“Absolutely.” Nicky punched Matt on the shoulder to show his confidence. “Just don’t freeze. Grab the nearest gun and look like you mean business and aim.”
“At whom?”
Nicky shrugged. “Try me. I’ll be the center of attention.”
Eight Berettas
for Eight Brothers
Of course they have not figured me into their plans.
I am the lowly foot soldier.
The guy at one-foot height. Literally. And literally.
I have been all over this crime scene like a cheap suit. I have been downstairs, upstairs, and in my ladies’ chambers. I have scoped out the place from parlor to pissoir. (That is a fancy French term for what you can figure out all by yourself.)
I have sniffed the trails of several interesting parties from kitchen to boudoir to powder room to weapons dump. I have seen the swains of my two headwomen—Miss Van von Rhine of the Crystal Phoenix, where I used to be house detective, and Miss Temple Barr of the Circle Ritz, where I am chief security officer—play hide-and-seek amid a harem of bedrooms and come up the sole possessors of a dead body.
Where to deploy my awesome abilities where most needed? Hmm.
Obviously, Mr. Matt Devine needs a sidekick.
Mr. Nicky Fontana’s plan is okay for the first two seconds of shock, but that is a lot of hardware on the Victorian table and Mr. Matt is a smart guy, but not your average gun dealer.
I figure if twenty pounds of snarling alley fighter jumps to the tabletop at the right psychological moment, threatening to snag the hose and snarl the hairdo of any rogue bridesmaid thinking about reclaiming a firearm, that will take the plan from lame to game . . . set . . . match. Checkmate. Although the mating game is what has got all us guys into this murderous mess.
I tail Mr. Matt down the creaking stairs.
Luckily, there is a lot of palaver going in the parlor. No one knows, of course, that a woman lies dead upstairs. No one but the murderer, that is. I will watch the assembled company closely for someone whose surprise seems manufactured.
But first I have to shadow Mr. Matt down the stairs in the dark.
He is so concentrated on his pivotal role in the forthcoming change of power that he does not notice my pussyfooting accompaniment. Which is as it should be. When I choose to be low profile, I am a Black Velvet Fog on large cat feet. The Shadow who knows all the good stuff. The Furred Pimpernel. Oops, that last example is a little tacky in this venue.
Anyway, Mr. Matt pauses in the hall outside the parlor.
We hardly breathe until we hear the scritch of a cigarette lighter and Mr. Nicky’s bold footsteps move from the back bar into the parlor.
I scent the acrid sweetness of a Havana. Not a Havana brown cat spoor, but an illegal cigar imported from Cuba. I am guessing the bar area holds humidors full of them. Cigar bars are ultra chic these days.
I can sense Mr. Matt’s tension as we hear a flurry of movement and startled little mews in the parlor.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Nicky Fontana’s voice announces, “this farce is about to end.”
Mr. Matt whips around the corner and grabs the first semiautomatic he can lay hands on. “Don’t move. Anybody,” he orders.
I am not about to start obeying human orders now.
I leap up atop the table and take a battle stance, back humped, tail fluffed, hackles raised, teeth showing, claws out, my battle hiss a major media event.
Female oohs and aahs greet my entrance.
Meanwhile, Mr. Matt tosses a Beretta over my back to Mr. Nicky, who orders Miss Kitty to begin uncuffing his brothers.
I hear a lot of moaning and complaining on the bridesmaids’ part, but Mr. Nicky raises his voice over the chorus.
“There is a murder victim upstairs. Unless we all want to be guests of the Nye County jail in no time flat, I suggest the fun and games are over for now and we all get our alibis ready. Mi hermosos, I am happy to say, are totally innocent in this case, as they were bound from the moment they entered the premises, thanks to you ladies. But you revenge-happy bridesmaids are all prime suspects, as are the occupants of the house. So bros, grab your Berettas and keep an eye on everyone but one another. We are not leaving here until we know who died, and why, and who might have done it.”
By now the courtesans are exchanging anxious glances and counting heads. The bridesmaids gather into a large black-clad circle, and one by one sink like Southern belles onto the vacated parlor sofas, looking shaken, not stirred. But Miss Kitty, her girls massed behind her, is launching a verbal assault at Mr. Nicky.
“What do you mean, a murder? We have all been here and accounted for.”
Mr. Nicky eyes the bridesmaids. “The women were all upstairs and loose for a good half hour and are major suspects. Lucky they cuffed my brothers. Cuffed their trouser legs too, apparently.
“Guys?” he asks his brothers.
They are all bending over as soon as Miss Kitty undoes their funky handcuffs, unwinding black corset strings from their ankles, faces scarlet with effort and anger.
“We were bound and out of action, all right,” Julio is the first to say. “We had to play along with our so-called captors, but this was a damn-fool, stupid stunt and dangerous as hell. I hesitate to admit I know the lady of my acquaintance among them.”
Nicky nods grimly. “I still need to know who each of you is, um, seeing.”
One by one, the freed men reluctantly take a place behind the blond, brunette, or redhead girlfriend-cum-bridesmaid who went “nuptial” tonight.
Aldo joins Mr. Matt while Mr. Nicky finally answers the madam. “Miss Kitty, are you sure all you employees are accounted for? Between residents and invaders this is quite a gaggle of girls.”
In fact, I notice now that some of the bridesmaids are draped in the occasional feather boa. The civilians and the professionals are not as easy to tell apart after the upstairs stroll. It strikes me that the dead woman could be either a bridesmaid or a, uh, hired escort. I do not think it is fair to demean these ladies with the usual descriptive expressions. My kind does not label willing females with any nasty words. In fact, a breeding cat is called a queen. We guys are just glad they go into heat now and then.
Miss Kitty does an actual nose count. “All my girls are here.” She hesitates, then turns away from her cluster of employees to add in a low voice, “I guess I better go up and see the body anyway.”
“Aldo,” Mr. Nicky says, “escort Miss Kitty upstairs with us.” He nods at the rest of his brothers, who are shifting uneasily on their notorious Bruno Magli loafers, not sure if they are escorts or jailers. “You guys keep all these women corralled while we’re gone. We don’t want anyone wandering off into trouble with a murderer on the loose.”
I admire Mr. Nicky’s tact. He does not say anything to point out more than is obvious: that one of these beautiful girls could very well be that loose murderer.
I am not invited upstairs to survey the damage but I trail the party upward, uncommented upon. At the top, I am joined by Miss Satin.
We brush vibrissae.
“How terrible it is, Louie,” she whispers under her breath. “This is a house of merriment, not murder.”
“My people are on it,” I say. “I just have to make sure their suspicions are pointed in the right direction. Quick! I want to see what Miss Kitty makes of the body.”
We sweep into the room just as Miss Kitty and her three escorts stand inside the door and gaze at the woman on the bed. From this distance, you could swear she was still alive.