Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

In fact, I notice now that some of the bridesmaids are draped in the occasional feather boa. The civilians and the professionals are not as easy to tell apart after the upstairs stroll. It strikes me that the dead woman could be either a bridesmaid or a, uh, hired escort. I do not think it is fair to demean these ladies with the usual descriptive expressions. My kind does not label willing females with any nasty words. In fact, a breeding cat is called a queen. We guys are just glad they go into heat now and then.

Miss Kitty does an actual nose count. “All my girls are here.” She hesitates, then turns away from her cluster of employees to add in a low voice, “I guess I better go up and see the body anyway.”

“Aldo,” Mr. Nicky says, “escort Miss Kitty upstairs with us.” He nods at the rest of his brothers, who are shifting uneasily on their notorious Bruno Magli loafers, not sure if they are escorts or jailers. “You guys keep all these women corralled while we’re gone. We don’t want anyone wandering off into trouble with a murderer on the loose.”

I admire Mr. Nicky’s tact. He does not say anything to point out more than is obvious: that one of these beautiful girls could very well be that loose murderer.

I am not invited upstairs to survey the damage but I trail the party upward, uncommented upon. At the top, I am joined by Miss Satin.

We brush vibrissae.

“How terrible it is, Louie,” she whispers under her breath. “This is a house of merriment, not murder.”

“My people are on it,” I say. “I just have to make sure their suspicions are pointed in the right direction. Quick! I want to see what Miss Kitty makes of the body.”

We sweep into the room just as Miss Kitty and her three escorts stand inside the door and gaze at the woman on the bed. From this distance, you could swear she was still alive.

“What a tragedy,” Miss Kitty says. Her voice is wavery. “I thought at first you boys were spouting that murder stuff to give these crazy bridesmaids a good scare. Oh, poor kid. So young and pretty.”

Mr. Matt has discreetly stepped nearer to take Miss Kitty’s elbow. “Let me escort you down the back stairs to the kitchen. You can sit down, have a cup of coffee.”

“With a couple jiggers of brandy in it,” Aldo advises.

He and Mr. Nicky remain, looking down at the dead girl.

“Some bachelor party,” Aldo says grimly.

I nod at Satin to follow Mr. Matt and the madam. Say, that phrase has a real ring to it, kind of like a novel title. I bet Miss Temple would really want to read that book!

Meanwhile, I eavesdrop while the guys talk turkey.

“Matt found the body,” Nicky says. “I found him bending over the victim just afterward.”

“Yeah, how did you two end up uncorralled up here?”

“We were the last two in. The phony driver ordered us into the parlor, but didn’t stick around to make sure we went. Matt slipped up the stairs. The bridesmaids were so intent on tying up their special someones that I was able to do the same a bit later.”

“So you two were hiding out up here, even when the ladies both pro and pro-amateur trouped up the stairs to eye the premises?”

“Right. Only Matt had the bad luck to hide out in the peephole closet in the murder room.”

“Holy homicide! Where’s the hidey-hole?”

Aldo approaches the mirror, checking where the frame does not quite meet the wall. In a moment, he has clicked the mirror door ajar.

“Matt saw the murder, then,” Aldo crows. “We have a witness, one whose word is twenty-four-karat gold.”

Mr. Nicky makes a face. “He is an ex-priest. He shut off the one-way mirror window. He did not see or hear a thing. I came to find him and found him all right, leaning over the body, gawking like a tourist and giving CPR.”

“Shoot. That makes him a number one suspect. And you number two, little brother, because either one of you could be covering for the other. At least that is the way the cops will see it.”

“I know that! I finally got through the poor reception and reached Van.”

“Yeah?”

“She was living it up with Temple and her lovely and lively aunt and landlady in our penthouse. They are all coming.”

“And . . . why?”

“I figure Temple is our best bet. We need to produce a likely suspect, or the murderer, who is not one of our party. You know the cops would love to nail a Fontana, any Fontana, with a current crime.”

“The women are coming. Our women? To a brothel? Are you crazy?”

“They know we were hijacked. And . . . who better knows who might off a woman than another woman? Unless you want to believe ex-Father Matt did it.”

“Naw, not credible.”

“You know how the police think in a case like this. Strangled. In a kinky room set up in a brothel. Maybe the ex-priest went berserk and killed an evil woman. Maybe he had molested her years ago in a distant parish and encountered her here and she was going to tell—”

I cannot restrain a growl of disbelief at these twisted interpretations.

Both Fontana brothers look at me for the first time.

“I agree with the cat,” Aldo says. “That theorizing stinks. It is far-fetched in the extreme.”