Temple leaned closer. “Come on, Jill, I know you did it. The police will figure it out a lot faster, given your profession.”
Jill drove her stubby fingers into those silken strands of platinum hair. Her complexion was almost as pale.
“Yes, I did it! Yes, it started as a joke. No, it’s not any fun now. I could lose my license—!”
“What did you use?”
“Foxglove, the herbal source of digitalis.”
“Digitalis?”
Jill nodded.
“And that wouldn’t kill somebody?”
“No! Not in a small dose in food. The idea was just to produce vomiting and diarrhea.”
“Then you didn’t realize—”
“I didn’t think anyone would realize I did that. If the murder hadn’t happened out here, no one would have even suspected.”
“Suspected?” Temple was confused into echoing her perp.
“Who would have cared how it was done, or by who when, if it all was just a big fat prenuptial joke?”
“You mean that you drugged the regular driver, not the murder victim.”
“Yes!” Jill looked up, big blues bug-eyed in horror. “You didn’t think—you’d never think that I would’ve helped murder that woman?”
Temple felt that question didn’t merit an answer. Of course that’s what she’d thought, had even hoped in her haste to solve this crime so none of her friends—and her fiancé especially—would be implicated.
“How did you get the regular driver to take something?”
“I visited Gangsters that late afternoon, swore him to silence on the fact that we girlfriends were making a surprise appearance at the end of the bachelor party, and even gave him a taste of the cake we were all going to pop out of, devil’s food. There was enough foxglove in that so that all he could manage to do was call in sick six hours later. We figured the new driver didn’t know what was what yet and would be easier to con. Asiah gave him the same story, this was a surprise prank, and got him off the lot in time to slip into the driver’s seat before the bachelor party arrived.”
“For a pharmacist to play a prank like that . . . it could cost you your license. Why’d you do it, Jill? It was a pretty stupid idea.”
She picked at the clear polish on her fingernails. “I’d never fit in with the other girls. They lived such glamorous lives, did such glamorous things. I just wanted to prove to them I could be a good sport. I didn’t care if Giuseppe proposed. He’s probably going to dump me anyway.” She shrugged dispiritedly.
“What part of ‘crazy about you’ don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? Giuseppe probably liked that you were different from the usual arm candy. I can’t say that the Fontana brothers are sobersides, but they aren’t just tall, dark, dumb hunks either.”
“Oh. I thought he was just joshing me. About something long-term. I thought if I was part of this fun game the other girlfriends were playing, I could hang on a little longer.”
“You and he need to have a long talk after this is over.”
“I doubt we’ll be still talking then.”
Temple sighed. “There’s no reason that exactly how the bridesmaid crew got the original driver out of the way has to come up—”
Jill was all eyes, saucers brimming with bright blue hope.
“If,” Temple added, “I can hand a murder suspect over to the police when they get here. And they will.”
Temple looked at her watch. “Too damn soon.”
A Real Pickle
I wind up in the kitchen with my kisser in Satin’s empty food bowl.
The bored bridesmaids are chowing down chips, no doubt trying to outgrow their gowns before the ceremony at week’s end, just out of spite.
That seems to be their inbred reaction to crisis: flight or spite.
I am getting pretty spiteful myself . . . the more my stomach registers “empty.”
That the only remaining traces in Miss Satin’s bowl sniff of Midnight Louise and Ma Barker, not to mention Free-to-Be-Feline, does nothing to slake my bad mood.
I hang over the bowl, hoping the gesture will inspire She Who Feeds to action. But though the room is packed with shes, none seem the least bit maternal.
Then I hear the soft suck of the rubber seal on the refrigerator door.
I immediately gaze at this Moby Dick-size behemoth with interest.
I spot the old demi-dame who does odd jobs at this place pulling out a package that reeks of roast beef. Rare, just the way I love it.
I amble over, trying to turn the frog in my throat from the dry desert air into a respectable purr. I am prepared to massage the calves in those black slacks, even though I am not sure of their owner’s gender. I am not biased. I am an equal-opportunity mooch.
I am just about to abase myself with a total stranger (sorta symptomatic of business as usual here anyway), when I watch Ms. or Mr. Shoofly slip out the back door, a hunk of sliced odifer-ous beef in one hand, and a longneck beer in the other.
The bridesmaids are the usual self-absorbed and notice nothing.
I am fast enough on my feet to slip through the door under the cover of moving black pant legs.
Alone at last: me, the meat, and the night. And whatever.
The alluring odor is slipping away into the dark beyond the glow of the lamp-lit windows. Yet the cover of darkness is my native element. I slip-slide along behind the butch butcher of the Sapphire Slipper. I do not see why the odd odd-jobber here takes a snack break alone in the dark, but I would not trust those bridesmaids to refrain from stripping away every last, small solitary pleasure a guy might want either.
I do not appreciate the sand that is getting in between my toes. Not everyone here is shod in cowhide.
A flashlight finally flares into action now that we are out of sight and hearing of the cathouse. I can spot where we are heading, the roast beef and I. It is a low outbuilding, probably where the brothel’s vehicles are housed. I suspect most customers drive themselves, or are driven here by cabbies who get a cut of the deal. I overhear that a regular session can run four hundred clams. Or oysters.
But Miss Kitty and Ms. Shoofly must require vehicles to do the shopping and other homely chores a bordello requires. I am betting the laundry is done on-site. Umm, warm sheets fresh from the dryer and more than a dozen beds to make up every day. Miss Satin must be in catnap heaven when it comes to soft, warm places to snooze here.
Meanwhile, I am grinding the sheen off my nails and the skin off my pads trekking over raw desert cacti and choke weed.
At last Shoofly yanks open a barn-type door and vanishes beyond it.
I follow, secure in being behind the flashlight beam.
Well, this is a fine kettle of fishiness.
“Here,” Shoofly’s raspy voice whispers. “Some grub.”
“Beef? Just beef? No bread?”
“Beer is better than bread.”
“It is warm.”
“I did not want to grab a cool one from the fridge and get all those girls thirsty all of a sudden. Will you quit your griping? You were supposed to have been long gone. At this rate, you’ll be picnicking here for the police to find.”
Another flashlight points into the darkness. I spot the silhouettes of a Jeep Tracker, a van, and Gangsters’ own sterling-silver Rolls-Royce.
“Who ever parked the Rolls and disabled the engine did the same to the company cars.”
“Your leggy black showgirl pal did the parking. I am guessing a Fonanta brother slipped out to disable the vehicles once they’d taken over the house party. Did you not hear anything?”
“I was lying low in the Roll’s trunk, the way I got here. I just popped the emergency release and was free as a bird. I knew once the inside scene got going, nobody would remember the limo.”
“Too bad. Someone did. They take something from the ignition?”
“Not the usual cop movie mischief. Something’s got all these motors dead. I might get the Jeep going.”
Th
e man’s voice stopped as I was forced to overhear beef-chomping sounds. Not mine. I then and there resolved that this unknown meat thief, and worse, should face immediate custody.
“What a mess,” the guy complains.
“What, the meat too dry for you?” Shoofly is snickering. “A big-time player like you? Want some pickle with that?”
During the ensuing string of curses I realize who this is: Gherken, the newly hired substitute chauffeur who let Asiah “bribe” him into letting her drive the Crystal Phoenix gang straight into the waiting arms of mayhem and murder.
“If worse comes to worse,” Shoofly is speculating, “you can always ride out of here on the horses you came in on.”
“Unlike when it arrived, that limo is not leaving here without a complete going-over for tracking devices and clues. It may be impounded on the spot. No way am I hiding out in that trunk anymore. Besides, it stinks of Fontanas and cigars.”
Aha! I smell a rat!
Maybe I even smell a murderer.
I have opportunity. I have gotten the meat of the matter, so to speak. Or smell. All I am missing is motive.
But first I have to figure out how to point my slow-tempo human associates in the right direction. That might be tough . . . until I recall a trick from one of my favorite bedtime stories.
No, it is not a mystery, although it was almost a murder case.
Piece of catnip.
Peace of Paper
“It’s our only clue,” Matt said.
He and Temple were cloistered in the madam’s office, if one could be “cloistered” in a brothel. Apparently, lots of people could.
Temple sat on the large, golden oak desk chair, feeling like a shrunken Alice on a massive seating piece meant for Miss Kitty’s full sensuous bulk.
“Maybe it’s a Social Security number,” she suggested.
“These women are paid in cash. Madonnah had no personal identity except a fake-looking driver’s license and this number. Ten digits. It’s got to be a phone number.”
“We could try it on the office safe first, with Miss Kitty present.”
“There are no break spaces to indicate turning left or right.”
“Doesn’t mean Madonnah didn’t have them memorized. She wouldn’t want to transcribe a safe combination exactly.”
“No, but why would she care about the safe in a place she only visited once in a blue moon?”
“If she was so anonymous, there might be something revealing in the safe. Miss Kitty strikes me as a benign madam, someone her girls could confide in.”
“Like a mother superior, sure. Only she kept the records and kept the money.”
“I want to call it. The cell phones work much better on this floor. If whoever answers sounds funny, I hang up.”
“You could leave a trail,” Matt warned her. “These days cell phones are as traceable as landline calls.”
“Look, Aldo is right. We have to call in the authorities. Annoying them is on the brink of turning into antagonizing them.”
“You call. A woman is always given more leeway.”
“At what? Being mistaken for a ditz who can’t dial the right number? That’s sexist.”
“Yes, but yes.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re the one with press and stage experience. You ought to be able to pose as a dirty rotten liar way better than I would. I’m still learning the ropes.”
Temple took out her own cell phone. “I’ll call, but on my nickel and my responsibility. I’m a known meddler. You’re a prime suspect. It’ll look better if I mess up things than if you do.”
He nodded and watched as Temple punched in the ten digits.
Her eyebrows lifted as her lips mimed a ring.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello.” A pause. “My number? Isn’t this one enough?” Another pause, her eyes darting as she improvised. “It’s just that I don’t know what happened to me.” Her eyes widened. “Yes, Nevada. The usual place. No, not my phone. I couldn’t get to it. Wait! I’m . . . feeling faint. I think someone drugged me—”
Temple dropped the cell phone, putting her finger to her lips to ensure Matt’s silence, then bent to hit the End button.
“What the heck—?” Matt asked.
“That was a very weird contact. The man on the other end expected confirmation. The call was instantly traced, Matt, or he knew who had that number. He knew right where I—she—was. I faked a problem and got the hell off.” Temple took a deep breath. “What does this mean?”
“It means you could have been talking to her murderer. I’ll tell Aldo to call the Nye County sheriff. It’s always good to go through jurisdictional channels, and that way the bias of the Vegas police toward the Fontana family doesn’t come into instant play.”
“I’m not sure we’re ready. Matt, this sheriff’s department may not know the Fontanas, but it doesn’t know us, either. You, me, Electra. We’d catch a break from Molina’s people, because they know our . . . my . . . penchant for crime and that we’re harmless.”
“Not this time,” Matt said. “This time not a one of us looks harmless. We look like scofflaws with something to hide. The sooner we face that particular music, the sooner we get a chance to evaluate just how screwed we are.”
Temple fidgeted on the shiny, varnished oak chair seat. “The sheriff’s department could be worse than Molina and her minions. I’ve got another idea for backup we might need. Let me see your cell phone.”
“You didn’t want it used for calling out.”
“I’m not using it to call out. I’ll use my Miss Marple snoop sister personal cell for that. I just want to cop a number from your address book.”
“Address book? It’s more an address mini-list.”
“Ooh! I’m number one. How long has that been going on?”
Matt’s face flushed. “You’re the one who said I had to have a cell phone. So—”
“And Electra. Ambrosia . . . ?”
“My boss at the radio station, remember? Her on-air name.”
“And some more radio station names. A couple Chicago numbers, your mother and—?”
“None of your business.”
She lifted her eyebrows again, but said nothing. Then, “Molina. Hey, all we have to do is dial direct.”
“You have her on your instant dial too.”
“Guilty.”
“Janice Flanders,” she read off without expression.
“Never know when I could use a good police sketch artist,” he said.
But they both knew he’d briefly dated Janice when Temple was unavailable.
She nodded. Hit a few more buttons, then dialed.
Matt frowned, trying to remember who else was in his scanty cell phone address book. His agent, Tony Valentine, of course. Danny Dove, Temple’s choreographer friend who’d become an odd combination of counselee-mentor for him lately. Who the devil else?
The phone was ringing, and from the way Temple slightly raised her voice, he knew it was a long-distance call.
“Temple Barr calling on behalf of our mutual friend, Matt Devine,” she said confidently. “Sorry to bother you, but Matt’s in a spot of trouble in a brothel in the Nevada boonies and—” She laughed, almost flirtatiously. “I thought that would get your attention. So help me God and Judge Roy Bean. Right. Heart of the West. I, we, need to know what this phone number means.” She repeated the digits. Then listened. And listened. And listened some more.
“No shinola! That would explain what happened when I called it. Yes, I did. Just now. I’m sorry! There was no other way to learn what we’re dealing with on that end. On this end? Murder. Matt tried to give the victim CPR and was discovered in a compromising position with the body. Female, right. That too. Are you online? Yes, about thirty. Hard to tell. Really made-up.”
Temple glanced at Matt. “Well, it happened more than twelve hours ago. It’s a touchy situation. We were hoping to—Yes, I know that’s loony. Yes, I know you know me. Molina? Over my dead body. We’re sixty miles from Vegas anyway a
nd in a different county. Really. Yes, I have seen some of Smoky and the Bandit, but only accidentally while using the remote control. County sheriffs are really that obsessive? Okay, okay, I’ll have Van von Rhine call the LVMPD. You bet I don’t want to be the whistle-blower here! This call was bad enough.
“Yes, all the Fontana brothers and their significant others, as a matter of fact. It was a bachelor party. Aldo. Getting married, yes. The girlfriends crashed the party. My aunt from New York. She’s not that old! You’ll call and cancel? That would be great. I kinda hung up by pretending to pass out.”
Temple cringed. “I know it was a stupid stunt. Helicopters? Well, we do have more people here now than would fit in even the most elastic stretch limo. That much an hour for gas? Man, fuel prices are outrageous. There oughta be a law.” Temple cringed again. “Yes, I know I’ve broken several. Thank you for calling that helicopter thing off. It might have stampeded the lizards.”
Temple flipped her phone shut and grinned at Matt. “I’ve irritated some real heavy hitters in law enforcement, but I’ve now got a motive. A damn good motive. Next stop is Miss Kitty’s safe.”
Not So Safe
“Sorry, Red. I don’t open my safe until the police get here.”
Miss Kitty folded her ample arms over her truly commanding chest.
She filled the golden oak desk chair now, and Temple and Matt sat on the maple side chairs drawn up to it.
“We need to present the police with a fait accompli solution,” Temple said. “There are folks who have places to be tonight and I imagine you have rooms booked too.”
Miss Kitty stirred on her executive throne. “True. But I don’t break a confidence. My business reputation depends on it.”
“Even when the other party is dead?” Matt asked.
The madam heaved out a frustrated breath.
“We know you recognized Madonnah when you first saw the dead woman,” Temple said. “It would have simplified everything if you’d just said so. I wasted hours trying to find out who she was.”
“I don’t break a confidence. In life, or in death. Even I didn’t recognize her at first, and I knew the girls’ hadn’t seen her latest ‘look,’ so they wouldn’t say anything. She really was a woman of a thousand faces. Had to be, poor thing.”
Cat in a Sapphire Slipper Page 24
