Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

“Not really. They’re even taller and thinner.” She sat in her chair and swayed it from side to side. “I suppose we could use the help of an internationally known psychologist, but Revienne has become rather tiresomely perfect.”

“She wasn’t always like this?”

Van shook her head in its polished blonde-satin helmet of elegant hairdo.

“Those exclusive girls schools in Switzerland? We were all offspring in the way of our wealthy parents, parked there to learn how to look and act healthy, wealthy, and wise. We were mental messes, Temple, and Revi—Revienne—was just as fragile and confused as the worst-off of us. My father was a widowed hotel executive who changed temporary residences and lovers almost as frequently as the maids changed sheets. He had a semilegitimate reason for dumping me. Revi’s parents had a stable luxury flat in Paris. They dumped her because she witnessed her younger sister’s suicide.”

“Oh, my gosh. That slick woman?”

“That woman.” Van nodded grimly. “We were all isolated, ignored, and mad as hell. Revienne may look smooth and successful, but that’s what we were trained to do. A renowned psychologist? Yes. But we all learned to put on a good front at school, and unless something dramatic happened to shatter that psychological shellac, which we all hid behind, she’s not the paragon she seems.”

“What ‘shattered’ your ‘shellac’?”

Van looked startled. “You think mine did?”

Temple nodded. “You kept the hairdo and the manner, but you snagged the first Fontana brother to break the family front and marry. I’m happy to say my aunt was the second. How’d that happen?”

Van smiled and spun her fancy executive chair all the way around, like a kid on a ride. “Nicky. He broke through. Never underestimate the persuasive power of a Fontana.”

“I wouldn’t,” Temple swore, standing. “If your old school friend and her professor friend want to investigate the death, we can’t stop them. I have some suspicions of my own and will follow them, solo, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Temple opened the door to leave.

“But,” said Van, “don’t hesitate to call on all the resources of the Crystal Phoenix, which are mostly Fontana brothers.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” Temple grinned as she shut the door on Van.

She’d like to see Revienne up against a Fontana brother.

Not literally, however.

Bahr Bones

Temple wasn’t a habitué of the local morgue, but her size-fives had visited the low-profile building a time or two.

“Dr. Bahr is expecting you, Miss Barr,” the receptionist reported in a happy chirp.

Temple knew she was a nice break in routine, being alive and not being a grieving relative or in a helping profession.

“Thank you, Yolanda,” she said. A savvy PR person always reads name tags and uses first names to establish rapport.

The door to the morgue’s inner sanctum—and here that cliché phrase really resonated—opened, crammed full with burly Dr. Bahr in his white lab coat.

His surname, tall bulk, and untamed, curly, reddish gray hair had earned him the “Grizzly” nickname. Also, like most medical examiners, he dealt with death and the dead in a matter-of-fact, sometimes wickedly humorous way.

“Come in, come in,” he greeted her, the soul of professional conviviality. “You are looking very lively,” he confided as he showed her into an empty conference room.

The vanilla-bland Formica tabletop and surrounding black chairs could have been in any business office.

“Let’s see today’s shoes,” he suggested before they sat at a pair of meeting corner seats. “Oh, the dead will like that open-toed look, especially the bloodred toenail polish. Tagless toes are a big turn-on here.”

“High praise,” Temple said, putting her perpetual tote bag, this one red patent leather, on the empty chair seat next to her.

“You could almost smuggle out a body in that giant bag, Miss Temple.”

“I’m here on behalf of Gangsters renovated mob museum, but I am not their ‘bag’ lady.”

“You are nobody’s bag lady,” he said gallantly. “What exactly can I do for you?”

“Did you ID the vault victim?”

“Ex–Vegas magician named Cosimo Sparks. Bizarre death.”

“How did he die? I found the body. He was in formal dress, and I didn’t see a mark on him but the studs on his shirt front.”

“Sure one of them wasn’t a stab wound?”

“That would take a pretty ‘anorexic’ weapon.”

Bahr nodded. “Like a supermodel in spikes. I can’t leak any more confidential info, except to say there were odd hesitation marks. Usually stabbers overdo it, over and over again. Sparks’ wounds were an odd combo: A half dozen trial cuts—hesitations—then a bold killing stroke, one clean, deep drive to the heart. An angry, powerful, but initially timid murderer.”

“Glad he or she was long gone before I got there,” Temple said, with a mock shiver. “Okay, I could also use any details on the Lake Mead … find. That would be super helpful.”

“Ah, yes, a cold case. I can spill my guts on that one. Just a figure of speech. So you are intrigued by our old pal ‘Boots.’ Too bad he’s too dead to enjoy having a lovely young lady like you on his case.”