Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

“And you?” Van asked.

“I need to consult with Nicky and Matt about the scene of the crime, and on their own nebulous movements while hiding out of sight, out of mind, although it is hard to imagine either of those gentlemen being out of mind with all those loose women around. Though I may be prejudiced on this subject.”

“Not at all,” Van said. “Hiding those two good-lookers in a whorehouse would be a real trick.”

“‘Loose’ women?” Electra asked. “Isn’t that a prejudicial description for a legal profession in Nevada?”

“I was thinking of the screw-loose bridesmaids,” Temple said. “They’ve made a royal mess out of trying to have some serious fun with the groomsmen. Somehow their crazy-brained daisy-chain scheme allowed a murderer a free hand to commit the perfect crime. No matter how bizarre the setting and the scheme that got everyone here, the murder sounds like the usual sordid and awful business.

“Everybody ready for her assignment? We’ll have to consult periodically. We’ll also need to confine each group so no one can confer without one of us overhearing. It’s going to be a long night’s journey into noon tomorrow, to paraphrase an O’Neill play title. And if we don’t find a likely suspect, the police will charge us all with failure to report a crime. If Lieutenant C. R. Molina has anything to do with it, she just may do that anyway.

“Are we ready? Let’s rock and roll.”

Terrorizing Trio

Now that my crime-solving bed partner has arrived, all thought or notice of me has been shoved farther back than a no-name tie-up oxford in Miss Temple’s shoe closet.

I cannot blame her for wanting to find and interrogate her latest significant other, Mr. Matt Devine, since he is up to his late-night golden tonsils in suspicion. I believe the least serious charge would be “interfering with a corpse,” which has very gruesome and twisted connotations.

But Miss Temple has not even registered my presence, so I sulk downstairs after hearing all the good stuff. I spot Miss Satin sitting in the foyer and am heading for some ego-rebuilding strokes from a female of my kind, when I stop halfway down the stairs with a swallowed hiss of surprise.

The waiting Miss Satin has turned her head to reveal the old-gold eyes of my feline partner in crime solving, Miss Midnight Louise.

I cannot count on having my wounded pride massaged by her, so I stop three steps farther on at the ghastly sight of another pair of black shoulder blades, these as sharp as a Swiss Army knife, cruising into sight and stopping beside Miss M. Louise.

Eek! That rangy, lived-in, scrawny form can only be that of my newfound materfamilias, the Mother McCree of the street cat world, my own dam, as they say in the horse world, Ma Barker. Damn!

I cringe against the wrought-iron banister and take deep calming breaths, intoning my mantra, Kaaaaar-maaa. Kaaaaar-maaaa . What can the so-called fruit of my loins be doing associating with the fruited loins of my maternal creator? And I do not mean Bast Herself!

Midnight Louise and Ma Barker in cahoots? This is not good! It is as bad as a Fontana brother bridesmaid and a brothel inhabitant canoodling.

While I sit transfixed between one story and another (and my own story for explaining my presence and keeping these opposing female forces from sinking tooth and claw into my unblemished hide), I witness something even more horrifying.

Along comes the latest lady of my acquaintance, totally unrelated to me by blood, at least . . . the cathouse cat, Satin.

Oh, great. I am not dead, but I am like a dead body about to be revealed to one and all: a helpless object of morbid speculation, soon to be dissected in every sordid detail of my life by a trio of vaguely related snoops.

I stare down on the three generations of females in my life, my once and future queens, watching as they begin the edgy get-acquainted dance of their kind and gender.

There is only one thing to be done, and I do it.

Turn tail and run.

Emilio definitely could use some expert assistance watching that dead body.

Posthomicidal Nerves

Temple had never been inside a brothel before. She hadn’t even been to a Chippendale’s male strip show. She had no idea what to expect.

They walked into what seemed like the set for a play, a stuffy, period play like Life with Father , some fussy turn-of-the-twentieth-century Victorian parlor tricked out all in shades of blue.

One really crowded Victorian parlor!

Temple felt like singing part of the famous Christmas carol: twelve shady ladies, ten studly brothers, eight ditsy bridesmaids, four addled sleuths, three senior citizens, two roaming lads, and a cat in a sable-fur ruff. . . .

A cat? Black yet? Louie, wherefore art thou, Louie?

Not here at the moment, thank God and Bast. This was a fluffy bordello cat with green-gold eyes.

Temple recognized Uncle Mario, perching his bulk uneasily on a velvet-tufted chair next to a heavyset woman dressed up like Mae West in corseted glitter. And a second late-middle-aged person wearing a starched collared man’s shirt with a garter on one upper arm and black trousers. Part woman, part man? Part bartender, piano player, dealer, or what?

For the overall atmosphere was Old West saloon. And the “girls” arrayed along one wall were a curled and feathered bevy all in blue, every shade of blue imaginable, from the faint saccharine hues to midnight velvet. And each woman along the spectrum ran the gamut from young and fresh to older and wiser and ready for every implication of midnight blue the law allowed.

It was all legal, and Temple thought it should be outlawed.

Back when she was a TV reporter, she’d run into the tawdry statistics about the sex trade. The “goods” were all spoiled. Strippers. Hookers. Many models. Childhood physical, verbal, and sexual abuse were the guaranteed ingredients that led girls and boys to the sleazy and often self-destructive side of the street. They may proclaim they worked this profession from free will, but their wills and self-esteem had been shaped by trauma most people never had to confront.

Selling oneself still was tragic, and Temple would bet that the reason for the dead woman upstairs would prove to be the result of some perverse, pathetic past, for both victim and murderer.

That concluded, she dismissed her gut reaction.

She had to keep an open mind to dig deep into this culture to find the twisted reason behind the crime.

So. Where were the prime suspects?

Nicky and Matt.

Highly Suggestive

“We’re not making progress with your memory,” Dr. Schneider announced at her next visit.

A genuine assessment or a clever interrogator sensing his suspicions?

“Come, Mr. Randolph, stop glaring at me! I know you’re impatient. Those casts must be as itchy as hell, and you’re obviously not a man used to being pent up.”

Reading and reflecting his emotional mood. Intuitive? Or manipulative?

“Bottled up, maybe?” She smiled shrewdly. “Is that the proper expression? You don’t like your emotions to be obvious or to be read. Am I in your bad graces for noticing?”

“I didn’t know I had any bad graces.”

Her smile deepened. “Very few, but you’ve always known that. I’m glad that you remember enough to be suave.”

“Thank you.”

“I have decided to try a mnemonic device. Just a little game. It might . . . crack . . . some unconscious memories loose.”

“Isn’t that a bad thing to go poking around in, the unconscious?”

“I don’t know. Is it in your case?”

“I’m not a ‘case.’ ”

She shifted in her chair uneasily. “You’re quite right. I apologize.”