Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Loving Dangerously

Matt snagged Temple as she was passing through the bar to the kitchen for something bracing for further interviews, like a Red Bull energy drink. It was no surprise that she’d spotted a large stock of those in the refrigerator.

“Does the busy interrogator have a minute?” he asked, stopping her by the doorway where the opportunities for overhearing were minimum.

“Oh, Matt. It’s so impossible. Meeting every Fontana girlfriend and trying to remember who goes out with whom and unravel how they came up with this scheme and who might have had an ulterior motive.”

“And you haven’t even factored in the resident ‘courtesans’ yet.”

She groaned. “Whoever set up this murder, if it was indeed set up, knew how to confuse the issue three times over. I finally beat a lead on the identity of the victim out of the resident courtesans.”

“That’s great! Why are you moaning about not making progress then?”

“She was a real mystery woman, made a shtick out of always being in disguise.”

“I thought those abundant Venus on a clamshell locks were a little unreal.”

“She worked under the name Madonnah, spelled with an h on the end and was almost never seen. She picked her johns, not the other way around. The others were not too taken with her prima donna ways. So . . . one of them could have killed her in a fit of jealousy.”

“That’s why I think you should let me interview the courtesans.”

“You?”

“I am a professional counselor. The theory being that many sex industry workers have abuse issues, I might pry things out of them easier than you. A lot of women like this call into ‘The Midnight Hour.’ “

“It’s true that they probably think women like me are hopelessly naive about the world as they see and live it.” Temple glanced back toward the parlor, where bare parts of half-clad courtesans were visible through the archway. “These pros would eat a good boy like you alive.”

“Maybe not. I know how to get past well-varnished facades. And I’m not as good as I used to be.”

Temple lofted an eyebrow. “In the behavior sense, not the bedavior sense.”

“See? I’m more qualified than ever for the job. Let me try.”

She considered his request, realizing that he still regretted the call girl’s death at the Goliath. Apparently, their tête-à-tête that night had been a revelation to both. Matt’s priestly years of celibacy made him a mystery to worldly women like hookers, Temple bet. They’d probably sense that he didn’t have the ordinary male vulnerability to their wiles and seductions and mind games. He was firmly neutral in that department, almost like a gay friend. Yet not gay at all.

“They’ll be enchanted with you, and probably let their hair and their guards down,” Temple decided. “Pick a room upstairs to set up in, and go to it.”

“Not upstairs, not their working environment. If they have private quarters, there must be a gathering room there.”

So it was that half an hour later the first courtesan, glancing significantly at her sisters in suspicion, announced that she was having a visit with “Mr. McDreamy Midnight” in the break room and slunk off through the Fontana boys’ bar—applause and whistles—through the girlfriends’ kitchen—hoots and the clatter of tableware—to the low rambling annex where the women of the Sapphire Slipper actually bathed and slept and did their nails.

Temple hoped that she was doing the right thing. Which was hard to determine in a brothel.