiskey Priest’,” he said, turning an insult into a compliment.

  Matt smiled. “I’m afraid I’m Polish, but I do envy the Irish their humor, their heart, their dash.”

  “Are you Irish Catholic?” Eileen asked Temple, eyeing her red hair, which the Phoenix’s beauty salon had styled into a dazzling sunset cloud. Temple never wanted to sleep on it again and lose the effect, but that would be rather counter-intuitive on a wedding night.

  “I’m an Anglo-Celtic mutt, but am I Catholic? No.”

  “Not even Lutheran?” Maura asked.

  “No. I’m not Lutheran, although I’m from Minnesota and realize the Catholics and the Lutherans are not fond of each other.” These sixty-something couples would know that rivalry well.

  “Episcopal then!” Eileen was sure. “She seemed at home with the liturgy,” she told her husband Patrick.

  “No.” Temple was amused.

  “What then?”

  “Besides my wife?” Matt put in.

  “I’m UU.” Temple waited.

  “UU? Is that for a Utah University?” Patrick wondered.

  “Well, my parents are out at the reception, and are Unitarian Universalists, but I appear to have fallen away some.”

  “‘Unitarian Universalists’ are that all-of-everything equally church,” Kevin said. “How can you fall away from nothing?”

  Temple shrugged. “It avoided a lot of angst.”

  “UU,” Maura mused. “That’s why you wouldn’t object to a Catholic wedding ceremony.”

  “No. My only ceremonial requirement was a train as long as I am tall, five feet.”

  “That was indeed an impressive train,” Eileen agreed.

  “And your gown was lovely and very modest, like a nice Catholic girl’s.” Maura beamed at Matt.

  “Let’s face it,” Temple said, glancing down. “I haven’t got much to be modest about.”

  “She has an Irish sense of humor,” said Kevin.

  Eileen sipped thoughtfully. “You two keep treating this occasion as a celebration. And it is, obviously, for you. But you keep trying to pull us into it. We’re all strangers to you.”

  “I do want you all involved,” Matt admitted, taking Temple a tall crystal flute of Father Hernandez’s champagne. “I’ve married the love of my life, we’ve got the job offer of a lifetime, and I’ve been honored to be asked to officiate, by Michael/Max, as an ex-priest and a counselor who learns more than he informs, over the correction of a tragic family…disintegration.”

  He had poured another Jameson’s and now went to the coffered door, balancing the precious Baccarat glass on his palm like a butler.

  “Presenting the world-renowned Mystifying Max, magician, counterterrorism agent and prodigal son.”

  Max stepped through door on cue in his borrowed Fontana brother silver-gray tuxedo. It was always a performance with Max, Temple thought. A pose that kept him one step removed from that act of terrorist violence that had changed everything in his life.

  “My God.” Maura stepped toward him, her right hand reaching for what must have seemed a mirage. “You’re the image of Kevin when I married him.” She covered her mouth with the other hand as her eyes floated in sudden tears and she swallowed a sob.

  Kevin quickly stepped between her and their son, partly to shield her emotional meltdown, partly in anger. “Explain yourself, Michael. Your mother always understood your grief at Sean’s loss, but you didn’t understand the depth of hers, with you growing so distant, almost the same as dead, from the family. An occasional postcard from Europe with a performance venue pictured on it. We understood survivor’s guilt, but not the lengths you took.”

  Max took the drink from Matt’s hand. “They told me,” he nodded at Matt and Temple, “that telling you would be my moment of penance. If I only had to explain just my seventeen-year-old self. I’ll start there.”

  He looked at Eileen and Patrick apologetically and sighed.

  “You were so right to worry. Sean and I were stupid kids who did exactly what you four ‘stuffy’ parents warned us not to do on our high school graduation trip to the old country. We scooted right up to Northern Ireland to view the Troubles firsthand. And drink even more beer without being carded.”

  As the parents stirred and prepared to condemn the risk, Max gestured them to be seated.

  “Please sit down.” Temple indicate two roomy loveseats set at right angles around a large travertine coffee table equipped with crystal coasters. Each couple took a sofa as Max’s narrative continued.

  “Yes, we promised that we, with our good grades and love of family history, would benefit from seeing the Old Country before we moved on to college. They call it a ‘Gap’ year now.

  “It was all innocent stupidity.” Max advanced into the room, looking at his mother. “It’s such a strange thing, Mom. America is a melting pot, yet we all still cling to our ethnic origins.” He looked around, “Irish being a common one, but Polish as well.” He nodded at Matt.

  “To be seventeen having your first look at an another country, an island, among people who look exactly like you, speak with the same lilt, drink the same ale, laugh at the same jokes…to feel at home so far away from home. It was inebriating. We courted the colleens. The black Irish and the red-haired girls who seemed so exotic and yet familiar at the same time. Far more interesting than our American high school girls. Besides, we’d gone to all-boys’ high school with the Christian Brothers.

  “We competed to drink ourselves under the table, we competed to spirit a girl away from the pub to…wherever. We met one stunner of a Black Irish rose. Older, early twenties, but so much the better. We wanted to win her to ourselves to sample whatever undescribed bliss that had been cruelly hidden from us.”

  Max shrugged. “I won. A hollow victory. The pub bomb exploded while I was ‘off-campus’. But that was not the only bomb that day. The other bomb that exploded my life was one Kathleen O’Connor, as damaged a young woman as had lived through the hell of Magdalene laundries called “asylums”, where young pregnant girls were overworked and abused for being victims of institutionalized ignorance and family assault.”

  “Oh,” Eileen breathed rather than said. “That Judi Dench movie Philomena.” She rose and went to sit beside Maura on the Kinsella-occupied couch. They looked at each other for a long moment before Maura reached out for Eileen’s hands.

  “Philomena?” Patrick asked. “I had a nun named that in eighth grade. We never saw any such movie, Eileen.” He glanced at the sisters’ twined hands. “And you two haven’t been so cozy since— He eyed Ke
vin with a question in his eyes.

  “We went to the movie theater on our own. Together. Last year.” Maura spoke defiantly, smiling through her tears.

  “It was a true story, about a young unwed mother named Philomena. Her toddler son was adopted out to America, for money, from one of those merciless homes named after Saint Mary Magdalene. Not a newborn, a two-year-old! Can you imagine the lasting severed bond? Remembering each other, lies to both kept them apart for decades, never again meeting. At least Philomena finally learned her son’s fate. He’d died in the prime of life and had asked to be buried at the Magdalene institution graveyard, in case his mother ever came looking for him. So she did find him at last.”

  Of course, Temple thought, they would go to see Philomena together alone, almost furtively, women who had lost sons at the same time from the same brutal event. Sisters who had carried on with guarded emotions and doubt and self-doubt and subtle estrangement.

  Temple knew the movie’s plot and wasn’t watching the women. She was watching Max. He downed the remaining three fingers of whiskey in his glass in one heroic go. Set the expensive crystal down with a thump on the long table behind the couch, and came around it to kneel in front of the weeping women, covering their entwined hands with his large ones. Head bowed, voice raw, he whispered, “Bless me, Mothers, for I have sinned.”

  During the long silence punctuated by the women’s sobs, everyone kept stone-still. Matt caught Temple’s glance returning to him, and pulled her closer.

  “I know,” she whispered. “You’ve heard that beginning sentence in a lot of Confessions. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned’. Would you have ever dreamed you’d hear it paraphrased by Max?”

  Matt shook his head. “It will do him good. And it’s the perfect way to apologize to this crowd.”

  “And sinned again.” Max went on, sitting back on his heels.

  “What is this?” Kevin sounded uneasily gruff. “An Irish wake? More whisky and less tears. What’s done is done.” He eyed his son. “So what more are we to learn, Michael, that we have an unsuspected grandchild somewhere?”