Cat in a Red Hot Rage

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “Meanwhile,” Temple said, “what else do we know about the victim?”

  “Well—” Phyll leaned forward. Her tone was the familiar one of a woman letting her hair, or hat, down to give the real story.

  “Oleta Lark had written a memoir, her local chapter tells me. About her lousy life, before and after Elmore Lark. A New York publisher was willing to pay big bucks, she said, but it was going to investigate her, now that everybody knows people make up things about their lives, as why wouldn’t we? Given how boring things can be?”

  “Any copies of this memoir?” Temple asked.

  “Large chunks of it on e-mail, to assorted Red Hat Sisterhood members. Nobody knows who all was on the list, but there were a lot of them.”

  “I suppose her friends were encouraging her.”

  “Right. And she was leading them on with juicy detail after juicy detail.”

  “Like what?” Temple said.

  “This isn’t good for Electra.”

  “Like what?” Temple said in a sterner tone. “We have to investigate, whoever it hurts. Or seems to. The truth is like the Lone Ranger. It’s always out there, it’s often masked, and it always sets you free.”

  “Oh, that’s deep,” Starla breathed.

  “Not really,” Temple said modestly. “What was in her memoirs about Electra?”

  Judy cleared her throat. “I’ve interviewed several e-mail recipients. Oleta said Electra couldn’t give Elmore the hot sex life he needed. That she cared more about their son and was always after him to father the kid. I guess Elmore was a wild and crazy guy. Party animal.”

  “No doubt that’s where he met Oleta.” Starla pronounced “Ohleeet-ah” in an exaggerated catty tone.

  Everybody laughed.

  Not Temple. If the dead woman was running Electra down not only in her memoirs, but in leaks to other Red Hat Sisterhood members, that only upped the ante on Electra’s being a credible suspect.

  “And then there’s that reference to Oleta having married a bigamist,” Phyll said.

  “A bigamist? Let me see that e-mail.”

  This was bad. Bigamy, and exposing it, was no laughing matter. It affected a lot more people than the victim and perp.

  Such as her dear landlady who was soon to find out that her long-gone ex may not be an ex.

  Chapter 14

  Film Noir

  The meeting with the Red-Hatted League had Temple walking on figurative Airsteps instead of Argenti for a change. That was an investigative team!

  She merged with all the other hatted women milling in the lobby, jazzed by their energy and verve.

  Kit, a symphony in lavender and pink, came skittering up to Temple like a glamorous water bug.

  “Kiddo! I’ve got a hot lead.”

  “I’m all hat.”

  “There’s a woman here.”

  “No kidding.”

  “And she’s filming the event.”

  “Filming?”

  “Yes. You get it. She might have filmed something suspicious. She might have even filmed the murder.”

  “Wouldn’t she know it?”

  “That’s just it. She’s running around with this cute little camcorder in front of God and Her Royal High-Hatness and all, but she’s also carrying a tote bag big enough to smuggle in a Spielberg track camera.”

  “And you think—?”

  “I think the cute kitty-eye on that bag front could go head-to-head with your Midnight Louie.”

  “Another camera? A hidden camera?”

  “You ever see TV news show exposés? Besides, I’ve seen the indie filmmakers use that trick dozens of times, when they want ‘authenticity.’ It’s very easy to record people surreptitiously nowadays.”

  “Why would she do this?”

  “You’re the shameless shamus, not me. Find out. Anyway, I’m due for a drink with Aldo in the Crystal Court.”

  “How will I recognize her?” Temple asked, eyeing the sea of red hats surrounding them, along with islands of pink.

  “She’s wearing the uniform, although her colors are burgundy and eggplant, but her shoes are green snakeskin platform espadrilles. So appropriate, I suspect. You’re the shoe maven. Follow the green snakeskin road.”

  Kit dashed away like she had someone tall, dark, and handsome . . . and Italian to meet.

  Temple sighed. She had someone tall, blond, and handsome . . . and betrothed to meet. When she could get away from this chaos.

  So she did what she did best, wandered and looked hard.

  Most of the footwear here was low, well padded, and comfortable. Red Hat Sisters had pizzazz, but they weren’t fashion victims.

  Temple’s heart thrummed to the thrill of the hunt when she spied a pair of hot pink Ferragamos, but that was just Savannah Ashleigh doing her media thing.

  Green. Either Irish or jealous. Or both.

  It took a couple of hours of dedicated foot watching for Temple to find the shoes in question.

  The woman wearing them was the incarnation of Little Mary Sunshine. Everywhere she went, her cooing voice coaxed celebrating women into standing and delivering a great group shot.

  And every group shot was backgrounded by something not so wonderful.

  Like HRH getting into a face-to-face with a Vanity Fair magazine interviewer who was obviously gay in the Truman Capote mode. Seeing over-the-top females and flagrantly gay men together made Temple wonder why some gay men identified with often-troubled ultra-female women divas like Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe. And they all made great drag queens.

  Maybe because being “different” was a universal badge. And expressing yourself completely was only human.

  Even Electra had been “different” for her time. She’d pulled loose from a bunch of husbands and had ended up running her own unique little world off the Strip here in Las Vegas.

  Aha! There were those grass-green snakeskin six-inch-high platform espadrilles again!

  Temple dodged out from the mob and turned on the threadbare charm for Snakeskin Stilts.

  “Hi, there. I’m a local PR woman. You seem to have a good handle on this event. What’s your secret?”

  “Empathy,” said the woman, turning and scanning behind Temple as if expecting a network camera to be focused upon her. “Isn’t empathy always the secret in the media game?”

  “Or the scam.”

  “Aren’t you the little cynic?”

  Temple hated it when taller, older women pointed out her size.

  “My name is Temple Barr. I really need to ask you some questions someplace quiet.”

  “Around here?”

  “How about the Crystal Court bar? I bet you could stand to get off those high-rise shoes. I know I could use a break from mine.”

  The woman eyed Temple’s pink pumps and nodded. Curtly. “Natalie Newman. What’s this about?”

  “The murder.”

  “Oh.” Natalie was about forty, an angular, skinny woman who adeptly substituted urban chic for natural beauty. “A freelance stringer can always use a lead on murder. Lead me to this island of peace called a bar. It’ll probably be standing room only.”

  It was, except Aldo spotted Temple at the entrance instantly. He abandoned Kit to snag a small table tucked under the Hawaiian-lush greenery that surrounded the bar area.

  “Who was that dishy maître d’?” Natalie asked, gluing her eyes to Aldo’s back as he left.

  “The owner’s brother. I do the PR here.”

  “Why didn’t you mention that before, darling?”

  Natalie pulled out a gold cigarette holder and matching lighter, then ignited one of those long, slender “women’s” cigarettes that always reminded Temple of emaciated tampons.

  “You mentioned stringing for someone?” Temple prodded.

  “I’ve reported for the AP, People, Newsweek, the usual.”

  The Associated Press and People magazine were not the usual print media a regional stringer would work for.

  “You’re not bas
ed in the area?”

  “Vegas, are you crazy? No, I’m an East Coast baby. I’m actually a documentary filmmaker, on the side, when I don’t need to eat.”

  “I get that,” Temple said as a waiter appeared. She nodded at her guest.

  “I’ll have a Cosmopolitan.” Natalie blew smoke past Temple. “So last wave, but I got hooked on them.”

  Temple ordered her usual white wine spritzer. It would taste like Chablis-flavored Kool-Aid, but that was the point. PR people really shouldn’t slosh down the liquor, not on the job.

  “So some TV folks are interested in this Red Hat Sisterhood convention?” Temple asked.

  “Not directly. I’m hoping. You know, freelance.”

  Temple nodded sympathetically, but those green snakeskin platform espadrille shoes had her suspicions set on “liar alert.” The shoes, and especially the tote bag Kit had so astutely mentioned. Temple was a tote bag addict herself, but hers was crammed and messy.

  Natalie’s seemed heavy to sling around, but betrayed no overflow of tissues, breath mints, morning papers, scarves etc. And that one eye of the cat in the red hat on the front looked pretty glassy. Like a lens. Why would a newsie, freelance or not, video record two versions of a convention? One upfront and obvious, the other concealed?

  Their drinks arrived, giving them both sipping time to regroup.

  “What do you think of this Red Hat phenomenon?” Temple asked. People always liked to air their own opinions.

  “You said it. It’s a phenom. Plus it’s colorful. Look at all the local TV crews around. Great for a minute-ten on the evening news. Women making spectacles of themselves is always good copy in the good old U.S. of A.”

  Temple sipped, weighing that comment. It could be worldly. It could be bitter.

  “These women seem to be having something we all could use.”

  “Cocaine?” Natalie lifted penciled eyebrows.

  “I meant fun.”

  “Well, aren’t they the same thing? Listen, Temple, you seem like a nice working girl. Wanna bet that you’ll be up to something a bit more serious when you’re their age?”

  “Sure, it’s fun and games. And that’s pretty healthy for the aging population. But there’s more. Read the press kit. The chapters also join marathons to raise money for breast cancer and visit nursing homes—”

  “Single-handedly save the ancient profession of clown. You’ve obviously gone over to it above your eyebrows.” She nodded at Temple’s beautiful hat.

  “This is to blend in, but what’s wrong with it? Men are going to say older women are silly anyway. Why not enjoy the bad rap? Why not reverse it? Embrace it? Disarm the opposition?”

  “Now you’re talking old-style civil protest. Face it; in this day and age, the only thing that counts is what gets on the media. And that’s me, baby; that’s me.”

  Boy, did this woman make Temple see red without even looking around. Still, she needed to pretend to be a media-savvy peer. To be someone Natalie Newman might be able to use, because that’s what would keep this so-called stringer on a string.

  “The Red Hat Sisterhood,” Temple said, “is lucky to have the kind of national attention you can get them.”

  “Damn right! And they won’t know how much until this convention is long past.”

  A pair of bright red spots on Natalie’s cheeks revealed that the Cosmopolitan was getting to her discretion. Her words implied that she had something very different in mind than what she claimed.

  Temple tried to calm her anger. This group meant a lot to Electra, and now she was in serious trouble. Temple had never found Electra clownish because she sprayed her white hair fun colors or wore tropical print muumuus. Las Vegas was a place that allowed for a lot of diversity.

  She didn’t mind a bit when Natalie lurched up on her reptilian stilts, grabbed her bigger-than-Temple’s tote bag, and swaggered away.

  Chapter 15

  No Longer in Service

  After Natalie left, Temple stayed at the table and speed-dialed Max’s number again.

  She didn’t really expect him to answer, Mr. Invisible now turned Mr. AWOL, but then she heard that wailing banshee yowl over the line. Temple’s stomach plunged into the Pit of Despair. An unreal female voice said that she was sorry, but that this number was no longer in service.

  No longer in service?

  Temple had been worried about not making contact with Max. Now she was sick-anxious.

  She redialed. Listened again to the impossible message. Checked the stupid little LED numbers with slashes through zeroes that made them look like eights, so maybe somehow the wrong number had been entered on her speed-dial. Right.

  No, everything was correct. She knew this number by heart.

  By heart.

  But maybe she didn’t deserve to know it anymore. Maybe that alone was the message. Max had cut her off.

  “Temple?”

  Kit and Aldo were standing by her table, then Kit saw Temple’s face and took Natalie’s vacant seat, and Temple’s hand.

  “Temple, honey, what did that tacky woman say to you?”

  “Lots of stuff, but that’s not it. Kit, Max’s number is disconnected.”

  Kit got it. Her other hand clenched Temple’s arm. “Oh, no!”

  “Max,” Aldo asked. “Your Max?”

  Not anymore. Temple tried to swallow a sob and ended up hiccuping.

  “Don’t say another word,” Kit told Aldo. “Just listen and let me handle this. Honey. Temple. Numbers get changed all the time.”

  “But it rang through the whole time. He hasn’t been answering for the past three days!”

  “You said yourself he’s been juggling a whole lot of career obligations.”

  Like saving her bacon on the last PR job? Temple thought.

  Aldo had been listening to all this in affable Fontana brother mode: laid-back, but with a don’t-tread-on-me air, and decorative in the extreme. Now he shot his jacket sleeves in preparation for extreme action.

  “Where does he live?” he asked Temple.

  “In town, but it’s . . . a secret.”

  “Not if the number is disconnected. I’ll drive you there.”

  “In the Viper?”

  “It’s my car.”

  “It doesn’t have room for three passengers.”

  “I’ll drive you to this secret place. Your delicious aunt will wait here to thank me properly when we get back. You can trust my discretion, because I myself have a lot to be discreet about, right?”

  “Aldo—” Temple didn’t know what to say. “You are a brick.”

  The British expression zinged right past him. “No, I’m Italian.”

  Kit rolled her eyes as Aldo ordered her a second Pink Lady cocktail, kissed her hand, and murmured indecipherable promises that made the tiny hairs on Temple’s neck perk up with interest, and she was not only firmly unavailable, but under severe emotional distress.

  Then Aldo took Temple’s arm and hustled her out the hotel entrance faster than a house detective escorting a lady of the night off the premises.

  The parking valet already had the low black sports car growling at the entrance portico, so Temple had the whole ride to berate herself for being a Weepy Worried Wanda.

  “You’re the Fontana who owns the Viper,” she finally said to make talk.

  “No, this is the, er, Family car.”

  “How do you arrange who drives it when?”

  “Not the car, the model.”

  “You mean you all drive Vipers?”

  “All but Nicky. He’s a family man now. He drives a Land Rover.” Aldo made a face that screamed “canned ravioli.”

  “The Fontana brothers run a fleet of Vipers? Isn’t that a bit”—she hated to use this word with a Fontana, just in case it really applied—“overkill?”

  “Not at all. It gives us an instantly recognizable presence in the community. Sometimes you want people to see you coming and . . . sometimes you don’t. Then we drive Saturns.”


  Awesome. She’d never thought of the Fontana brothers as “Enforcement R Us.”

  “Besides,” Aldo said, the gold hinges of his designer sunglasses glinting as he turned the car onto Max’s street, “the ladies like it. This the place?”

  “Almost.”

  Temple clutched her tote bag. Max would kill her for leading a Fontana brother here, leading anyone here. Then again, maybe she’d get him killed by coming here now.

  What made her think that, other than insane worry?

  Aldo was not impressed by the surroundings. “Jeez-Luisa, this neighborhood doesn’t look like it needs to be kept secret. It looks like an accountant lived here.” He eyed Temple over his glasses frames. “Your accountant. Not our accountant.”

  “I don’t have an accountant,” she answered. And maybe she didn’t have an ex-boyfriend either.

  Aldo walked around the parked car and bent to spring Temple from the black leather passenger seat. This was a car that would fry you alive in Las Vegas, but apparently Aldo kept the air-conditioning blasting as much as the multispeaker sound system that had been blaring Italian opera all the way. One more sorrowful aria from Pagliacci or Pavarotti and Temple would strangle the nearest tenor.

  Aldo followed her clicking heels up the familiar sidewalk.

  “No uncollected milk bottles on the doorstep,” he mentioned.

  “Nobody delivers milk anymore.”

  “That’s my point. So why is that black cat lurking in the Hollywood twist, then?” Aldo, well, pointed.

  “Louie!” Temple gasped, glimpsing a dark feline face in the door-side plantings.

  Except it wasn’t Louie, but a fluffier, younger version of Louie. The gold eyes gave it away.

  “Looks like the black cat that hangs out at the Crystal Phoenix,” Aldo said. “Of course, all black cats look alike.”

  As if Fontana brothers didn’t?

  “Maybe it’s an omen,” Temple said.

  “Aw, Miss Temple. Tell me you’re not superstitious?”

  Aldo escorted her by the elbow up the rest of the walk.

  “Watch it!” He seized her to a stop. “There’s a crack. You don’t wanna break your mama’s back. Especially my mama’s back. Any more than you wanna shave her mustache.” He glanced at her dumb-struck face. “Just kidding. Trying to jolly you up. You are getting grimmer than a grandma at a mob funeral these days.”