Unknown - 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

“And then there’s Max,” Temple said as they drove away.

“Max and Molina? Oil and water,” he pronounced.

“Aren’t those both ‘holy’ elements in your religion?”

“Yes, but holy hell in the romance department.”

Chapter 47

Four-Posters and Postmortems

Temple had spent the night in her bedroom with piled feather pillows personally placed by Matt Devine under her knees, back, extended arms, and neck and head.

It was not the setup for a kinky sex scene she’d have preferred.

Electra was sleeping on the sofa bed in the living room, a cell phone call or a hoarse yell away. And Matt was doing his midnight–2:00 A.M. radio show.

She heard him come in about three, whisper with the landlady, and fade away.

She slept what they called “fitfully.” She didn’t know if that meant fit to be tied to a four-poster bed, which she certainly was, or fit to be consigned to a hospital bed, like Violet had been, which she almost was.

She lay there and felt the scabs on her hands and knees forming over the burning skinned portions. She would be her lively, fast-moving self sometime next week. First, came the morning and the Big Reveal.

Temple understood her knowledge and theories were crucial to wrapping up the Barbie Doll Killer case since the murderer was dead. It was just that she had pictured herself, the triumphant but lowly PI, giving testimony in a killer noir-black, witness-stand suit and huge black picture hat. She hadn’t expected to present her case while as scabby as one of her big brothers fresh from the football field with gauze and tapes swathing all joints.

Electra came in at about 6:00 A.M.

“Awake, are we?” She looked from Temple to Midnight Louie, who had commandeered half of her ankle pillow sometime in the night.

“I feel like Mister Bill, the Play-Doh patsy on Saturday Night Live,” Temple said. “He was always being dropped from a skyscraper and cheerfully answering from the sidewalk in a pip-squeak voice. That was a sadistic routine.”

“Of course you feel a bit down,” Electra said, plumping the pillows. “I’ll help you to the bathroom, and Louie and I will look through your wardrobe for something comfy and gentling to your joints.”

“My most flattering clothes are neither of those,” Temple snarled.

Yes, “snarled,” as she limped to the adorably tiny and tiny-tiled fifties bathroom, which seemed bent today on knocking her hard in all her scraped places.

*

Matt picked her up at the front door in his smooth and creamy Jaguar, into which Electra helped her, as if they were about the same age. Actually, Electra was a lot sprier.

“Poor baby,” Matt said, kissing her on the lips, which were probably her only unbruised portion. “Really.”

By the time they got to Aloe Vera Drive, the swath of concrete at the side garage was occupied by a Crown Vic and that’s all. Matt pulled the Jag beside it.

“I’ve got to say the ride is worthy of Saint Peter,” Temple said, leaning her head against the fresh-smelling leather rest, “but the working cops in the Crown Vic are going to Tweet you on it when they leave.”

“I can take it. Or leave it.” Matt shook his head. “The note from the producers made it clear the car was mine whether I ever inked a deal with them or not. I thought consumer confidence was kaput.”

“Not in the big-time media biz, apparently.”

“Frankly,” he said, “your crime-solving exploits are turning too rough for me. I might take that job just to get you and Louie out of Vegas and onto the genteel streets of Chicago.”

She snorted at that characterization of Chi-Town, which she was meant to. “I blundered into this last mess,” Temple said. “The temptation of one-upping Savannah was too sweet.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. There are too many temptations in Vegas to keep you safe, and maybe me, too.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Temple said firmly. “I do think we need to make a quick trip to genteel Chicago, and maybe Minneapolis, before you make a decision on your career.”

Matt frowned, but before he could say anything, Temple went on.

“Hey! Maybe we can drive. Road trip. Impress the elders with your new wheels.”

He laughed. “I don’t want to impress anyone besides you. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to meet the future in-laws on either side. I’m just a part of the talk-show package. It’ll take a while to put it together.”

“Chicago, here I come. For a while. Now, let’s get this not-genteel business over.”

Matt came around the car to help her out.

“I’d rather have taken a bullet,” Temple complained, walking gingerly up the walk to the house with her knees bent to prevent scab-pulling.

“Don’t joke about it,” Matt warned her, “or I’ll be booking the first flight to O’Hare so you can meet my family. They may be a little screwed up, but at least they’re not deadly.”

She shrugged, working on a basketball guard’s shuffle that should see her through the next few days. “I’d love to meet them anyway, and dysfunction can be as deadly as dedicated criminals. Let’s put Chicago to rest until this is tidied up.”

“I’m amazed Molina called a meeting in Violet’s house, after the fire.” Matt opened the screen door and guided Temple through the ajar front door into a campfire aroma of embers and ashes.

She kept her eyes off the area leading to the rear of the house, then blinked after a few steps inside. The shutters on the main room had been folded open, admitting a flood of light. The empty hospital bed and its attachments still occupied the room’s center, but now she could see sofas and chairs, mahogany ones with brocade upholstery under the various covers that had been turned back.

Molina and Alch were waiting on a camelback sofa like an old married couple. Matt saw Temple established on a Queen Anne chair and sat in its mate.

“This is it?” Temple asked. “Just us?”

“Consider it a visit to Headquarters West.” Molina eyed her critically. “You look a mess, like Mariah after a nasty skateboard accident when she was ten. She really strutted those scabs in the school yard.”

“Unfortunately, lieutenant,” Temple said as stiffly as she walked, “I don’t have a school yard to impress.”

“Well, you impressed the hell out of me,” Molina answered. “I don’t know how you did it, but the firefighters said you saved Mister Jayden some nasty facial and hand burns by dragging him out of the most intense part of the blaze.”

Alch was nodding soberly behind her.

“Where’s poor Violet?” Temple wondered, eager to get their attention off of her.

“Nursing home,” Molina said. “Her friend, Freddie LaCosta, arranged it. After the fire and Jayden’s injury, Violet seemed to give up the ghost. And … all the cats are gone, spirited away, I guess.”

“Freddie? I considered her a suspect, or at least a hopeful heir.” Then Temple remembered. “Jayden said he witnessed the will yesterday, before the fire. I guess he wasn’t a greedy would-be heir, after all.”

“You seem to have thought everybody was a greedy would-be heir,” Matt said.

“I was … investigating. I was supposed to be suspicious.”

“Exactly right, Miss Barr.” Alch nodded firmly as he came to her defense.

“So exactly where is Violet now?” Temple asked.

Alch gave a shrug. “St. Rose’s Nursing Home. Once the fire forced her out of the house, she didn’t want to cling to whatever was in it.”

Temple inhaled too much secondary smoke as she sighed. “How ironic. Violet is under the same roof as a Barbie Doll Killer victim, Larry’s stepsister, Teresa Paddock, and she doesn’t even know it. Nor does poor Teresa. Lord! I’m tired of calling people ‘poor.’”