Chapter 37

Ms Cellany


Temple poured what was left of Matt's wine into her own glass and took a deep swig.

Then she absently ran the cool, smooth brim over her lips, back and forth, over and over.

Amen.

She was huddled in a corner of the sofa, knees jackknifed, arms clutched around them, as if she were cold.

But she wasn't cold at all. Temple balanced her glass on one kneecap.

Lesson number one: sparing other people's feelings is usually a euphemism for sparing yourself the pain of telling the truth.

Lesson number two: playing with fire will give you blisters. You might get to like blisters.

Lesson number three: expletive deleted.

Somehow she'd managed to be disloyal to everybody in this eternal triangle, including herself.

Including even Midnight Louie.

She really could have used a comforting feline presence right now. That sagacious furry face; those wise, slitted green eyes; that warm, solid body against her side.

But even Louie had deserted her. Even? Max and Matt had not, more's the pity.

She chugalugged the rest of the wine and un-corkscrewed herself to set the empty glass on the tabletop.

Not on the tabletop.

On top of a glossy brochure.

Temple saw a flash of color and motion, a sexy female, an exploding firework. The usual Las Vegas come-on for everything from soup kitchens to nuts to celebrity-impersonator revues.

How had this piece of trash gotten onto her coffee table? Maybe someone had stuffed it into her tote bag as she'd rushed by. Las Vegas was always foisting fleshly delights on oblivious passersby with more elevating issues on their minds. Like gambling.

Fleshly delights, oh my. Oh, Matt. Oh, Max. Oh, Midnight Louie. Maybe she should stick to cats.

Except that one word caught her attention as it was about to drift to sea.

Hyacinth.

"Shangri-La and Hyacinth. Hyacinth is also a cat, for heavens sake!"


Well, she would have to ask Max about this lady magician and her magical disappearing cat called Hyacinth.


She would have to see Max, soon. And say? Nothing. Sparing people's feelings, including one's own, could become a very bad habit.


***************

Matt had hours to go before he could go to work and lose himself in open-line jive. He would listen with a whole new third ear now, to lovesick Romeos and Juliets, to suicidal rejectees, to women haunted by obsessive stalkers.

But first he would call Lieutenant Molina. She had handed him a body. He had run with it.

Now she could chase down the implications: hyacinths by the truckload, an anonymous donor, fingerprints on the silver dollars.

He needed to call Temple.

No, he really needed to call her, to ask her something.

To hear her voice. To imagine her.

He called.

She answered, and sounded surprised.


"Silver dollars? How many? Sure, I can count them."

She was back at the phone after too long a while.

"Thirty."

"Exactly?"

"Exactly. But you knew that."

"Yes."

Silence. Necessity was over; the gray area stretched between them.

"I'll tell Molina," he said.

She said nothing. He said good-bye. He wondered if she sat there listening to the dial tone for as long as he did. War was hell, but libido was hell with a flamethrower.


*****************

Temple called Max.

"Hi. How many lady magicians do you know?"

"There's one in Vegas. Melinda downtown.

"Now there are two. Downtown. Shangri-La and Hyacinth."

"Hyacinth?"


"Apparently a cat is part of the act."

"Cats and magicians go together like Siegfried and Roy."

"Then how come Midnight Louie doesn't like you?"

"He must not be a real cat. I take it you want to take in this show."

"It seems like a good idea."

"Consider it done. But not until tomorrow. I'm doing clandestine research on some of our current conundrums. We'll probably have to hit the late show. Okay with you?"

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep until then anyway."


"Come over for dinner tonight. You can tell me what happened at the visitation."

She couldn't. She couldn't quite do it right now. But she couldn't say why, and therefore couldn't say no.

She certainly couldn't tell Max what had happened, and had not happened, after the visitation.

Temple sighed as she hung up. How had she maneuvered herself into lying by omission to everybody?


****************

C. R. Molina hung up after taking Matt Devine's call.

A bank of hyacinths. A woman in a long, black veil. Thirty silver dollars left in little square envelopes.

The homemade funeral for Cliff Effinger couldn't have gone better.

She pulled the photograph of the note found in Effinger's pocket toward her. She had expected Temple Barr to figure more prominently in the unfolding scenario, but the mysterious lady in black was usurping her place.

Devine had sounded strained on the phone, like a man under intolerable pressure. She had a feeling he was holding something back.

She had a feeling that he was about to release the always-hidden spring within himself.

She tapped the chewed end of a pencil on her glass-covered desktop. She wanted to push him, but she didn't want to push him into a place where he had nowhere to go except to jump off.

She liked Matt Devine. She didn't like most people she met through her job. As a policewoman, she was in trouble.


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