Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

This would be a tall, dark, and handsome, Fontana-style. The only mystery about this guy would be which one had been stuck setting up the party venue that had been usurped.

Temple imagined the fury uncorking at the place that the Fontana party was not at this very moment, including pathetic Quincey not being able to wriggle out of a fake cake in true bimbo form.

“Come in,” she said. “Ralph!” She gazed at the second youngest Fontana brother.

“Hi.” He shrugged. “Yeah, the church elders stuck me with setting up the village idol worshipping. I hear you want to know where we all were supposed to be right now.”

“Have a seat,” she suggested.

The only place was the other end of the Victorian love seat, which was hard of back and sitting surface, despite being upholstered in baby blue.

“Man, this is one uncomfortable mama of a couch,” Ralph said, arranging his lanky frame. “I guess it’s because they want to get right to the bed.”

Temple eyed the high-mattressed, rococo affair with ruffled canopy. “That doesn’t look any better.”

“There’s always the floor,” Ralph said with distaste, running the edge of his Italian sole over the saccharine floral-design area rug. “No, I guess not.”

Temple cleared her throat. She was not here to discuss ideal reclining spots with a Fontana brother. “Where were you all supposed to be?”

He described the place, the G-Strip Club, the plans for the evening. “It was going to be the usual bachelor party nonsense, a lot of booze, razzing the groom-to-be, a stripper bride popping out of a big cardboard cake. We didn’t have a lot of time to set it up.”

“That club is in Las Vegas proper. Or improper. When the ride there took so long, weren’t you suspicious?

“We were paesanos having a good time. The champagne and banter flowed. I just figured the driver was giving us a chance to mellow before we arrived.”

“The driver. Hah! Who was this?”

“Whoever was assigned to chauffeur us in the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, our smoothest and creamiest limo. The silver exterior finish is so perfect it seems like warm mirror to the sight and touch. The leather inside is softer than kid, the color of champagne. The inlaid woods are Swedish blond.”

Temple was almost drooling.

“Nicky calls it the Vanmobile.”

Well! She didn’t need to know that!

“Um, Ralph. I understand the driver was a new hire.”

“Chauffeurs come and go, like headwaiters. Essential, but temperamental.”

“You remember this guy?”

“Gherken. They go by last names, like ritzy English butlers. Never saw him before, but he seemed competent. One of our regulars had called in sick and this guy just happened to be applying. He had a good rap . . . I mean, reference . . . sheet.”

“What do you mean by good?”

“Employed as a getaway driver by the Ciampi family in Chicago. Not Irish. They tend to drink while waiting.”

“But not Italian?”

“Not . . . anything,” Ralph said, narrowing his eyes and fingering his discreet gold earring. “The guy was . . . blah. Bland. Not memorable. Every Mr. Smith you ever saw. Except his last name was Gherken. You talked to him, it sounded like you were asking for a pickle. On the other hand, our clients are always pretty jolly out on the town, and like a good laugh.”

“Funny,” Temple said. “You hear the name ‘Smith’ and get suspicious. You hear a ridiculous last name and you think it’s got to be genuine. Who’d make up a moniker like that?”

Ralph sat up, worried. “You think he was in on it! But it was just chance he got the Vanillamobile and our party.”

“Anybody talk personally to the ‘sick’ driver?”

“He was bribed?”

Temple said nothing.

“You mean he might have been mugged.”

“Or kidnapped himself.”

“Or killed. Jesu bambino! He could have been killed himself. And we shouldn’t call out of here to find out, unless we’re ready to call the cops too.” Ralph stood. “It would look suspicious if we want to use the excuse that none of our cell phones worked. Much as I hate to do it, I’ll talk to the guys about turning ourselves in.”

Temple had the satisfaction of astounding a Fontana brother. Usually it was the other way around.

Meanwhile, she was waiting for her next interviewee. This person was the bridge between the “before” and “after” of the kidnapping, least seen, least appraised.

Aldo led her in. The woman who had actually added some black palazzo pants to her butt-skimming uniform blazer.

As a showgirl, Asiah had the height and department-store-mannequin-broad shoulders to convincingly mimic a man in silhouette through a tinted glass darkly. With her platinum-blond hair under a cap and her hot-chocolate skin, she was the perfect substitute for a male driver, especially since the Fontana party owned the limo and the company.

They were likely to pile in on their own without an attentive chauffeur opening and closing each door behind them. They were on home ground; less wary. They were all men; the bachelor party crew didn’t need the niceties of a formal evening out to impress a woman. And that had been their blind spot, as their girlfriends had foreseen.

It was hard to imagine the spectacular Asiah squired by the most conservative Fontana brother, Ralph, but opposites do attract. And Temple had a hunch mild-mannered Ralph might go for a drop-dead, in-your-face gal like Asiah.

In fact, Temple felt a little nervous about interviewing her. All the Fontana girlfriends were taller than she, but that wasn’t hard to be.

“What sold you on this kidnap caper?” Temple asked.

Asiah’s wide smile showed shark-white teeth. “I figured my guy could use a walk on the wild side.”

“The wild evening out was the reason, not making them regret not proposing marriage?”

“Girlfriend, that was a fine reason for the others. Me, I just liked the rush. Driving those Fontana boys somewhere off the beaten track, fooling them, being in control of that huge limo and all those men. What a blast!”

“You French-kissed the driver to seal the deal?” Temple sounded squeamish even to herself.

“ Soul -kissed, sweetie. I love turning the tables on everyone. Even my girlfriends, if that had come up. I crave adventure.”

“Did you have a room picked out for you and Ralph?” Okay, that was a totally salacious, irrelevant, and immaterial query.

“Um-hmm . But I don’t wanta embarrass a sweet little thing like you. You are so darling! And so is your man. If you ever take your fiancé here on a sentimental journey, ask for Room XXX.”

Wow. They did need to decide on a honeymoon destination. . . .

“Asiah, you obviously like living on the edge and are a sharp lady. Didn’t you have any suspicions that this scheme was working too smoothly? That someone could have been using this girls’ night out scenario for something sinister?”

“Is that what you think? The whole thing was a setup?” She crossed her long, long legs and sucked her shiny paprika red-glossed lips to consider it. Nothing shy about this woman. Ralph? “Now that the murder’s been done, sure. Then . . . we were pumped. We were into it. It seemed like harmless fun.”

“And the dead woman?”

Asiah’s expression sobered. “Not planned. Not anticipated. That is one ugly development, and it isn’t only the Fontana boys who will be in the hot seat when the law comes into it. It’ll be all us girls. We look stupid, if not like right-on-target suspects.”

“Is it possible some of you are?”

Asiah shook her platinum-blond hair, still serious. “Could be. I never thought of that, even after the body was found. Girls just want to have fun, you know.”