Cat In An Aqua Storm

“Now,” Electra retorted. “All Max owed me when he left was a month’s mortgage, and Temple took that over, poor kid.”

“Yeah. I saw that the mortgage is in both their names.” She turned back to Temple. “That could make things inconvenient if you want to move in the seven years before he’s legally declared dead.”

“Seven years—I never thought of that.” Temple caught her breath. It was one thing to adjust to Max’s being gone for good, another to write him off as dead and figure out the legalities.

“Think about it,” Molina advised before walking away.

Electra chuckled as Molina left, shaking her head: “It’s a cackle to rattle her cage. I still think you’d make a great Kitty Two.”

“I don’t want the job, Electra. I’ve gotten into enough trouble lately. Darn. That Monday’s-child scheme is so close to perfect. It’s like having a quatrain where one line won’t rhyme no matter what you do.”

“Maybe that’s too clever, dear. I can see it’s distracting you. What about all the dirt you were digging up on Kitty City?”

Temple sat back down on the chair, staring at the phone. “What do you think of Ike Wetzel, Electra?”

“He better stay out of the bathtub if I’m anywhere nearby with a small electrical appliance plugged in.”

“Mad about the guy, huh?”

“God’s gift to the masochists among us. Maybe each of the dead strippers crossed him. I can see him taking pleasure in enforcing his will on the unwilling. Poor Lindy puts up with a lot.”

“Ike and Lindy?”

Electra nodded. “Didn’t you know? Oh, he’s made the rounds. Savannah Ashleigh, Kitty Cardozo. He always picked winners, though, at least in the early days, women who were going to climb out of the holes they were in.”

“That is odd, Electra. From what you said he ran a closed shop. His girls did what he said, or they didn’t dance at Kitty City. He was even down on the competition when hometown dancers didn’t have to put in travel days to get here. Then, this year, he changes his tyrannical tune and is all love and kisses with WHOOPE. Why?”

“You laid it out: a perfect cover for murder. He’s not openly mad at anybody for being here. All his old loves and former victims are gathering in one place, like sitting ducks. He’s a competition cosponsor. He has total access to the facilities and nobody thinks a thing about it.”

“So,” said Temple. “I don’t have a jot of PR to do. As the great C.B. noted early on, even a baby could get publicity for an event with as much sex appeal at this one. Now, with murder on the menu, it’s a media feeding frenzy, and my clients are enjoying the buffet. They’re being interviewed left and right, and everyone knows about the competition Saturday night.

“Saturday. That day’s child ‘has to work for a living.’ So do I.” She slapped her knees and stood. “Since I’ve got nothing else to do, I might as well solve the murders. And Molina was downright derisive about your idea, Electra. Let’s make her eat it.”

“Right on!” Electra’s hands slapped Temple’s palms. “Partner. Where do we start? Want me to whip up—pardon me, Switch Bitch!—a kitty cat lookalike costume for you?”

“No masquerades that Molina can sneer at, no quivering thighs, just hard cold facts that’ll freeze her assets. Bring me someone who knows the real poop on the Standish twins.”

“The last victims? But they don’t fit.”

“That makes them the key. I’m going to find out why if it’s the last thing I do.”

Electra nodded, the anodized aluminum moon and stars in her left ear colliding with the sterling silver comet. The heavens were in collusion.

30

A Stitch in Time . . .

“Another opening, another show.”

Temple was as capable as anyone of responding to the backstage hullabaloo that attended the dress rehearsal of everything from the rawest amateur theatrical to the biggest Broadway hit. Competition preliminaries were much the same.

Yet it was hard for her not to brood. By now Molina had made a stunning about-face and taken Electra’s flaky idea of reviving Kitty Cardozo. Temple hadn’t minded for a moment that a petite and pretty Asian undercover officer used to playing hookers would don the dead stripper’s identity. Professionals each had their roles, and risk-taking was Officer Lee Choi’s prerogative. Besides, she had the requisite raven hair.

Temple’s depression didn’t kick in until three p.m. Friday, when she glimpsed Officer Choi strutting about the wings, a perfect body double for the dead woman. Those high-heeled cat shoes were awesome.

More than that, she hated being reminded of the living Kitty Cardozo she had met briefly, whose hopes and hurts she had glimpsed, as Matt Devine had heard of them over the phone. It seemed cruel to animate the carapace of the woman, her performing persona, one that she had planned to set aside for good soon.