Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

“I do,” Temple said, standing up. “I really must be going, but thanks for clueing me in. On so much. And you’re really not bitter about being fired by Maylords?”

” ‘Of all the gin joints in the world,’ it ran on pure venom. But it was a fun gig while it lasted. I shall always remember Paris. I wore my very best stainless-steel garters, specially purchased at a vintage shop to go with my pink Schiaperelli hose. One of my finer moments, despite the outcome. My dear, I adore your tangerine nail polish. It is s0000 Maylords this month. Perhaps you should seek permanent employment there, but do beware.”

Temple leaned forward to lap up this last scoop.

“Do not pull your hems above your panty line. Not that you have a panty line. That I can see from here. Perhaps if you gave me a head start-”

Mortified, Temple blushed, thanked Glory for her candor, and got the heck out of there.

In the stairwell, she paused to jerk at her panty line. Maybe she needed to buy a thong to prevent further embarrassment.

Sure.

Chapter 37

Dead Zone

Temple only had time after her intriguing interview with Glory Diaz to rush home and leave a fresh heap of Free-to-beFeline in the bowl for Louie to reject … when he came back from wherever he was to reject it, and he would.

And to rifle her closet for something funeral-worthy.

She began to panic when she realized that the newer fashions nowadays were as gauzy and floral as something Loretta Young might have worn in a ‘ 30s film, and she had scarfed up a bunch of them.

It was true that black was welcomed at weddings now, while color was appropriate at funerals. Yet she felt she needed to symbolize the desolation she felt on Danny’s behalf. He was theater people: symbols soothed him.

She was startled when a huge furry tarantula leg brushed her bare calf. And jumped a little.

Louie had eeled in from somewhere and stood gazing up at her with soulful green eyes. No doubt he had just surveyed the fresh Free-to-beFeline in his bowl and was begging for a reprieve.

“If only,” she told him, “I had been born in the basic black you favor, I’d be set for every occasion. I don’t suppose cats go to wakes or funerals.”

He blinked solemnly. Temple checked the oversize watch dial on her wrist. No time to dither. In her closet she paged past overblown roses sprinkled with sequins and colorful sweater sets, everything too bright and breezy for such a sorrowful occasion.

Finally she fingered the clothing in the farthest corner of her closet, looking for something she’d forgotten about.

She found it. Boy, did she find it. Her fingers rubbed solid knit. Better.

She pulled out the possibility.

Black knit.

Even better. Not too heavy for the time of year, but appropriately opaque. No panty line issues here. Long, full skirt, long sleeves, high neck.

Oh.

This was indeed her “wake” dress. She’d last worn it at Cliff Effinger’s wildly unattended and deeply unmourned showing.

Her fingertips traced the long row of shiny black round buttons from neck to skirt hem. The dress was several seasons old, but simple enough to be a classic. The buttons reminded her of Catholic rosary beads.

Maybe that’s why the last time she had worn it she and Matt Devine had almost had a nuclear meltdown on her living room sofa. The memory warmed her cheeks. She was never going to wear this dress again.

But … it was the only appropriate thing and Matt would definitely not be attending this wake, so Temple began frantically working pea-shaped buttons out of too-tight buttonholes. Temple kept the Miata’s top up and the air conditioner on all the way to the Bide-a-Wee Mortuary.

Like wedding chapels, funeral parlors were established LasVegas landmarks. The Bide-a-Wee was as high-end as a theme mortuary could get in this town, and catered to star performers.

Its notion of tasteful restraint ran to slabs of polished black marble and pewter and gilt accents, very Egyptian temple. Temple herself was wearing her Stuart Weitzman black suede pumps with the steel heels. They were several seasons old, but age did not wither nor custom stale Weitzman chic.

The Miata was too much a clown car on this sad occasion, all gleaming red grin, but at least the black cloth top sat atop it like a sober homburg.

Temple had abandoned her signature tote bag for a simple black file clutch bag. She felt nervous, and wiped her palms on

the flowing skirt.

She hadn’t seen Danny since she’d brought him the news of Simon’s death. How he was holding up, she had no idea. She could guess, and didn’t want to imagine any more.

The entry door was coffered and painted black, centered with a huge brass Ebenezer Scrooge knocker. One might easily glimpse the face of a ghost of one’s choosing in that reflective surface.

Not Simon, though. Simon’s face had faded. Temple had only met him once, and forever after would confuse him with Matt. That fact made her even more uneasy. She was confused enough about Matt already. Luckily his face did not show up in the knocker.

The door opened easily for its size and her steel heels were sinking into ultraplush carpet the moment she stepped inside. Aubergine plush carpet; in other words, royal purple.

Temple mushed her way across the entry area, hearing the faint tones of Enya, supposedly the top musical choice of chichi spas and New Age harbors of all things massage, acupuncture, aromatherapy, and outrageously expensive.

Apparently top-drawer funeral parlors were on the same play list.

The faintest odor of ylang-ylang was in exquisite harmony with the delicately echoing music. She didn’t know why such elegant touches played on her nerves, but they did. She’d identified a body a few months before in a New York City medical examiner’s facility, which was worlds away from this overrefined environment. Still, they felt like cousins under the skin. And she was here to see another dead body, no matter how formally displayed.

Imagine her shock when a Fontana brother in a dead black suit appeared before her like a welltailored angel from a 1940s Frank Capra movie, only this was the angel of death.

“Rico?” she guessed.

“Emilio,” he corrected. Gently. “You are here for the Foster viewing, I assume.”

“I am. What are you here for?”

“Likewise.” He pulled his somber sleeves down over his white cuffs and the diamond-studded onyx Harley Davidson cuff links that peeked out despite his best efforts. “It was short notice,” he apologized. “May I show you to the viewing chamber?”

“I don’t understand why you’re … uh, officiating.”

“Danny Dove is highly regarded by all the major hotels and casinos in Vegas, especially the Crystal Phoenix. We are acting as chauffeurs and general factotums for the sad formalities.”

“You’re driving the hearses?”

“There are no hearses. Only the Lauren, Versace, St. Laurent, and Elton for those closest to the bereaved.”

“The Fontana brothers are acting as chauffeurs for Gangsters Legendary Limos?” “And security.”

Temple knew each carried an appropriately black steel Beretta. “I don’t get it.”

“We have a small financial stake in Gangsters,” Emilio noted modestly. “It was the least we could do, making our fleet available to the bereaved. The Malachite Room is to your right, first door.”

Temple followed directions, digesting the oddity of a Fontana brothers funeral.

Another coffered door awaited, this one covered in gold leaf. Inside the carpet was the emerald green of Irish grass, and the walls were covered in malachite mirror tiles.

Temple signed herself in at the gilt-edged book, and wrote a sentiment on the small card and envelope provided. She turned to face the room. Er, chamber.