Cat in a Sapphire Slipper

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Thank God for Morrie. He’d left her some ground to stand on: her job. She had to start using that better.

  Number one: neutralize Rafi Nadir. He wasn’t going to go away, and if he really hadn’t tampered with her birth control device, why should he? Number two: distance herself from Dirty Larry. He’d come in handy for her, but you had to ask why. She didn’t need an ambiguous boyfriend. She needed . . . Morrie Alch. He was shrewd, loyal, and more than she deserved. Daddy dearest. She swallowed hard. Yes. She needed someone to look out for her. Yes, she still needed someone. Someone to watch over me.

  The lyric and music played in her head. So what if she was a little feverish, a little Vicodined out.

  She had a lot of catching up to do when she felt up to it in a few weeks.

  Here Comes the Ride

  Naturally, I have not been invited to the Fontana Family bachelor party for Aldo.

  Naturally, that does not make a bit of difference to my intentions and actions.

  I intend to be in on the action, however juvenile and rowdy.

  It is not often that one gets to see a Fontana brother tie the marital knot in this town. I was there when the youngest brother, Nicky, got hitched, and I will be there when the eldest falls to the blow of domestic bliss.

  It is a snap for Midnight Louie to crash a party of this nature.

  Obviously, ten brothers, their notorious uncle, Macho Mario Fontana, and Mr. Matt will be transported in one of Gangsters’ famous theme limos. The boys own that company, and only their vehicles are long and large enough to transport so many in such luxury.

  The key is to anticipate which model will have the honor tonight.

  I stroll among the cast of custom vehicles in the Gangsters’ lot.

  First, I had to customize two overzealous guard dogs. I had nailed their noses with a one-two to each long German shepherd snout. They were whimpering when the human guard called them off.

  “Bruno! Horst! That is only a stray cat. What is the matter with you two tonight?”

  I can answer that better than they can: quarter-inch-deep tracks on their hypersensitive German schnozzles. If they were weiner dogs you could call them “Weiner schnitzel” after I got through with them.

  So now I am car shopping, sniffing tires for hints of where these glamorous vehicles have been. Umm. The scent of French bread. Must have been at the Paris last. A dude can travel the world just from sniffing the Gangsters’ tires.

  Since the Fontanas favor pale summer suits of Italian design, I am torn as to whether the stretch Lamborghini or the stretch Maserati will be the lucky ride tonight.

  Then I hear the scrape of many feet on asphalt.

  Rats! (Not the cause of the skittering sounds, but merely an expletive dear to my kind.) My keen ears pick up the sound of custom-leather loafers surrounding a vehicle the whole damn lot away.

  I skitter myself over there just in time to shadow the last pair of black Bruno Maglis into the last closing door on a stretch vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. Was I wrong about the ride!

  Luckily, the open interior is carpeted in black-like-me. Also, everybody is joshing Aldo and doing that kind of human arm slapping and feet milling that is very hazardous to my health.

  I dodge size eleven shoes to hunker down by Mr. Matt’s more sedate size tens. A family of all brothers can be a high-spirited bunch. It occurs to me that Mr. Matt, until not long ago a man of chaste and churchly ways, could use a bit of backup among this mob. Oops! I did not mean that last word personally. Macho Mario Fontana is the last of the red-hot capos in this town, but no one likes to comment on that.

  I dig in my four-on-the-floor as the huge Rolls lurches into gear and motion. The interior is one big conversation pit studded with built-in bars. Corks are popping like firecrackers and Cristal is foaming over a dozen champagne glass rims.

  Nobody offers me even a sip.

  However, a lot of it oozes floorward, and I polish a few shoe tips unseen. Hmm. Excellent vintage. Airy and impertinent, like me, with a smoky hint of Italian leather.

  I return to hide behind Mr. Matt’s less expensive and also less damp shoes.

  Macho Mario Fontana leans forward to address us. Or only Mr. Matt. Little does he notice it is now an “us.”

  “So, compadre. This is your first time at an Italian bachelor party. I understand you will be the guest of honor at another one soon.”

  “Yes, um, Sir.”

  Mr. Matt is clearly befuddled by Macho Mario’s girth under the silk-screened vest that depicts in fine art detail naked ladies on red velvet swings. He is also no doubt taken literally aback by the pungent cigar smoke and the fiery tip that gestures at Mr. Matt’s chest on every other word.

  “Call me Uncle,” Macho Mario insists, clapping Mr. Matt on the shoulder so hard he inhales a lungful of blue smoke and starts coughing. Even I am coughing and I am on the floor where the smoke is last to go.

  “Are all the people at the party relatives?” Mr. Matt asks.

  “People? Hell, have you never been to a bachelor party? It will be just us guys, and a naked girlie or two we smuggle in as a surprise for the poor dear Intended.”

  Mr. Matt looks a little sick, whether from the cigar smoke or the promise of undressed entertainment I cannot say.

  “Aw, that is right, son.” Another clap to the shoulder and a hearty, “Hi-ho, Silver.” “You are kinda new to this guy stuff. You were a man of the cloth. Dontcha worry about that. My nephews will get you togged out right for your own, er, festivities.”

  “I do not know that many people in town, working nights at the radio station, as I do,” Mr. Matt says with relief, “I will not need a bachelor party.”

  “Well, you are going to get one. Worry not. Macho Mario Fontana knows enough good wiseguys to fill a football stadium. Man, I cannot believe that Aldo fell for that little New York gal enough to marry her. I thought Nicky was going to be the only married Fontana of his generation. I tell you, Mike—”

  “Matt.”

  “Matt. Better name. You cannot trust micks named Mike. I tell you, Mack, marriage looks a lot better on paper than in practice. But since you too are among the poor dear Intendeds, I can advise you to drink up and enjoy the parties, because the forty years afterward is not so much fun.”

  Macho Mario quaffs his champagne and leans back to eavesdrop on his favorite nephews, who are razzing Aldo something fierce.

  Mr. Matt is murmuring something under his breath. It sounds like “Holy Mary, mother of God. No one in seminary mentioned a mobile mob riot.”

  I am tempted to provide a consoling shin rub. I agree that civility is sadly lacking among the rowdy bunch already . . . and they are not even tipsy yet.

  I figure we are heading to a racy striptease club. However, I confess that I am looking forward to the forthcoming scantily clad ladies. (They are never really naked, but clothed in bits and pieces, and those bits and pieces are often sparkly and feathered. Right up my alley cat!)

  I do like to see how the other half lives, even if it is rude, loud, and rather tacky. That is the heart of rock ‘n’ roll and also Las Vegas. And sometimes, me.

  Girls’ Night In

  Van von Rhine’s glass desktop in her Crystal Phoenix office was no longer bare and sleek.

  It was littered with fat photograph albums displaying everything from the chosen floral arrangements to napkin designs.

  Two huge boxes spilling gouts of gilt tissue were open on the navy Milan leather sofa.

  Van, Temple, and Kit gathered reverentially around them.

  “Kit, that ivory leather wedding suit of yours is gorgeous. Aldo will flip. I’m thinking bronze and the palest mauve orchids for the bridal bouquet. Simple, exotic, and expensive. What will you do for shoes?”

  “I was thinking some sexy ankle boots. Bronze, you think?”

  “Perfect. You need a firm foundation for the leather suit.” Van turned to Temple. “And you! Those shades of lilac and mauve are stunning.”

  “I
love purple shades,” Temple said, stroking the filmy gown. “And Matt seems to agree with me.” The dress was simple. It had spaghetti straps, so appropriate to an Italian wedding, an Empire waistline, and a flowing skirt that was short in front and longer in the back, all the better to showcase her Midnight Louie Austrian crystal shoes. This would be a White Carpet occasion.

  Van actually produced a sentimental smile. “It’ll be perfect with your softer strawberry hair color, Temple. You’ll look adorable. Anyway, Kit, now that I’ve seen the gowns you two have chosen, and the bridesmaids’ rainbow of pale metallic colors, it’ll make the chapel and reception color themes a snap. We have everything on hand. I must say that outfitting eight bridesmaids for eight groomsmen has been a . . . diplomatic feat.”

  “It seemed easiest,” Temple said, “to let the brothers invite their girlfriends.”

  “I obviously don’t have any girlfriends in town,” Kit noted.

  “So,” Temple said, “we have instant Eight Bridesmaids for Eight Brothers. What could be handier?”

  “Is that a reference I should know?” Van asked.

  Temple exchanged a knowing glance with her aunt. “Kit knows. It’s a famous fifties movie musical, based on a Stephen Vincent Benét story.”

  When Van continued to look puzzled, Kit explained. “Benét was a poet. He updated the legend of Rome’s founders raiding the neighboring Sabine tribe for brides on whom to found their dynasty.”

  “A musical based on mass rape?” Van said, shocked.

  “Not really,” Temple said. “Benét transferred the plot to the America frontier, where women were rare. The seven brides are kidnapped, true, but to be wooed, not raped.”

  “Some of the best musical choreography of the twentieth century is in that chestnut,” Kit added. “The late Michael Kidd. Great fun.”

  Van raised her pale eyebrows, unconvinced. “Whatever their numbers, and in whatever age or locale, bridesmaids always have issues. That’s why I planned a pastel metallic rainbow of colors for them; every girl should find some shade she likes. The wedding is less than a week away. We need to fit them all in the next couple of days. I’ve been leaving voice mail messages all over town for them.” Van frowned. “I’m not getting calls back yet.”

  While Temple and Kit reboxed their outfits, Van checked her watch. “The ‘boys’ should be arriving at the secret location of their bachelor party about now.”

  “I hope,” Temple said, “Matt isn’t overwhelmed by all that big Italian family energy. He’s an only child from the conservative Midwest.”

  “Aldo won’t let him get overwhelmed,” Kit said with a hug. “He takes his responsibility as the eldest seriously.”

  “When’s your bachelorette party?” Van asked her.

  “I don’t know a soul in town besides Temple and you and Electra. No party.”

  “Nonsense,” Van said. “Call Electra over,” she told Temple. “We’re going up to the owner’s suite to drink ourselves silly on Cristal champagne. The boys didn’t get all the bottles into the Gangsters’ stretch limo without me copping a couple.”

  Van stroked her smooth French twist and then winked. “We’re going to have a girls’ night in while they’re having a boys’ night out.”

  High Anxiety

  The view out the spotless window glass was spectacular.

  He leaned closer to see more of the snow-topped mountain peaks. They ringed a valley that plunged into the lush green slopes of early spring, wildflowers scattered everywhere like confetti. It was almost like looking out on a painting. Unreal.

  He leaned even closer to the glass, as close as the wheelchair would permit. His head twisted left, then right, then up. Ah, huge eaves above. To take the snow in the winter. The building must be set into a hillside. The outside wall of his room was almost all glass. Supernaturally clean glass. That took money, that took pride, that took a certain fussy perfectionism that he understood, that pleased him.

  The door to his room whooshed open. All the doors here were on air hinges so they wouldn’t shatter anyone’s nerves with an ill-timed bang. Or so they wouldn’t alert those inside who was coming and going.

  A lot of people had been coming and going in his room, but he knew he’d been drugged and out of it probably for days or weeks, he could hardly remember any of it. Still, he was conscious now and was a quick study. Pain was throbbing in his legs and head, but no pain medication was fogging his brain. He’d palmed the pills once he’d become conscious for longer periods. He could let them think he was woozy, and he was, for purely natural reasons. He preferred pain to ignorance any day.

  He turned the chair wheels toward the latest person who had whooshed into his territory. They never knocked around here. Medical personnel were like that.

  He cocked his head at the visitor. Someone new. Someone not all in white scrubs. (He thought hospital personnel wore figured scrubs now, whimsically colorful, to put patients at ease, but in this place both doctors and nurses wore wedding-gown white.)

  Having the light from the huge window at his back was an advantage. He could assess his latest visitor.

  Tallish. Female. Wearing a pale green silk runway suit worth a couple thousand with a Hermes scarf as carelessly arranged as her tawny blond hair. A professional, surely. But what kind? Chorus girl legs and knows it. Skirt hem just at the knee. Clipboard? Short, polished nails. Not a nurse, for sure. Doctor? Too upscale. Too silent. No “Good morning, how are you today?”

  He could play that game. He observed her taking him in. He had no idea what he looked like. Felt like hell, but he wasn’t going to cop to a weakness.

  “May I sit?” she asked.

  He nodded. What the hell—? The accent was slight, but European. He’d overheard a babel of languages since he’d been brought here, barely conscious. English. French. German. Some others. . . .

  “My name is Schneider,” she said, leaning forward to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage where the suit lapels met, holding out one hand.

  Nobody medical shook hands in a hospital. Her hand was warm where his was cold, and her grip was solid. He returned it, even though that sent a spasm down his shoulder to his spine to his damned useless legs.

  “Doctor?” he asked.

  “In a sense.” Like a doctor, she studied his chart on the clipboard, putting him in uneasy suspension. “Your case is most interesting.”

  “Tell me about it. Nobody’s thought to mention how interesting I was to me.”

  She chuckled. “Americans. So direct.”

  “Since I’m direct you might as well tell me who and what you are and what right you have to read up on my blood pressure and bowel movements.”

  “Challenging, not direct,” she corrected herself. “All right, Mr. Randolph, I’ll tell you what you ask and then you can answer some questions for me.”

  Randolph. That wasn’t his name. He knew that. When you’re at a disadvantage and don’t know what’s going on, act as if you do. Let them tell you, when they think all along that they’re conducting an interrogation.

  “No one quite knows what happened to you, Mr. Randolph. Do you?”

  He shrugged. Ouch. Apparently he couldn’t move much of anything.

  “Obviously,” she went on, “a climbing accident, but what kind? Were you alone on the mountain? Was it equipment failure? An avalanche? Carelessness?”

  He felt the wince cross his features before he could stop it.

  She caught it and threw it back at him. “You resent the implication that you could have been careless. You’re not the sort of man to make mistakes.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “It’s my job to know what you think.”

  It’s my job to keep you from knowing that, he thought. I’d do it better if I weren’t in so much pain. As you well know, you leggy blond bully.

  “My name is Schneider,” she repeated. “Revienne Schneider. I’m here to find out about your accident. Temporary memory loss about the details is to be
expected.”

  Her voice was soft, yet rich. He’d heard women announcers on German radio who purred over the airwaves that way, amazingly seductive for a language that seemed harsh. Yet she dressed like a Frenchwoman. And her first name stemmed from the French verb for “returning, haunting.” Odd name. Odd that he should remember such oddments of French.

  “You don’t speak much, but you think a lot,” she said.

  “A man with temporary memory loss wouldn’t have much to say.”

  “Hmm.” She licked her lips judiciously as she studied the unseen chart again. “It’s quite remarkable that you survived a fall of so far. The surgeons said the violence of the impact was severe.”

  Surgeons. How many? For what? What was wrong with him, other than temporary memory loss and the fact that his legs were in heavy incapacitating casts? And the pain all over, of course. No one had told him anything. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, or conscious. Shards of motion, conversation swirled around his brain, yet his first clear memory had been of looking out the window. Just now.

  “I fell here?”

  “In the Alps? No. You were flown in.”

  “From—”

  “Nepal.”

  “I am quite the climber, aren’t I?”

  Nepal! That didn’t sound right. Falling, yes. Something in his gut twisted and fell again. Falling.

  She smiled so slightly he might have been imagining it. “Climbers are a breed apart. I can’t say I understand the sport myself. The ego must be as high as the mountain to be conquered.”

  He said nothing. She was both criticizing and admiring him, appealing to his ego, appealing to his . . . libido, whatever he had left of it after the fall and the pain and the medication.

  “You’re a . . . psychiatrist,” he said. “You think you can manipulate my memory of the fall to come back.”

  Her slight shrug didn’t pain her shoulders, but it did wonders for her bodice. He did have some libido left, after all. Since he was forgoing the pain pills, he might as well sample some alternative medication. . . .