Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

As the Fontana boys listed their grievances against their suddenly martially minded significant others, Temple mulled recent polls she’d seen that women were slow to tie the knot nowadays. That they no longer needed men to support them financially, or even to give them babies. They were totally independent. Then why did these eight go over the edge?

This whole scheme was beginning to look like a prank that had gone very wrong when someone used it as cover to kill a young woman nobody here knew. They all said they didn’t, anyway.

Temple turned brisk. She wanted some one-on-one time with Matt. He was the most at risk.

“Okay, guys. Were any of you not in full view of the others at any time after you left the limo out front?”

Another long silence. Fontana boys did not squeal.

Van stepped in. “Only Nicky and Matt. They were able to split off from the main group because they weren’t the objects of the kidnappers’ affections and objections. And the staff here didn’t know a Fontana from a Fontana from a tall, blond stranger. Nobody missed them.”

That meant that she and Temple were the only ones whose significant other was in the murder suspect runoff.

Oh, goodie.

Command Post

Temple decided that she needed a command post.

Imagine: her acting like Lieutenant Molina. Actually, she was beginning to sympathize with the problems of the police force.

“I need to interview suspects separately someplace private,” Temple told Miss Kitty when she returned to the parlor.

The Sapphire Slipper girls were playing computer games, including solitaire. Weird.

“We got plenty of private rooms upstairs. Take your pick. They’re not going to see any action tonight.”

“The murder room did.”

“Don’t use that one then.”

As if she would!

Temple returned to the bar, went up to Matt, and tapped him on the shoulder, jerking her head to the exit.

Hoots and laughter followed them out into the parlor, then whistles and kiss-kiss sounds hounded them into the foyer.

“I’m glad they’re all having so much fun with that dead girl lying alone upstairs,” Matt said.

“She’s not alone. Emilio’s gone back up there already to guard her door.”

“I guess that’s a girl’s dream death in this town: Fontana brothers at your door.”

“Matt. Chill! I know it’s rough to find someone dead. You tried to revive her. It was too late.”

“I said the prayers anyway. That’s never too late. Good God, Temple, can you imagine what it’s like to be feet away from a murder, and not know it?”

“Like a baptism of fire on the battlefield,” she said seriously. “No, I can’t imagine that. No one here admits to recognizing the girl. That is so . . . unbelievable. Was she brought in just to be killed in this mob scene, so the motive is forever obscured?”

“You’re right. I can only help her now by making sure whoever did this doesn’t walk out of here tomorrow free. We need to get the police out here. There may be evidence in that room, on that body, that would reveal the murderer.”

“There’s surely evidence there that would implicate you. And Nicky. And the press will be all over any lurid headlines involving Fontanas. I’m thinking this death was planned to take advantage of the mock-kidnapping.”

“But the only ones who knew about the abduction in advance were the girlfriends, although the brothel staff knew a big party of men was expected.

“Thank you, Mr. Clarity. At least all those people are strangers to us, not our nearest and dearest, or friends, anyway.”

“So what did all the women tell you?”

“Nothing. Less than an embarrassed Fontana brother. None of them admitted to knowing the dead woman’s face.”

“It’s an easy lie. Simon Peter found it came trippingly to the tongue in the Garden of Gethsemane, three times.”

It took Temple a full minute to switch to childhood New Testament studies to remember the betrayals of Christ that night by Judas, the designated turncoat. And by St. Peter, the best and the brightest disciple. Peter, the rock upon which Jesus would found his church, denied even knowing Christ three times before the morning cock crowed, as Jesus had predicted.

The lesson was that, in moments when stand-up courage is called for, everybody can be weak-kneed. That might be the case here. A houseful of the sex queens of denial. Certainly the hookers denied the tawdry reality of the their life work. The girlfriends denied the charming elusiveness of the Fontana brothers that domesticity might destroy. The brothers denied growing older and up.

What did she and Matt deny?

That a murder was more than something to solve to get him and Nicky out of an awkward position? That Max Kinsella going missing so suddenly just made him an ex-boyfriend better out of the picture, and not another puzzle that would tear at their separate and joint needs and desires.

Oh, shoot!

Temple had examined the rooms upstairs (wild) and downstairs (standard hotel), and decided on using the office adjoining the cigar bar.