Cat In A Zebra Zoot Suit

28

Laid Off

Appropriately for a man hung from a giant dusty crystal chandelier, Jay Edgar Dyson’s funeral parlor reception room boasted a much more tasteful and petite and sparkling chandelier.

Ironically, the mysterious fiancée had chosen Sam’s Funeral Parlor, with its white-pillared Tara façade, where Matt’s stepfather had been “laid out”. She had also sprung for a funeral announcement in the paper.

Temple studied the sparse group of people who’d signed the book and entered. Most were male senior citizens with bald or very low thread-count heads. Not likely mob-related. Gambling buddies, probably.

In fact, a short spry guy with black still streaking his gray hair approached her. She was mystified until she realized he always wore a snappy fedora around town, but had doffed it in respect for the place and occasion.

“Nostradamus,” she greeted him. “Did you know Mr. Dyson?”

“Only to see and nod in passing. Or spend some time just gassing.”

Yup, it was the rhyming bookie, all right.

“Is his death a surprise to you?”

“Rumor is it wasn’t quite kosher. Me…” He shrugged. “I know better than to look for closure. There still are elements in this town that would bring an okay guy down.”

Temple nodded. “Thanks.”

He leaned close and lowered his voice. “If you’re still doing the Nancy Drew act, you’ll need someone to watch your back.”

“I have someone to watch over me.”

“More than one, I bet, at that. Say hello to my pal, the lucky black cat.” Nostradamus winked at her and moved on to gaze into the casket.

Nostradamus knew everybody in town, and apparently, everything. And he suspected murder, even though it hadn’t made the paper.

Temple sighed and looked around again. She hadn’t realized until now that funeral parlors she had visited were so similar to Las Vegas wedding chapels. There was the same, hushed ceremonial air enhanced by thick carpets and banks of flowers. There was the fact of knowing it wasn’t holy ground, yet that an event of great solemnity was underway in this over-luxurious setting.

And it was a setting the late pianist Liberace, the swami of glitter, would have loved. The soft, lavish upholstery of the coffin lid was propped as showily ajar as a Steinway grand piano’s top board…the corpse’s face looked as slightly painted as a stage actor’s…or a mannequin’s.

Seeing Electra here not wearing her Justice of the Peace robes seemed strange. She had added an artificial silver sheen to her white hair and wore dignified navy blue. Standing next to her was a tall, thin blonde woman of sixty-something wearing snazzy red glass frames. Definitely Diane, not the mystery fiancée.

Temple joined them, deciding she didn’t need to gaze upon the not-so-dear departed ever again.

She was not surprised to see Detective Su present. Her usual, darkly sober mini-Molina pantsuit was funeral-appropriate. Temple lifted one eyebrow at Su in greeting, which was not returned.

After Electra introduced Temple to Diane, she murmured, “We were saying that an urn and a photograph would have done for us.”

“At least the surprise fiancée, and not the estate, is paying for this,” Diane said. “I’m here to eyeball the supposed fiancée, frankly.”

“Me, too,” Temple said with feeling. Everything about the murder reeked of a setup. “I bet the police are interested in her too. Is there a reading of the will?”

Electra nodded. “Temple, you can come with us when we leave. The police found the lawyer and he transferred that duty to an attorney here in town.”

“Another waste of estate money.”

“Diane,” Electra warned. “The man was murdered. We don’t want to sound like gold-diggers.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m a retired clerk with a tiny pension. I’m sorry Jay died ahead of his time, but you and I earned some recompense for time put in.”

“At least you were out of town when it happened,” Electra said. “I’m still a ‘person of interest’.”

“Hey. That’s actually a good thing for women our age,” Diane said with a wry smile.

“When did you get to Vegas?” Temple asked.

“Not until this morning, and I have the plane ticket to prove it.” Diane narrowed her eyes. “Electra has mentioned her ‘famous’ tenants in the past, and I know you’re an amateur detective.”

“Well, not really. Not officially.”

“Don’t be modest. I’m sure you won’t get anything on me. Just show me the hussy and the will, and I’m on the next plane home.”

“Hussy at six o’clock high,” Electra trilled under her breath, looking to the gold velvet curtains at the entry archway.

A tall, thin woman in black paused for an entrance moment. She was a walking cliché wearing a close-fitted suit with a pencil skirt, sheer black hose, and a brimmed black hat with a matching veil.

“The Bride Wore Black,” Temple muttered, referencing a title by that very dark noir novelist, Cornell Woolrich. “She’s like out of a really bad Movie of the Week. And I know her!” she added in surprise.

“You do?” Electra was shocked.

“You do, too,” Temple answered.

“No.…”

“Yes. Look at that black dyed hair.”

“What would Lindy Lukas be doing here?”

“Visualize her in tight jeggings and boots,” Temple urged.

“My Lord.”

“Yes,” Temple said, “Diane, meet Cathy Zevon, a.k.a. Katt Zydeco, strip club manager.”

“Actually,” Diane said, “I would like to meet her. Sounds like you and Electra can do the honors.”

“No…” Electra began, but Diane was willful for a willowy blonde and apparently still felt a sense of possession about Jay.

Temple and Electra could only follow Diane as she marched forward to meet and greet the lady in black.

“I’m a former Mrs. Dyson. I understand you were the next Mrs. Dyson-in-training. A little young for a man in his seventies, weren’t you?”

“Jay had a youthful spirit.”

“How’d you meet?”

Temple watched Diane’s interrogation with growing amazement. She’d never have had the nerve to confront a woman who’d paid for the visitation and burial even if she’d come out of the woodwork.

So Temple ventured a question of her own. “You met here in Vegas, didn’t you?”

Cathy Zevon/Katt Zydeco’s eye makeup had been in deep mourning even before Temple had heard of Jay Edgar Dyson or met him. Her “smoky eye” could have survived a five-alarm fire. Her dark pupils were inky black as she fixed Temple with a cold stare.

“You’re the Miss Nosey from the Lust ‘n’ Lace site. It’s none of your business, but we’ve been inseparable since Jaysy came to Vegas.”

“And I’m sure Leon Nemo made the introduction,” Temple said.

“It’s Nemo’s job to make introductions, but it isn’t your job to question our actions.”

“She’s only acting for us,” Diane said. “We widows. You’re not claiming to be another one.”

“Maybe I’m not, and maybe I will turn out to be one. You never know in Vegas, with its instant marriage industry. Now I’m going to pay my respects to the dear departed.”

Every eye upon her, she cat-walked to the casket—one spike-clad foot crossing in front of the other—to place a black-gloved hand on the brass rail and gaze and sigh as if performing in a high school Shakespearian tragedy.

“Oh, Jay,” Diane wailed as the trio walked away and out of the reception room, “did you go off the rails with one bad mama!”

“Maybe not,” Temple said, noticing that Merry Su had snapped some shots of Ms. Zevon/Zydeco with her cell phone. “Maybe one bad mama pushed him off the rails.”