Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Chapter 19

Honeymooners

“You and Matt make such an adorable couple!” Aunt Kit pronounced that evening.

She linked Temple’s arm through hers and led her on a stroll through the lavish indoor tropical gardens and water features of the Crystal Court cocktail lounge. Although this was a private reception in honor of Kit and Aldo Fontana’s return from a Lake Como honeymoon in Italy, a big and festive crowd thronged the Crystal Phoenix Hotel’s bar area. The soaring spotlighted entry wall was frosted-crystal sheened by a thin veil of falling water. Very bridal.

A life-size wedding cake topper couple posed in the center of the space. “Living” statues as pure white as Carrara marble had been introduced at the Venetian Hotel. The specialty mimes looked frozen in place, but moved infinitesimally, disconcerting the unwary in a whimsical, charming way.

“Adorable couple, me and Matt,” Temple repeated her aunt’s comment. “Them too.” She nodded at the statues. “And … I could say the same about you and Aldo.”

Kit smiled like the Persian who’d lapped up the ice cream. “We Carlson girls are just the bee’s knees. Luckily the genes weren’t weakened by your father, Mr. Barr.”

“Leave my poor father out of it, Kit. I hear you ‘Carlson girls’ have been chatting about me behind my back. Have you even told Mom you’re married now?”

“Hell no. She’d make such a fuss. Have you told her you’re engaged?”

“As a matter of fact,” Temple said with a virtuous air she could seldom assume, “yes.”

Kit grabbed her hand and sat them down on a white patent leather tufted bench with Lucite legs. It felt more like floating than sitting. “How’d she take it?”

“She was dubious until she learned the happy fiancé wasn’t Max.”

“Your mother recognizes a dangerous man when she sees him.”

“Wait’ll she sees Aldo.”

“I hope to postpone that day until Aldo condescends to grow a respectable gray hair or two. These Italians are slow to turn distinguished.”

“I hope ‘that day’ is at my wedding.”

“Then you’re going to do the deed in Minnesota?”

Temple sighed. “Maybe. Or Chicago. Or maybe there’s someplace ecumenical in between.”

“Iowa?”

Temple laughed. “Why not Wyoming, while you’re at it?”

“Wherever it is,” Kit said with a hug, “you’ll make a beautiful bride.”

That made Temple tear up a tad. “I’d better not desert my bridegroom-to-be. It’s really great to dress up and go out in Vegas together at an event that’s not so late he’ll have to rush off to the radio station.”

Temple jumped up and fluffed the full skirt of her ’50s vintage dress, now so “in” again. She and Kit strolled back to the main mingling area.

“Ah, bella.” Tall, dark, and handsome Aldo Fontana intercepted them and so equally offered his glance that it was impossible to tell which woman he’d called beautiful, presumably both.

That was the Fontana touch, diplomatic to the bone. Imagine the movie Godfather having ten nephews who were maître d’s at a five-star restaurant.

All the Fontana brothers were clichés: ridiculously tall, dark, and handsome. There were an incredible ten of them, here now mingling in suave social patterns to make guests feel welcome, whether it was steering a couple to the bar or kissing the ladies’ hands.

Matt, bearing a tall frosted glass, joined them. “A mini family reunion?” he asked, smiling at Kit.

“Don’t you look handsome,” Kit said, embracing him and brushing his cheek with a kiss. “Family privilege, right, Aldo?”

Aldo responded by kissing Temple’s left hand and winking at the engagement ring on it. “Family privilege, Matt.”

“You’ll all be pleased to know,” Temple said, “that Kit has informed my worried mother in Minnesota that I’m under the wing of a large Italian family while in Las Vegas. She was much relieved.”

“Then,” said Aldo with a brush of his palms that ended with a gentle clap, “my function in life has been more than met. May I sweep you away,” he asked Kit, “for a private family stroll among the camellias? I do have a lot of brothers.”

“Your mother and mine,” Matt told Temple after they moved on, “would have a lot in common. Worrying. How do we stop them?”

“We get married and convince them we’re grown-ups. If my mom knew that Uncle ‘Macho’ Mario’s roots are as firmly planted as a corpse in Vegas’s mob history, she’d be down here with the state police to pry me out of Vegas. Come to think of it, Chicago’s a more notorious mob town. She’ll pout when we settle down so close, but far, to her.”

Matt’s arm around her waist had tensed during her happy babble. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that champagne cocktail when they arrived.

“Don’t count your Chicagos,” he said, “before they put out a contract on me. Media kingpins are fickle.”

“It’s not like we didn’t totally blow the network bigwigs away. They were even talking about ‘doing something’ with me. We could be the hot new media couple of Michigan Avenue.”

“It could all fall through.”

“Anything could, I guess, Matt.”

He remained silent, a shadow in his eyes. Then he deliberately shook off the mood, like Louie unseating an invisible flea. “Here I am, neglecting Number One fiancée. I think I’ll switch to champagne. It’s certainly given you a bubbly glow.”

As they took a couple of steps toward the bar, Temple’s idle gaze encountered a fixed point, and she stopped moving. “What’s she doing here?”

He looked where she was staring. “Van von Rhine? She runs the joint.”

“Not Van, the woman with her, the hot blonde from the icy Alps. Van’s private school friend, from Switzerland. Funny, Max just spent a couple months in a coma and then on the run in … Switzer … land.”

Temple’s lower jaw remained frozen in position even as Matt frowned to identify the woman in question. Moving through the crowd to join the two women, what at first impression seemed a Fontana brother, was Max Kinsella.

When she turned to consult Matt, he was already looking at her.

“Isn’t that a shock?” she demanded. “I don’t know why he … why she … why they’re here. It’s a reception for Kit and Aldo. That woman surely doesn’t know them.”

“Max does,” Matt reminded her.

“If he remembers,” Temple pointed out. “Though everybody in Vegas knows the Fontana brothers, and Kit met … ah, Max met Kit—oh, ages ago.”

Temple had just remembered that her Christmas visit to Kit in Manhattan had ended with her aunt encouraging them to, er, reunite after the shock of Max’s sudden exit of a year before, followed by as sudden a return.

“He and the blond schoolmate seem to be an item,” Matt noted, unable to hide some smugness.

“That’s wonderful,” Temple said. “Max is creating new memories. He won’t be so alone.”

“Without you?”

“Without Gandolph.”

At that moment, Van took the blonde in hand and headed toward Temple and Matt while Max turned to be hailed by Aldo and Kit. Temple wondered how much he remembered of the Fontana brothers … and Kit … and that night in Manhattan.

“Temple, Matt,” Van said, “I’d like you to meet my finishing school friend, Revienne Schneider. I know, Temple, you’ve met in passing, but Revienne has a profession you, and particularly Matt, would find fascinating.”

And with that, Van glided off, her hostess job done and her perfectly smooth champagne-colored French twist disappearing into the clusters of shoulders making conversation islands in the room.

Now Temple, Matt, and Revienne formed a new, alien clump of three.

What had Van been thinking?

First of all, even with Temple wearing her favorite heels with the sweet and clever bows (the ’50s were all about bows), Revienne on her four-inch Louboutins bristling with cuffs and spikes and gladiator leather towered over her. Worse, like many tall women who boldly went for even taller, she was used to looking men in the eye about a foot above Temple’s sight line, which put Revienne on eye level with Matt.

So Temple was automatically out of the conversation. She hated that!

Apparently, Ravishing Revienne also knew Max. From where? And when?

And what kind of name was Revienne? Temple was reminded of a vintage French perfume, Je Reviens. It meant “I return.”

Boy, did that not bode well for Temple. She would have loved to equate Revienne with the similarly shod, overwhelmingly blond D movie actress Savannah Ashleigh, with whom Temple had crossed stilettos before … but that wasn’t fair.

Revienne’s hair was such a smooth blend of French vanilla and caramel, you could almost taste it. Even her aggressive shoes were the one runway touch in her ensemble, a silky summer suit even more meltingly luscious than one of the Fontana brothers’ ice cream numbers.

And … an exquisite wisp of designer scarf flirted with her neck and shoulders. Temple had an entire drawer devoted to discarded and gifted scarves, with which she could do nothing even remotely fashionable.

“I’ve heard your radio show and have become addicted,” Revienne was telling Matt. “You are such a brilliant and intuitive counselor. How can you relate so quickly to such an array of problems, having no personal contact with the clients?”

“I’m sorry if I kept you up late,” Matt said with a smile. “They’re ‘listeners,’ not clients. Maybe it’s because I heard confessions for many years as a priest at a parish that had a Latin Mass and used confessionals for the older people.”

“C’est vrai?” Revienne asked Temple in such apparent surprise that she needed confirmation, which was another churchly rite, Temple mused.

“Of course it’s true,” Temple said, glad she understood a few French expressions, “if Matt says it is. Are you surprised he heard confessions in an old-fashioned, uh, booth, or that he was a priest?”

“Both, I suppose. I’d taken you for a married couple.”

Temple and Matt exchanged a smile and he answered. “You’re a pretty good snap psychologist yourself, Ms. Schneider. We soon will be married.”

“Ah.” Revienne’s new look at Temple included an eyebrow-raising appraisal of her vintage ruby-and-diamond engagement ring. “C’est vrai indeed. And please call me Revienne. Van and I were so close during our most formative years. It’s a pleasure to see her again and meet her friends here in Las Vegas.”

Like Max? Temple itched to ask. Maybe she could get the scoop on this blond bombshell from Van von Rhine in a private moment.

“What brings you to Las Vegas, Revienne?” Matt asked right out loud. “Van said you were in the same field as me. Surely you weren’t in a convent at one time?”

Yay, Matt!

“A convent school,” Revienne replied with an artful smile of her own. “Later I took degrees in Vienna and Berlin. A favorite instructor of mine has a visiting professorship at the local Nevada University branch. And, I have engagements in Los Angeles later for my—I think you say ‘pet’?—project.”

“You do volunteer work?” Temple asked, surprised. This woman looked too stylish, too too-too, and too hot for charity causes.

“For eating disorders among teenage girls, yes.”

“That’s a global problem, for sure,” Temple said. “When you and Van were at school together in Switzerland, was it a problem?”

“Yes, no doubt. But it was a secret one.”

“It does seem sometimes,” Matt said, “that teenagers’ modern mania for ‘posting’ all the details of their lives online is a raw adolescent ego trip, yet it’s exposed virulent problems like bullying and eating disorders.”

“Public confessions, you could say,” Revienne noted.

A waiter with a tray of champagne flutes paused beside them. Temple and Matt surrendered their empty glasses, and Revienne accepted one. Temple noticed the champagne matched her hair color perfectly.

“I should ‘mingle,’ as you say. I would love to stay and continue our collegial discussion, Mr. Devine, but Van wanted me to meet all her friends. Je reviens.”

With a salute of her champagne flute, Temple noted sourly, Revienne and her scarf wafted elsewhere.

“One wonders,” Matt said, watching her amble away as delicately as a fawn through the gathered people.

“That she had an eating disorder early on?”

His gaze narrowed just short of a frown. “Not that. It was someone close to her, all right, but not Revienne.”

“What did you wonder, then?”

“What her real purpose in being here is. We sure didn’t hear it.”

“It seems plain enough. Her old teacher is here. She’s visiting him on the way to her charity gigs in L.A.”

Matt shook his head. “She’s really interested in us.”

“You maybe. C’est vrais. A man-eater!”

That made Matt laugh. “I’ve never seen your jealous gene acting up. Well, a little about my cousin Krys in Chicago.”

“You are dealing with a hot-tempered redhead, fellow. Don’t forget that.”

“Speaking of hot-tempered redheads…” Matt nodded to Kit, who was talking to … Max at the bar.

“He’s not the enemy,” Temple said. “We do have to consult with him on various and sundry remaining mysteries and deaths, not to mention our Kitty the Cutter problem, but— Look! Kit is moving off alone. I’m going to plumb her brain on what’s going on with Max attending this Crystal Phoenix party.”

“Always the intrepid reporter. Meanwhile, I’ll ask Aldo for tips on being married to someone from your family.”

“Thanks for keeping him busy while I corner Kit,” Temple said as her heels rapped a rapid drumbeat over the marble floors. “Kit!” She grabbed her aunt’s arm just before she was about to join a group of Fontana brothers. She also snagged a passing waiter and scored champagne flutes for two. “Can you give me any idea of why my ex has been invited to a Crystal Phoenix party?”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” Kit sipped before answering further, and Temple could have shaken her.

“What bad news?”

“For one, Max is Revienne’s guest.”

“He better watch out. She is one slinky slippery sister.”

“Granted.”

“Who told you that?”

“Aldo. He’s putty in my hands.”

“Please, I don’t want to hear about any honeymoon disappointments.”

“Dream on,” Kit said, sipping once more.

“What did you learn from Max?”

“That he really doesn’t remember a lot.”

“He forgot you?”

“Yes, but he detected a resemblance and led me into talking about you and then me and my Manhattan career as an actress and then a romance writer and then as your madcap maiden aunt and your Christmas visit to my Manhattan digs.”

“No! That was our big reunion after he came back from disappearing for my own safety and leaving me deserted in Las Vegas. I don’t want him remembering anything … intimate about us. Just by talking to him, you turned his wandering memory in my direction.”

“Relax. I did fill him in on his impulsive trip to my Manhattan place. The man knows you two were an item, whether he remembers specifics or not. He did remember Midnight Louie being there, but not you. He says.”

“What a relief! Once again Midnight Louie comes in handy even when he isn’t around, like here.”

Kit sipped more champagne, fast.

“Going somewhere?” Temple asked.

“Preparing to duck and cover.”

“What else is new? Kit. Tell me!”

“Nicky Fontana was talking with Max.”

“I didn’t notice, but I’m sure Van has filled her husband in on the fact that I’m with Matt Devine now, and Max Kinsella is firmly in my past.”

“Maybe. But Nicky wants Max to work up a magic show for the Crystal Phoenix.”

“He can’t.” Temple was stunned.

“Who can’t what? Nicky can’t commission Max to do a magic show?”

“Sure, Nicky can do that, but Max. His memory. How can he remember all his old illusions?”

“I’m sure he’s got new illusions up his sleeve,” Kit said dryly. “We all do. I can tell you, as an actress, that Max is very, very good at covering up his memory deficit. Don’t you want him to recover and get back to work again?”

“Sure, but not at the Phoenix, my account.” Temple searched the busy lounge area until she saw Matt chatting with a tall man distinguished by a poll of ice white hair. “It’s such a good thing Matt has a hot job waiting in Chicago.”

“We’ll all miss you,” Kit said, her lips turning down into a mime’s moue. Even when she made a sad face, she was charming. “I hope you two can commute to see us here. People live in the same city as their exes all over the world, and it’s not the end of it.”

“No, but—” But Max is making it so obvious that he is back on the Vegas scene. Does he want to draw the attention of Kitty the Cutter?

Temple started thinking about Max’s almost-lifelong enemy, studying the cocktail waitresses, the female guests, looking for Kathleen O’Connor in another guise. That witch was so sneaky that Temple could almost believe Revienne Schneider was another incarnation of her.

Matt seemed totally occupied by a knot of female groupies, bless his humble heart, so Temple eased over to Max and the Mysterious Man. For one thing, she was dying to know more about how he’d hooked up with Revienne.

The men turned at the heel clicks of her approach, but it was the Mysterious Stranger who greeted her first. “Ah, Miss Barr, isn’t it? I know your agile PR fingerprints are all over every successful event in this hyperactive city of ours, not to mention on the occasional crime scene. That Zoe Chloe Ozone persona of yours really hit with the teen crowd. And now I hear you’ve impressed some media folk in the Big Town.”

Temple stood there, shell-shocked. Out of the corner of her eye, Max looked equally taken aback.

The man extended a veined but elegant hand and gave hers a waft past his lips. “Tony Valentine,” he said. “I represent those close to you and hope for an even closer connection in the future.”

Almost no one rendered Temple speechless. She saw that Max was in the same gobsmacked state and felt infinitely better.

“Adieu, Mr. Kinsella,” Valentine said with almost a parting heel click. “Please think over our cocktail chitchat and call me at teatime tomorrow for a true business conversation.”

Temple had to stand on tippytoes to watch his majestic white head glide away through a crowd that parted like the Red Sea for Moses.

“Tony Valentine,” she finally repeated. “He’s Matt’s agent. How did he know about my adventures in crime and punishment?”

“Probably from your concerned fiancé,” Max said. “A good agent knows everything.”

“Then I should ask him about the hot blond French babe you’re suddenly escorting.”

Max’s laughter was so infectious, she rightly felt foolish.

“She’s French-German,” he corrected her.

“A quibble. You know she’s as French as a Victoria’s Secret Miracle Bra.”

Max paused. Thought. “Actually, the French don’t go in for artificial implementation. Au naturel, you know.”

“So I noticed. Okay. What are you doing, exposing yourself all over town? You know it’s not safe.”

“I know ‘safe’ isn’t the way we’re going to smoke out Kathleen O’Connor.” Max gazed over her head at someone. He took a deep breath. “You realize her pattern is to torment next of kin, significant others, everyone but the true target of her rage.”

“So you aim to make yourself Mr. Prime Target, against the odds she even cares to torment you further at this point.”

Max nodded solemnly. “Why wouldn’t she? You do.”

Temple wanted to sputter that she didn’t. But couldn’t.

“If I were you,” he told her, “I’d keep an eye on the present, not the past.”

“What are you saying?”

“Just a word to the sage.”

Temple was frowning as he moved away.

Kathleen O’Connor was back. She’d never left, despite being mistaken for dead often enough to set a world record. Temple looked around. All the woman’s favorite victims were gathered here. She tended to fixate on men. Matt. Max. Maybe she’d even dazzled the Cloaked Conjuror when she masqueraded as his partner, the Asian magician, Shangri-La. Supposedly Shangri-La had fallen to her death. Or a body double had.

For sure, Kitty the Cutter was a mistress of disguise.…

Temple’s PR concerns could make her into a human security camera, and her last visual sweep of the area netted her a new idea. Sometimes the most obvious was the most concealed.

She eyed the slightly thinning crowd. Max had vanished. Tony Valentine had left. Even the Fontana brothers were down to a mere half dozen, including Nicky.…

In fact … Temple noticed that those two “living statues” powdered the solid white of marble were poised near Matt. The “groom” was apparently still at the moment, but the “bride” had edged over to … Max and Revienne, standing near the Crystal Phoenix movers and shakers.

How ironic if the “bride” were Kitty the Cutter, Max’s teenage conquest in Northern Ireland, already then a human time bomb of hate and vengeance. Temple turned and stalked toward the motionless-yet-now-sinister bride, planning to step on her trailing train and jerk off the veil.

She was about to commit a huge public debacle, but her instincts screamed she had spotted a maybe suicide bomber in their midst. Kathleen O’Connor could take out all her favorite targets and a lot of innocents right here and now.

Temple headed toward her prey.

Only she was about four feet and six seconds too late.