Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

“Oh. I guess we'd better look elsewhere then, Electra.”

“Yes. He's a good kid, Temple. Well, good young man.”

“And where does he live now?"

“Tucson, last I knew."

“And Elmore?"

“Reno."

“I thought you met and married him in Florida. He moved to Nevada, really?"

“Last I heard from Curtiss. We usually only talk by phone on holidays and birthdays.”

Temple nodded sympathetically. Families were far-flung nowadays, although she could wish that young Curtiss was more far-flung from the Las Vegas scene of this crime than Tucson.

She'd have to get Electra home to the Circle Ritz, sit right down, and draw out a family tree. With five ex-spouses and assorted offspring, that would be a big job.

"The way it was," Electra explained in her cool, shadowed penthouse living room, "is that my dad ran out on the family. I was raised by my mom and a stepdad, and he was funny."

“Tell me you don't mean 'funny' the way I think you do," Temple said.

“I do. Only back then nobody admitted it. I ran away from high school before I graduated. First there was Darren. That fizzled mighty quick. I then married Billy on the road to Daytona Beach. We split about six months later. I kept finding guys who were going to take me 'away from all this,' except 'all this' was myself and my background. Elmore Lark hit me in my early thirties. He was a cardsharp and hustler, but he cleaned up good in those days. By the time I found out he was a two-timer, I was ready to escape with my sanity and his last name."

“Was he unfaithful to you with this dead woman?"

“Hell yes, the little hussy. And they—or she—had the nerve to send me a wedding notice. That's what got me into the wedding chapel business when I moved to Las Vegas later, that tacky card from a chapel out on Highway 95. I decided I wanted to give people ceremonies to remember. Maybe it would keep them together longer."

“You think so?"

“Maybe not, but at least they might have some nice memories. I didn't have nice memories of most of my marriages, and I finally realized it was because I didn't have nice memories of my family life."

“Gosh, Electra. I've always seen you as this energetic entrepreneur, not as a desperate housewife racing from marriage to marriage."

“You mean you always thought I was a free spirit, not a Step-ford Wife. Why do you think I evolved into a free spirit?"

“So you knew about her becoming the new Mrs. Elmore Lark?"

“Yeah, as I said, from the cheesy wedding announcement photo she just had to send me almost thirty years ago. But she didn't look at all like herself in her Pink Lady outfit here and now."

“Not a great alibi. Okay," Temple said. "What about the other ex-husbands? Don't you want to know where they might be?"

“No," Electra said. "Tasmania or Outer Mongolia would be good."

“You are not a great advertisement for the Lovers' Knot Wedding Chapel attached to this very building."

“Maybe not, but why are you so interested?”

Temple twisted a pale blond bleached lock around her forefinger. "I might want your services. Sometime."

“You? Married? When? I thought Max, your main man, had to remain undercover and under the covers."

“He does. Nothing's changed there."

“Oh, then. Oh. My dear!" Electra grabbed Temple's right hand and crushed it to her large, soft, purple-knit bosom. "It's that darling boy Matt! At last!"

“Darling, but not a boy, Electra." Temple extracted her hand. "We really don't have time to discuss my love life when your formerly wedded life could get you tried on a count of murder one."

“Irises. No canna lilies. Violets? No, something showy, bird of paradise! Music. He loves Bob Dylan, did you know? Say, there's that one with a wedding march tempo! The one about his love speaking in silence—"

“I've never spoken in silence, Electra."

“You could start. Certainly you'll have to be silent for the wedding vows until called upon." Electra's blue eyes teared up. "I feel like . . . a matchmaker.”

Temple was remembering the song Electra had mentioned. "Love Minus Zero/No Limit." It did have a solemn, ceremonial tempo, and the singer's "love" was "true" as fire and ice. That line made her squirm instead of smile. She'd warned Matt: breaking up was hell to do.

“Electra! Forget my fantasy wedding. Your ex-love walks in anonymity and where is the dirty dog if his second wife is dead? I'd love to make him suspect number one."

“Elmore? He wouldn't hurt a flypaper."

“Not what we want to hear, or say. I want to know the name of all of your exes, and all post-you liaisons they had, including wives, and any descendants."

“That's a lot of family tree to come up with on the fly, my dear."

“Your family. Your tree. Your job. I'm heading back to the Crystal Phoenix to find out what the gossip is. With that many women flocking around, it's got to be choice.”

Electra had sat herself down at her forties blond mahogany dining table, lined note sheet and fountain pen in hand.

“You go ahead, dear. I'll alert my Red Hat Sisterhood chapter to rush to the scene to assist you."

“Really, Electra, I doubt I need their help when I've got the Fontana brothers at my beck and call. And my aunt Kit."

“But my chapter members will fit in where the Fontana boys won't.”

Temple sighed and headed back. The last thing she needed was to be drowned in red and purple until death-solved did them part.

Chapter 11

Old Flame-Points

I must admit that middle-aged human dames in extreme colors are not particularly attractive to me, unless they are wearing feathers.

And most of these Red Hat Sisterhood attendees are. Hubba hubba!

There is enough feather flaunting around here to keep me on the prowl and ready to pounce for a month.

I cannot share this personal peccadillo with my partner in crime solving at Midnight Inc. Investigations. Miss Midnight Louise is the straitlaced sort who disapproves of shenanigans. And all these Red Hat Sisterhood ladies have come to Las Vegas to have shenanigans.

Me, I am a shamus and we shamuses like shenanigans.

So I bob and weave through this plethora of feathered feminine pulchritude milling in the Crystal Phoenix lobby and beyond. Alas, my short stature often gets me overlooked. Who made tall dudes king? Besides some Big and Tall Man shop?

Well, that "man" part is a bit of a handicap for me too.

Although my heart goes out to my MissTemple as she struggles to keep this major celebration event happy despite the intervention of ugly human emotions resulting in murder, I have my own fish to fry.

Now that Louise is off following up on her Mr. Max fixation, I make my way over miles of casino floor to the pool out back again, where once I hung up my shingle as house detective, and where under the towering canna lilies, I received clients.

Of course, my old stomping grounds are only a huff and a puff away from the Crystal Phoenix pool area. I cannot admit a partiality to coconut oil. Fish oil is another kettle of ... well, you know.

I gaze into the limpid depths of the carp pond. I watch the mermaid seductions of fluid fin and tail. Koi. Each one worth a month or more of my MissTemple's employ. Once I hunted here, simply hungry, and their worth was the equal of my survival. Now that I am established, I understand that I cannot dine on EpiKorean delicacies unless I pay for them in advance.

Such is the price of success.

Still, I miss the good old days of daring survival. I miss hankering to move above my station in life.

What reminds me of this is the sight of Miss Savannah Ashleigh sunning her silicone and collagen in a string bikini. "String" is the word for MSA. I am more attracted by the two pink canvas carriers under her lounge chair and her coconut-oil dripping body. That woman needs an oil pan change!