Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Champagne Suite

“What do you think the rascals are up to tonight?” Van von Rhine asked as she refilled her three guests’ champagne glasses. Electra had come when called, leaving the Circle Ritz on the Hesketh Vampire motorcycle. Her helmet sat at her feet, the words SPEED QUEEN printed on the front.

Next to it sat the Crystal Phoenix’s house cat, a gold-eyed black stray named after Temple’s cat, Midnight Louie. Midnight Louise was smaller, had longer hair, and didn’t share Louie’s eye color, but she was as prone to push through open doors into other people’s parties as her namesake.

She also had that same odd air about her of appearing to understand what people said. Or, at least, she listened intently, as if there was something to learn. This was odd, because Temple would swear that cats never condescended to learn anything from human beings.

She bent down to pat Midnight Louise’s attentive black head. She wished Louie himself were here. She always felt more at ease in his formidable presence, and on more than one occasion he had attacked a human on her behalf. Hard.

Of course, she wasn’t the one in peril tonight.

Temple didn’t want to admit it aloud, but she was worried about Matt. He was venturing far from ex-priest territory tonight. She assumed a Fontana brothers bachelor party could be pretty wild, in a harmless sense. Surely, Aldo would look out for Matt. After all, they were soon to be pseudo brothers-in-law. Surely.

Omigod! Would she have to call him Uncle Aldo?

“I don’t have to guess,” Electra said smugly. “I know.”

“Know what?” Temple had forgotten what the conversation was about.

“Where the rascals are going for Aldo’s bachelor party.”

“You do!” they all shouted at once.

Every woman here had someone near and dear off in the desert night partying hearty, except Electra.

Electra pleated the full floral folds of her muumuu.

Seeing her whizzing by on a sleek vintage motorcycle, engine screaming like a banshee to live up to the model’s name, would be pretty scary, Temple thought.

“What are twelve men going to come up with in terms of party arrangements on such short notice?” Electra glanced at Kit. “Although I do understand why you don’t want to delay your nuptials to the adoring Aldo for one more day than necessary.”

“What did you come up with, Electra?” Van asked. “A private performance of Cirque de Sole Mio?” The disciplined pale blond hair in Van’s French twist was separating into loose tendrils. The champagne hadn’t dented her dignity, but had added a certain flair.

“The Shemale Review at the Goliath,” Kit suggested with an arpeggio of airy laughter.

“A private wake at the city morgue,” Temple put in.

“Please.” Electra fluffed her helmet-flattened white curls.

“Give me credit at least for being appropriate. No, it’s a private party at the G-Strip Club. A program of Elvis impersonators performing, with a wedding dress-garbed Priscilla popping out of the traditional cake. Elvis and Priscilla were married here in Vegas, after all.”

“A bride stripper?” Kit asked, incredulous.

“She’s only a slight flaunter, not a stripper.” Electra glanced at Temple. “Nothing an ex-priest couldn’t see on television.”

“Have you seen television lately?” Temple asked. “That blond fifties cabinet model in your penthouse doesn’t look fully functional. Network is getting as racy as cable. I will admit, though, that since the brothers helped me out as Elvis impersonators a while back, that is an appropriate form of entertainment for Aldo’s bachelor party.”

Electra waved a plump hand. “Would I let you ladies suffer a moment of insecurity? Even the Priscilla is a wholesome little wisp of a thing.”

Temple narrowed her eyes while sipping her third glass of champagne. They could all crash in Van and Nicky’s place tonight. When he finally stumbled into their pajama party, he could sleep in the bathtub. Or so Van had stated.

Of course it was a roomy two-person, jetted tub.

“ ‘Wholesome little thing.’ ” Something had penetrated Temple’s bubble-lulled brain. “Electra, you didn’t! You didn’t hire that poor, pathetic juvenile delinquent stepdaughter of miserable Crawford Buchanan’s? Quincey?”

“I did. She’s still pursuing a performing career, and it’s running away from her faster than she can cat-walk. You know our guys will be perfect gentlemen all.”

“Well, mostly,” Van conceded with a ladylike hiccup. “Nicky promised to be home by one A.M. and to bring Matt with him. To drop Matt off at the Circle Ritz, rather.”

They all glanced at the tall crystal plinth of an ultramodern grandfather clock against one wall of the huge living room. Past midnight.

“Boys will be boys,” Kit remarked apropos of nothing. “I can’t believe I’m finally getting married.”

“Let’s see,” Van remarked, speaking slowly as one mainlining unaccustomed champagne should. “I’ve been married once. You and Temple have never been married but are hurtling toward the altar, or the justice of the peace, and Electra has been married—”

“Five times.” She shrugged her floral-swathed shoulders. “It took practice in the old days. Here.” She raised her glass. Van filled it. “A toast to our blushing brides.”

“Do you blush?” Kit asked Temple.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Ooh! I can’t wait to take pictures at your wedding. You and Matt will make the most swooningly precious couple.”

“Aunt. You’re sloshed. Please do not apply the word precious to me and mine.”

“Not even to that old softie, Midnight Louie?”

“Especially not to Midnight Louie!”

“Where do you suppose he is tonight?” Kit’s gaze grew sentimental. “Out on the town himself, courting some feline fatale.”

“Gag,” Temple said. “I sincerely hope this champagne makes us forget everything we said tonight. A bachelor party may be a little gross, but a bachelorette party is Soupy Central. Why do I sense the guys are having a lot more fun than we are?”

Van topped off her glass, which had somehow gone dry.

“They’ll have hangovers to enter The Guinness Book of World Records, but they’ll feel pleased with themselves and their one-night rebellion. Men!”

“Men!” Kit echoed, lifting her glass. “You can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them.”

“Men,” Temple said. And smiled.

“Men.” Electra frowned. “I wish you girls better luck with ‘em than I’ve had.”

“It’s kinda nice,” Van said, sliding down onto her usually steel spine as she cosseted her champagne glass, “to know they’re having a last bit of brotherly, boyish fun tonight. Nicky could use a break from the executive suite. And Aldo . . . Kit, he is a Prince Charming. They are all.”

“To all Prince Charmings,” Temple said, lifting her glass. “Wherever they are!”

She thought immediately, with an unwanted, slightly tipsy pang, of Max.

Then she chugalugged the champagne. There was nowhere she had to be tonight. Nothing she had to do.

Nothing but relax and enjoy.

So why was she worried?