Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

I shiver. They have lowered the air-conditioning to preserve the body. Even my luxuriant hair is not proof against chills.

Mr. Max also lies in a forgotten state in some people’s minds. I know my partner is not letting the mystery of his possible fatal accident lay unexamined, but even she recognizes that we must ride to the rescue of Mr. Matt, who is not mysterious at all and firmly on the suspect list.

A pity his sterling scruples and blind Justice have put him in a perfect frame: too noble to peer at a nearby, possibly sleazy sex scene and therefore an ignorant and useless witness. Too compassionate to forgo saving a possibly dead person, and therefore caught red-handed performing the Kiss of Life on the body. Thus leaving DNA traces all over it.

Such behavior is likely to look suspicious, if not downright psychotic, to the police professionals who will soon descend on our parlor play of the moment.

It strikes me that Miss Temple, who spent most of the past year defending Mr. Max from Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s relentless suspicions, has traded one fiance for another, and for the same outcome. She must now defend Mr. Matt from Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s relentless suspicions.

At least, it occurs to me, Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina likes Mr. Matt Divine, maybe more than she realizes.

Hmm . Sad to say, but it might best serve our cause (Mr. Matt Devine) if said homicide lieutenant got her size nines out here and took over this messy, confusing crime scene straight out of that movie musical, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers .

Brother! I am sure glad that we feline dudes do not do matrimony.

Wheel of Misfortune

The ladies in the front parlor were still playing Game Boys. Apparently, they’d never updated to the latest techie toys.

The odd appropriateness of their choice of amusement hadn’t occurred to them, although it had certainly stunned Temple. She supposed they had a lot of odd hours to while away in their profession.

Miss Kitty was knitting, and Ms. Phyliss Shoofly was torturing the ivories on the upright piano in the bar. She was playing the title song to the musical, Cabaret .

Apparently not just life, but death, was a cabaret, my friend. Because life here clearly went on, with time to be killed as well as paid for.

Temple paused on the threshold, studying the women’s odd combination of undress and gussied up with such fripperies as fingerless chiffon gloves, garter belts and hose, teeny-tiny thongs, high heels, and low-cut mini-corsets.

The various shades of blue reminded Temple of Matt’s “Virgin Mary blue,” the pastel not-quite-turquoise shade found on Catholic holy cards of the Virgin and Tiffany jewelry boxes. That was an odd combo of the sacred and the secular.

Here the blues ran the gamut from a military navy blue speaking of bondage and discipline to ruffles of the palest sky blue, speaking of sugar and spice and everything nice. Yet it all was exaggerated, whether butch or babyish. It all went to extremes, like elaborate theater. Like a cabaret.

“I’m surprised you don’t play solitaire with real cards,” Temple remarked as she came in and sat down on one of the few free chairs.

“Cards?” one woman jeered. “If the guys knew we had cards in the house they’d hole up with them and start gambling. We want their concentration, and their money, on us.”

“Is that why the Sapphire Slipper is so far out on the desert?” Temple asked.

“To keep the men captive?”

“Sure,” answered Miss Kitty, rising and moving among the courtesans. “Pretty and pleasing as my girls are, gambling is a more magnetic vice. It’s hard to lure big spenders away from the tables. That’s why I keep a cigar bar stocked with world-class spirits, and why my cook can whip up big game dishes as well as cow and crawfish. And, of course, my girls are the best in the state at their specialties.”

“Do you often rent the whole house to special parties?”

“Sure. Conventioneers. PACs.”

“Political Action Committees?” Temple couldn’t help sounding shocked.

Miss Kitty’s plump features folded into a complacent smile.

“We put the Action in PACs.”

“So nothing about this booking set off any red flags?”

“Only the green flags of moolah. The girls enjoy a big party. There are group scenes. Some customers request special, high-dollar attention.”

“Would you say you and your staff were disappointed when you discovered this was a kidnapping party?”

“Hell, no. Surprised at first, sure. But then we eyed the ‘victims’ and thought this would be a laugh riot. My girls are ready to do vixens-in-charge any time.”

“And it didn’t bother you that the men were captives?”

“Pretty willing captives, once everything became clear.” Miss Kitty leaned against a floral-upholstered easy chair. “I’m going to set out some sodas and chips in the kitchen. The girls are used to a bedtime snack about now. They burn a lot of energy before the wee hours. As for what goes on here, Miss Barr, we aim to please our customers, and I’ve never known a man to object to some sexy teasing.”

Matt would have, Temple knew, but he wasn’t caught in the same net as the Fontana brothers. As for the brothers, once they recognized their girlfriends, they would have gone along with the mock-kidnapping. They would know that sampling the house goods was only a tease. The whole idea was to claim the brothers, once and for all.

All for once, and once for all. Like the Three Musketeers’ “all for one and one for all.”

It was just a bit of nonsense and fun, until the dead girl had landed in their midst.

Temple punched up the photos on Nicky’s cell phone.

“Look. I’m going to send these pics around again. One of you might recognize the girl in them on a second round. Nobody else has a clue.”

Game Boys idled in laps. Whitened teeth bit into reddened and plumped-up lips. The phone passed from woman to woman, each one expertly clicking through the three photos Nicky had taken, then shrugging and shaking her head. The screen was small and the quality was iffy.

The dead girl was not a game.

Babette handed the phone back to Temple when the circle had been completed. “Can’t say I recognize her. She could be a Fontana girlfriend.”

“They’re all accounted for.”

More shrugs. Game Boys were in play again on several laps.

“Listen,” Temple said, annoyed by the indifference. “Something is fishy here and I want answers. I’ll be a lot easier to deal with than the police. I bet they like to rake hookers over the coals.”

“ We are legal,” Angela said.

“We are courtesans, not hookers.”

“We don’t lure men, they come looking for us. We are a cut above.”

“Then if you’re a cut above, why can’t you spell?” Temple asked, cuttingly.

“Huh? Who says we can’t?”

“Well, you don’t know your alphabet.”

“ABCs? We know a lot more than that.”

“Then why are E and M missing from your roster?”

“ E is a sucky letter for glamorous names. I mean, Emily, Eleanor, Evelyn, Edith. Sound like freaking dead schoolteachers. That’s not the kind of school we teach.”

“And M? ” Temple pointed out. “Surely M is promising. Mitzi, Muffin, Mimi . . . I guess you may be a cut above but you’re not very creative thinkers. Might that carry through into the bedroom?”

She had them riled and spitting. Playing Bad Cop was fun. No wonder Molina did it. They protested in a blizzard of comments.

“Hey, that’s not fair!”

“You don’t know nothin’ about us.”

“That M is taken. Reserved. We can’t use it.”