Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Babes to Boots

Temple’s head was throbbing.

No wonder the golden age of mystery had been in the Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, Ellery Queen era of the 1920s, ’30s, and ’40s, the days of cozy, closed-cast murder scenes. Everyone present a suspect. Victims and suspects isolated, so no messy outsider could be pegged as the evildoer at the last moment. A culture clash between the girlfriends and the victim that could have turned lethal. Upstanding citizens could snap when confronted with extreme lifestyles, which is why Matt was such a tailor-made suspect. Upright, uptight clergymen were long fabled as spectacularly snap-worthy. And Fontana brothers were always prime suspect material.

The more desperate Temple was to relieve Matt and Nicky of suspicion, the more frantic she was to wrap this up before it tainted Kit and Aldo’s wedding, the less of a way out she saw.

Nobody here except the Sapphire Slipper residents had any overt connection to the brothel, unless Uncle Mario and brothers were all lying like Milano wool-silk rugs.

One of the girlfriends, of course, might have a slightly shady lady background. She might have a sister in the biz. Who knows? Trouble was, Temple was supposed to find these things out.

She decided she was right to start at absolute zero, since that was all she had anyway. She was doing what those brilliant amateur detectives of almost a hundred years ago had done: observe and trace the time line of the crime.

It had started with the real bachelor party, so she should start with a bachelor and work her way through logically, from person to person.

So which Fontana brother had set up the party? Not Aldo, but someone had to be the front man. She asked Aldo to find the culprit and bring him to the Victorian Room for an interview.

She waited alone in the room’s tawdry elegance. Despite its reputation as an elegant brothel, the Sapphire Slipper was more pretension than class. Temple had used the brothel’s office laptop to survey the competition’s Web sites. (Also to snoop at how it presented itself and use any inside information she could come across.)

Reception was fine, and their cell phones were now registering signals. They had agreed, though, that further isolation would help all involved with the police when they were finally called.

Most legal Nevada brothels were located in the cactus and sagebrush of the boonies, no more than single-wide trailers offering visions of low-end furniture glory.

Compared to that, the Sapphire Slipper was an oasis of sophistication. The “courtesans”—that was the official title for the girls according to their organization site—were freelance workers who set their own prices and menu of offerings. They were rigorously certified as disease-free, and always used condoms. They didn’t languish for months or years at a particular “venue,” but traveled the country like carnies, checking into familiar stands for two to four weeks at a time.

Apparently variety was a big advantage of the brothel menu.

Temple tried not to be judgmental. She understood the argument that legalized prostitution protected both client and provider way more than streetwalking, but she couldn’t picture a life of such casual sexuality. Then she considered the angst she felt in changing lovers, from Max to Matt, with marriage always a likelihood in the equation. . . . And thought maybe that feeling less and experiencing more was not a totally insane way to go.

A gentle knock on the door startled her from her musings.

For a moment she felt like a resident expecting a client. Who would he be? Which one of the men from downstairs? That darling blond guy? Hell, no. He was taken.

This would be a tall, dark, and handsome, Fontana-style. The only mystery about this guy would be which one had been stuck setting up the party venue that had been usurped.

Temple imagined the fury uncorking at the place that the Fontana party was not at this very moment, including pathetic Quincey not being able to wriggle out of a fake cake in true bimbo form.

“Come in,” she said. “Ralph!” She gazed at the second youngest Fontana brother.

“Hi.” He shrugged. “Yeah, the church elders stuck me with setting up the village idol worshipping. I hear you want to know where we all were supposed to be right now.”

“Have a seat,” she suggested.

The only place was the other end of the Victorian love seat, which was hard of back and sitting surface, despite being upholstered in baby blue.

“Man, this is one uncomfortable mama of a couch,” Ralph said, arranging his lanky frame. “I guess it’s because they want to get right to the bed.”

Temple eyed the high-mattressed, rococo affair with ruffled canopy. “That doesn’t look any better.”

“There’s always the floor,” Ralph said with distaste, running the edge of his Italian sole over the saccharine floral-design area rug. “No, I guess not.”

Temple cleared her throat. She was not here to discuss ideal reclining spots with a Fontana brother. “Where were you all supposed to be?”

He described the place, the G-Strip Club, the plans for the evening. “It was going to be the usual bachelor party nonsense, a lot of booze, razzing the groom-to-be, a stripper bride popping out of a big cardboard cake. We didn’t have a lot of time to set it up.”

“That club is in Las Vegas proper. Or improper. When the ride there took so long, weren’t you suspicious?

“We were paesanos having a good time. The champagne and banter flowed. I just figured the driver was giving us a chance to mellow before we arrived.”

“The driver. Hah! Who was this?”

“Whoever was assigned to chauffeur us in the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, our smoothest and creamiest limo. The silver exterior finish is so perfect it seems like warm mirror to the sight and touch. The leather inside is softer than kid, the color of champagne. The inlaid woods are Swedish blond.”

Temple was almost drooling.

“Nicky calls it the Vanmobile.”

Well! She didn’t need to know that!

“Um, Ralph. I understand the driver was a new hire.”

“Chauffeurs come and go, like headwaiters. Essential, but temperamental.”

“You remember this guy?”

“Gherken. They go by last names, like ritzy English butlers. Never saw him before, but he seemed competent. One of our regulars had called in sick and this guy just happened to be applying. He had a good rap . . . I mean, reference . . . sheet.”

“What do you mean by good?”

“Employed as a getaway driver by the Ciampi family in Chicago. Not Irish. They tend to drink while waiting.”

“But not Italian?”

“Not . . . anything,” Ralph said, narrowing his eyes and fingering his discreet gold earring. “The guy was . . . blah. Bland. Not memorable. Every Mr. Smith you ever saw. Except his last name was Gherken. You talked to him, it sounded like you were asking for a pickle. On the other hand, our clients are always pretty jolly out on the town, and like a good laugh.”

“Funny,” Temple said. “You hear the name ‘Smith’ and get suspicious. You hear a ridiculous last name and you think it’s got to be genuine. Who’d make up a moniker like that?”

Ralph sat up, worried. “You think he was in on it! But it was just chance he got the Vanillamobile and our party.”

“Anybody talk personally to the ‘sick’ driver?”

“He was bribed?”

Temple said nothing.

“You mean he might have been mugged.”

“Or kidnapped himself.”

“Or killed. Jesu bambino! He could have been killed himself. And we shouldn’t call out of here to find out, unless we’re ready to call the cops too.” Ralph stood. “It would look suspicious if we want to use the excuse that none of our cell phones worked. Much as I hate to do it, I’ll talk to the guys about turning ourselves in.”

Temple had the satisfaction of astounding a Fontana brother. Usually it was the other way around.

Meanwhile, she was waiting for her next interviewee. This person was the bridge between the “before” and “after” of the kidnapping, least seen, least appraised.

Aldo led her in. The woman who had actually added some black palazzo pants to her butt-skimming uniform blazer.

As a showgirl, Asiah had the height and department-store-mannequin-broad shoulders to convincingly mimic a man in silhouette through a tinted glass darkly. With her platinum-blond hair under a cap and her hot-chocolate skin, she was the perfect substitute for a male driver, especially since the Fontana party owned the limo and the company.

They were likely to pile in on their own without an attentive chauffeur opening and closing each door behind them. They were on home ground; less wary. They were all men; the bachelor party crew didn’t need the niceties of a formal evening out to impress a woman. And that had been their blind spot, as their girlfriends had foreseen.

It was hard to imagine the spectacular Asiah squired by the most conservative Fontana brother, Ralph, but opposites do attract. And Temple had a hunch mild-mannered Ralph might go for a drop-dead, in-your-face gal like Asiah.

In fact, Temple felt a little nervous about interviewing her. All the Fontana girlfriends were taller than she, but that wasn’t hard to be.

“What sold you on this kidnap caper?” Temple asked.

Asiah’s wide smile showed shark-white teeth. “I figured my guy could use a walk on the wild side.”

“The wild evening out was the reason, not making them regret not proposing marriage?”

“Girlfriend, that was a fine reason for the others. Me, I just liked the rush. Driving those Fontana boys somewhere off the beaten track, fooling them, being in control of that huge limo and all those men. What a blast!”

“You French-kissed the driver to seal the deal?” Temple sounded squeamish even to herself.

“Soul-kissed, sweetie. I love turning the tables on everyone. Even my girlfriends, if that had come up. I crave adventure.”

“Did you have a room picked out for you and Ralph?” Okay, that was a totally salacious, irrelevant, and immaterial query.

“Um-hmm. But I don’t wanta embarrass a sweet little thing like you. You are so darling! And so is your man. If you ever take your fiancé here on a sentimental journey, ask for Room XXX.”

Wow. They did need to decide on a honeymoon destination. . . .

“Asiah, you obviously like living on the edge and are a sharp lady. Didn’t you have any suspicions that this scheme was working too smoothly? That someone could have been using this girls’ night out scenario for something sinister?”

“Is that what you think? The whole thing was a setup?” She crossed her long, long legs and sucked her shiny paprika red-glossed lips to consider it. Nothing shy about this woman. Ralph? “Now that the murder’s been done, sure. Then . . . we were pumped. We were into it. It seemed like harmless fun.”

“And the dead woman?”

Asiah’s expression sobered. “Not planned. Not anticipated. That is one ugly development, and it isn’t only the Fontana boys who will be in the hot seat when the law comes into it. It’ll be all us girls. We look stupid, if not like right-on-target suspects.”

“Is it possible some of you are?”

Asiah shook her platinum-blond hair, still serious. “Could be. I never thought of that, even after the body was found. Girls just want to have fun, you know.”

“Not always. These girlfriends were tired of just having fun.

That was the point. They wanted serious commitment.”

“Not me. I’ve got a great job, a great guy, a great life.”

“How did you all get together for this? Did you have occasional hen parties, or what?”

“Or what. Sometimes the boys double-and triple-date. If they have tickets for a major show or sports thing. If it’s a sports thing, some of the girls get bored and do their own thing nearby. So we get each other’s cell phone numbers and texting addresses.”

Temple found it depressing that they didn’t bother with e-mail or street addresses. It was a mobile world now, with people always wirelessly wired to other people. Some teens couldn’t seem to breathe without being in touch with someone all the time. It was a manically social way to be alone in a crowd.

Of course, cell phones didn’t always work everywhere at all times, as this place proved.

“So not all the girlfriends were peeved about not being engaged?” Temple asked.

“I’m the most independent one. Yeah, the others would have liked to have been asked, at least. Shown something eye-popping in a box besides a bracelet.”

“Who was the ringleader, then?”

Frowning, Asiah crossed and uncrossed her legs. “I really . . . can’t say. We seemed to come up with it all at once when we heard about Aldo’s marrying that New York woman. I mean, if Aldo fell . . . that was a big change for the Fontana brothers.”

“So there’d been no mutters of trouble among the women before then?”

Asiah shrugged those skinny linebacker shoulders. “I heard one or two were dating other men.”

“Who?”

“Wanda. She’s Rico’s girl. A guy’d be crazy to let a professional massage therapist get away from him. But she was taking it personally. Maybe she wanted to rub only one guy the right way.”

“When you say ‘therapist’—”

“I mean professional. She wasn’t in the sex industry, although any therapist gets a lot of male clients. They have bigger muscles and often need to show one and all how they use them. Leads to strain and pain.”

“Who was the other girlfriend dating outside the family?”

“That mahogany redhead sports gal, Alexia.”

“She’s a horse trainer, right?”

“Right. Some folks think that’s glamorous, being out in the hot sun all day, with sweating horsehide and circling horseflies and poop piles the size of beehives on the ground. Not my way to chill.”

“Whose girlfriend is she?”

“Ernesto’s. He loves the track, betting. Every guy’s gotta have a guy-type hobby. You’re getting married, you better keep that in mind.”

“Do you know anyone else who was dating out of the Fontana circle?”

Asiah put long forefinger to lip. Temple noticed her nails were short. She probably wore long false nails onstage. “State secret. They knew enough to keep it off the Internet.”

“They’re afraid of the Fontana brothers?”

“That mob history is just that, history. No, but they didn’t want to risk one good thing while trolling for another. It was all Aldo’s fault. His engagement was a shock.”

“To me, too,” Temple said.

“Yeah, your aunt has avoided the JP pretty long herself, a lot longer than Aldo, right?”

Temple saw the speculation flashing in those shrewd espresso-brown eyes.

“Family secret,” Temple said primly. “We Northern Europeans have our clannish ways too.”

“Yeah, Clan of the Cave Bear!” Asiah pretended to shiver in below-zero cold and laughed up a storm. “I was just the driver, along for the ride. I don’t know much.”

“Who was the ringleader?” Temple repeated.

“Gotta know that, huh? I’d say . . . Miss Jill.”

“She’s the—”

“Little. Natural white-blond. One of those Northern European stock people. Jill Johanssen. Was real hyper about being in on the caper. Don’t know her well. Giuseppe’s girl. Pepe is crazy about her. If anyone was going to crack and go nuptial, I’d have said it would have been him. She was everything opposite he was: small, pale, tightly wired in a cute, brisk way.”

“And her profession is?”

“Oh! Pretty boring stuff.”

“You other women are hard to beat.”

“True. She was a pharmacist. Don’t ask me how she met him.”

“Maybe in a drugstore line,” Temple said, smiling. “Thanks for the info.”

“You’re welcome, babe. I gotta be back on the Strip tonight for two shows at the Rio. Crack us out of here, girl! Or you’ll have a riot on your hands.”

Temple nodded as Asiah eeled out the door.

Jill. A pharmacist.

Access to all sorts of drugs.

Maybe the dead woman hadn’t been strangled. That took a bit of time and struggle. Maybe the foam-flecked lips and bloodshot eye whites Temple remembered with a shudder from the other strangled murder victim she’d seen recently could have been caused by ingesting a poisonous substance.

Maybe someone had knocked Madonnah out first with an injection. That made sense in the milling, populated upstairs where the killing had to have happened.

Or did it? Maybe the body had been trucked in, like the Fontana bachelor party, from Vegas. In the limo’s trunk.

Or the “boot,” as the Brits called it.