Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

The 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.”