Unknown - 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

Savannah passed over a letter the aunt had sent her in L.A. before she’d moved. The return address was one of those small printed rectangles that comes on an adhesive sheet from places where you’ve once donated money; and your name and address aren’t forgotten until the Apocalypse.

VIOLET, was all it read, in capitol letters flanked with violet bouquets, and then the street address. Touches of gold foil decorated the tiny label.

“How long has your aunt lived in Vegas?” Temple asked.

“Oh, years. I take the gigs here that I do so I can look in on her. Not that she doesn’t resent that. She’s quite set in her own way, always was. We haven’t been in touch that much through the years, but now…”

“Now what?”

“She has terminal cancer, and her only daughter died six years ago, so…”

“Violet’s daughter died? How?”

“Drugs,” Savannah intoned dramatically. “It was very sudden and shocking.”

“She must have been … young.”

“A late-in-life only child. Just twenty-something. Violet was shattered.”

“The young woman’s father—?”

“Long gone, along with husbands one through three. Who even knew who the father was?” Savannah rolled her eyes.

“What kind of cancer does Violet have?”

“Something deeply personal people do not discuss.”

That set Temple’s speculations running amok. Enlightened people weren’t reticent talking about even terminal AIDS anymore. But then, they weren’t dealing with Savannah Ashleigh.

“I’m so sorry about Violet’s diagnosis,” Temple said. “And you say she’s at home? Alone, and frightened?”

“She’s had a daily woman come in for years. Doesn’t believe in doctors. Crystals are more her treatment of choice.”

“As her niece, can’t you—?”

“All she wants from me is for someone to look into Pedro’s murder. He’d worked for her for years and was in her will. She’s made it clear that no relative will inherit any of her money or belongings. This might sound strange, Temple, since you seem to be the family-dependent type, and if you don’t have any around you find them, but Violet was my youngest aunt and she ran away from our home and family. I finally did, too, and found her when I came out to L.A. We did … cling together a bit in our younger days for security’s sake, but after Violet had Alexandra, I couldn’t believe how she’d doted on that ugly infant. She left the world of glamour in which I was making my way to have no greater ambition than be a single mother and a successful real estate agent. She once was gorgeous, of course. She could have had it all, too. After Alex died in Tucson, Violet moved her daughter’s cats to her home here and then started taking in more stray cats to dote on. As you can see, I’ve moved on.”

Captain Jack said Aye, aye, by climbing her shoulder, his little clawed “hand” presenting a tiny diamond ear stud he’d found loose in the depths of her bag.

Temple had to admit that the clever ferret and his not-so-clever mistress had certainly distracted her from impending doom, or at least high anxiety. In honor of these unpleasant states, she checked her wristwatch and noted that time had flown.

“Oh! I must be running along. I’ve got an important pickup at the airport.”

They agreed to meet at Violet’s house on Aloe Vera Drive the next day. In the late morning, Savannah stressed. Violet would be feeling better then and Captain Jack would have had his walk and playtime.

Temple skittered through the Crystal Phoenix crowds, Louie’s claws scratching marble underfoot behind her, letting Savannah and her poor aunt fade into the mist of must-dos on her schedule. She could easily get to the airport, but she needed time to dress appropriately to face the most mixed-feeling moment of her life.

Welcoming Max back from the dead.

Chapter 4

Dead Last

Midnight Louie lay curled atop the bedspread like the dark center of a daisy. Making the colorful petals scattered around him were half the items in Temple’s entire wardrobe, it seemed.

He still looked miffed from overhearing Savannah Ashleigh play fast and loose with his unique, entrancing street name. Or maybe, Temple thought, he remained in a state of high dudgeon over the cavalier way Yvette and Solange had been passed from flaky niece to possibly delusional and seriously ill aunt.

Temple drove the afternoon’s distractions from her mind.

Normally, she wasted no angst on what to wear. She enjoyed being a girl, as the petite female usually can. Being a freelance public-relations professional required more business suits and heels than the average Sunbelt wardrobe, but “business” in Vegas could be flashier than the whole navy-blue Elsewhere beyond it.

No, she was agonizing over remembering what Max Kinsella had seen or might remember seeing her wear or not, and whether she should try to jog or confuse his missing memory of her when she picked him up at McCarran Airport in … her wristwatch’s inescapably bold dial told her, seventy-five minutes. A PR person is on perpetual deadline; she can’t always be digging out a cell-phone face for the time.

“Louie,” she exhorted in a blend of aggravation and plea, “must you exercise squatter’s rights on my bed every day? If you’re going to lie there like a lump, pick something for me to meet Max in, then.”

He slit open his blasé green eyes, yawned to show much tongue and teeth, and stretched a lazy foreleg to a chartreuse polished-cotton suit.

“He’ll sure spot me in a crowd if I wear that,” Temple admitted, “and it matches the lighter streaks in your eyes—not that you’re going with me this time.”

With the outfit determined by a clawing instead of drawing lots, Temple next had to confront a deeper problem. To wear her Miracle Bra or not, as she usually did with that figure-flattening suit.

No. She should dress as if retrieving a maiden aunt … although her aunt Kit Carlson, now Mrs. Aldo Fontana, was much too chic for the role. A Miracle Bra would be … calculating … could be misinterpreted. In no way would it be actually inciting, despite her foolish hopes when buying it.

Red patent high-heeled sandals and matching tote bag lifted her spirits if not her bustline. She surveyed herself in the mirror. A petite woman can wear just about everything that is not voluminous or large-patterned. At least her longer, dark strawberry-copper hair color softened the red-and-lime-green, escaped-from-a-jelly-bean-jar look.

Max was not the jelly-bean type. He could spot her easily and then go, Ick, I could never have slept with that woman, even in my right mind. And it was true; they’d made an odd couple—the tall, dark, mysterious master magician and the short, firecracker-red-haired PR hotshot.

You’re supposed to know me.

Those were among the first words she’d heard on her cell phone only moments after she’d finished talking to Matt just last night. She hadn’t instantly recognized the voice, but the call was from Northern Ireland, and the caller admitted he’d been drinking.

Temple was not used to hearing from melancholy, drunk ex-boyfriends. She didn’t have that many, for one thing. For another, Max had been far more than a boyfriend.

She glanced at the glittering Art Deco ring on her left hand. Matt had bought it where the movie stars shopped (and borrowed for the Red Carpet), Fred Leighton’s Vegas vintage-rocks store. Matt had gone from a vow of poverty to making enough money to needing an agent. He’d rather give it away and knew she cherished vintage things, but sometimes she didn’t wear the valuable ring going out alone, for security reasons.

To wear or not to wear. Rubies matched her red shoes and tote bag. Diamonds matched everything. Wear. Max had always been a realist.