Unknown - 22_Cat_In_An_Ultramarine_Scheme

“When those guys are nervous, there might be reason. First they called it a mob museum. Then they called it a law-enforcement museum. They are fudging the facts so much they would look good accessorized with nuts and marshmallows.”

“Are you always thinking of your next meal, Daddy-o? You could stand to lose a few fat rolls.”

“Bulging muscles, my girl. Now that your ‘furomones’ have been ‘fixed’ you simply cannot tell the difference between a male at the peak of his powers and some fuddy-duddy fixee.”

She shakes her head. “I am done trying to urge you to a healthier lifestyle. I do have news that tops your latest Elvis sighting.”

“That was some time ago. The Memphis Cat has not deigned to show himself this trip through the belly of the beast, so I am most interested in what your insights are.”

“I paid a recent visit to the Crystal Phoenix’s so-called Ghost Suite.”

“Ah, old seven-thirteen. A most provocative number for a hotel room. And who did you find there? Or should I say, what?”

“Miss Temple Barr, for one.”

“Really? I thought she was on the scoffer side of matters paranormal.”

“She was using the peace and quiet to muse.”

I nod sagely. The presence of Miss Midnight Louise, my possible number-one daughter, brings out the Charlie Chan in me.

“She also was using it to mourn, I believe,” Miss Midnight Louise adds. “I do not think that is healthy.”

“Hmm. You mean she was contemplating the absence and likely death of Mr. Max Kinsella. You were there when he hit the Neon Nightmare wall on that sabotaged bungee cord. A savage end to a most civilized magician.”

“You believe you can see Elvis and yet you think a seasoned performer like Mr. Max would use equipment he had not checked for flaws?”

“Perhaps someone compromised the cord after he had launched. That Neon Nightmare club is a maze of secret passages and rooms. The cord required an anchor at the top. I recall shenanigans of a similar sort at the New Millennium Hotel and Casino, which shortly after put an end to that treacherous lady magician Shangri-La.”

“Does that not make your nether appendage twitch just the slightest bit? These two acrobatic acts afflicted with lethal malfunctions?”

“Which ‘nether appendage’ do you refer to?” I ask, deadpan.

“The one that is long and useful for balance,” she snaps.

Yup. Literally snaps. I avoid her daughterly snit and let her fangs close on a whisper of my retracting whiskers.

I am still quick on the draw both fore and aft.

We hunker down to resume civil discourse.

“You have made a decent point, Louise. There has been a lot of lethal aerobatic hanky-panky at major hotels lately. Reminds me of the dead dudes found in the spy spaces above the Goliath and New Millennium gaming tables a year or two ago.”

“Phhhtttt!” she says. “Those were not spectacular deaths of professional performers. The victims there were small-time lawbreakers.”

“Does that not sniff more of ‘mob’ activity than the Cases of the Plunging Performers?

“Please, Perry Mason,” she says, “let us not get illiterate about it.”

“Perry Mason novels are very literate,” I protest.

“I was referring to the Case of the Repeating Initial Title Consonants. I believe you are guilty of that very thing sometimes. Now I know where you get it. Perry Mason, indeed. I am no Della Street.”

“No, you are not. You are more what they call ‘proactive.’ ”

“Thanks, Pop. It makes me sound like a variety of yogurt, but I realize that you meant to be complimentary.”

Guess Who’s Come to Dinner?

Temple was surprised to have been invited to Van von Rhine’s office for a one-on-one.

Van without Nicky was like latte without coffee. Puzzled, Temple hoped the couple’s differences in enthusiasm for the Gangsters redo hadn’t gotten serious.

She settled into a chair facing the desk. Van didn’t look ruffled.

“How is everything going?” the boss lady inquired, sticking a Montblanc pen into her blonde French twist.

The effect reminded Temple of a geisha girl, although Van was anything but.

“Frankly,” she answered, “we’ve got a bit of a mess. The police are pretty annoyed by the drama of a mysterious, anonymous man in formal dress dying in a hidden vault in an uncharted tunnel beneath major Vegas Strip attractions. The civic mob-museum committee has been threatening to ‘commandeer’ the entire vault for the city’s ‘vintage law-enforcement’ exhibition.”

“Amusing,” Van said, sounding anything but amused. “Obviously, that death scene is the last thing the police want. They’re clearly out of their depth, excuse the expression. Everything the Phoenix had planned has ground to a costly halt. We need that murder solved.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Temple said.

Van sighed and retrieved the pen from her coiffure.

At that geisha moment, her Asian personal assistant knocked on the door, then entered.

Tommy Foy had seen Temple in. He knew the women were simply noodling around on Crystal Phoenix matters and therefore interruptible.

“Miss von Rhine,” he said, “you wanted to know the moment your foreign visitor checked in. Her luggage has been taken to the Crystal Cascade Suite, and she is here.”

“Wonderful,” Van said, standing. “Show her in.” She smiled at Temple. “This is a friend from my European upbringing, visiting Vegas out of the blue. I’d love you to meet her.”

Van was literally bubbling over. It reminded Temple that career women like them didn’t have much time to nourish female friendships. Associations, yes. Temple, the only girl in a family of boys, felt a pang that she had no best gal friend in Vegas. Van was an employer, after all, and Electra Lark, a landlady. And, gosh, who next came to mind? Her nemesis, homicide lieutenant C. R., aka Carmen, Molina. Was that pathetic!

Temple turned to greet the newcomer with a warm smile.

Oh, wow. Supermodel tall, slim and sleek. Blonde like Van, only not like Van. Zorchy, used to be the word. Cool, blonde, and hot, the type that always made Temple feel like she was on loan from the Girl Scouts to the local high school. Or college. Or TV station job.

“Revi!” Van exclaimed, coming around her desk to grasp expensively suited arms and to brush cheeks. “So amazing to see you again.”

“And I, you. I see so few from Saint Moritz these days.”

“A girls academy in Switzerland we both attended,” Van, always the perfect hostess, explained to Temple. “And, Revi, this is the hotel’s ace public-relations expert, Temple Barr. My school friend, Revienne … Schneider, is it still?”

“Yes, of course,” the blonde said, with the faintest of accents. “You also work under your maiden name?”

“Of course,” Van said.

Well, Temple thought, ‘Revi’ had neatly dodged the issue of her marital status. Bet she knows Van’s married surname to an F, as in “Fontana family.”

“Revienne is such a lovely name,” Temple noted. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“Yes,” Van agreed. “It’s French, but totally unique. It comes from the word return, and here she’s returned to my life. I wish I had such an evocative name.”

“Now, Van,” Revienne said, “I’ve always found your full name enchanting. I do understand why you dislike it, though.” The woman sat in the chair next to Temple and arranged her long legs into a paired, high-fashion-model side slant. “I use mine in full form now.”

No more girlish “Revi,” she was saying.

In fact, Temple had a rough time envisioning the newcomer as ever having been an awkward adolescent. Revienne wore a mossy green silk suit that had to have been purchased in a major Europe an capital and which fell into expensive, unwrinkled folds fresh from the transatlantic flight.