“What a tragedy,” Miss Kitty says. Her voice is wavery. “I thought at first you boys were spouting that murder stuff to give these crazy bridesmaids a good scare. Oh, poor kid. So young and pretty.”
Mr. Matt has discreetly stepped nearer to take Miss Kitty’s elbow. “Let me escort you down the back stairs to the kitchen. You can sit down, have a cup of coffee.”
“With a couple jiggers of brandy in it,” Aldo advises.
He and Mr. Nicky remain, looking down at the dead girl.
“Some bachelor party,” Aldo says grimly.
I nod at Satin to follow Mr. Matt and the madam. Say, that phrase has a real ring to it, kind of like a novel title. I bet Miss Temple would really want to read that book!
Meanwhile, I eavesdrop while the guys talk turkey.
“Matt found the body,” Nicky says. “I found him bending over the victim just afterward.”
“Yeah, how did you two end up uncorralled up here?”
“We were the last two in. The phony driver ordered us into the parlor, but didn’t stick around to make sure we went. Matt slipped up the stairs. The bridesmaids were so intent on tying up their special someones that I was able to do the same a bit later.”
“So you two were hiding out up here, even when the ladies both pro and pro-amateur trouped up the stairs to eye the premises?”
“Right. Only Matt had the bad luck to hide out in the peephole closet in the murder room.”
“Holy homicide! Where’s the hidey-hole?”
Aldo approaches the mirror, checking where the frame does not quite meet the wall. In a moment, he has clicked the mirror door ajar.
“Matt saw the murder, then,” Aldo crows. “We have a witness, one whose word is twenty-four-karat gold.”
Mr. Nicky makes a face. “He is an ex-priest. He shut off the one-way mirror window. He did not see or hear a thing. I came to find him and found him all right, leaning over the body, gawking like a tourist and giving CPR.”
“Shoot. That makes him a number one suspect. And you number two, little brother, because either one of you could be covering for the other. At least that is the way the cops will see it.”
“I know that! I finally got through the poor reception and reached Van.”
“Yeah?”
“She was living it up with Temple and her lovely and lively aunt and landlady in our penthouse. They are all coming.”
“And . . . why?”
“I figure Temple is our best bet. We need to produce a likely suspect, or the murderer, who is not one of our party. You know the cops would love to nail a Fontana, any Fontana, with a current crime.”
“The women are coming. Our women? To a brothel? Are you crazy?”
“They know we were hijacked. And . . . who better knows who might off a woman than another woman? Unless you want to believe ex-Father Matt did it.”
“Naw, not credible.”
“You know how the police think in a case like this. Strangled. In a kinky room set up in a brothel. Maybe the ex-priest went berserk and killed an evil woman. Maybe he had molested her years ago in a distant parish and encountered her here and she was going to tell—”
I cannot restrain a growl of disbelief at these twisted interpretations.
Both Fontana brothers look at me for the first time.
“I agree with the cat,” Aldo says. “That theorizing stinks. It is far-fetched in the extreme.”
“But it is possible. The police look for past motives in a murder like this. For starters, I’ll have Emilio guard the murder room, so nobody gets in there to mess with the evidence. We gotta protect ourselves from the murderer and the police. Even if the cops decide Temple’s fiance is not a suspect, I am. I am a Fontana and I was wandering around up here alone. Maybe I was a past client of the girl, they could think, and she could have threatened to expose me to my wife, say—”
“Hey, the murderer could be a past client! This is a rambling joint, but a guy like that would know the layout, and sure could come and go in the confusion. Maybe it even was a girl past client! Some of the dudes import their girlfriends for threesomes. Or more. Maybe some girlfriend got a lot more jealous than ours.”
“And how do you know that about threesomes, big brother?”
Aldo shrugged. “Us older guys exist to do all the down and dirty research first and clue you punks in. As for you being blackmail material, heck, you never patronized any pros, Nicky. None of us needed to. We always had girlfriends, until you got married, and now I am going to.”
“Our other brothers’ girlfriends have gotten us all into a sordid mess,” he said.
“I love little Miss Temple like she was our baby sister,” Aldo says, “but you really think she can scope out a murderer overnight?”
“You have not seen her in action. She has this instinctive nose for vermin. When she gets here and finds out her fiancé is in a very compromising position, through no fault of his own but our brothers’ girlfriends, you can bet she will move feather boa and fishnet stocking to find who really deserves to do the time for the crime.”
Well. I am pleased to see my Miss Temple get full credit for her sleuthing ways. However, I never get a break. Mr. Nicky Fontana is completely unaware of how I have time and again assisted in Miss Temple’s investigations.
Perhaps, in this pent-up environment, my true genius for crime and punishment will be more visible, and I will get the credit due me.
This will be my finest hour, particularly with my former light of love here to watch me play the hero. Miss Satin is bound to be impressed. Miss Temple and I will be a crime-fighting duo like Batman and Robin. Only it will be Catwoman and, and, uh, Robbin’ Hood. Okay, that is lame.
Anyway, it will be something to see.
Mental Clime
Max.
Short, simple. Not sweet.
So was the name Mike. And it had a faint, familiar ring too. Could a man have two names? Maybe first and middle. Max. Michael . . . whatever.
He wondered how much he could trust Garry Randolph, pleasant as the man was.
He knew he couldn’t trust Revienne Schneider. She came into his room the next day wearing a cleverly cut pink wool suit with a long, belted jacket over the short skirt, still as leggy as a runway model.
He’d done thirty chin-ups on the shower rod that morning. His joints were aching, but the glow the pink suit gave her complexion was a nice liniment. What wounded man didn’t enjoy a delicious nurse? One whose faltering memory was hers for the plundering, if he didn’t watch it.
“You look remarkably well this morning, Mr. Randolph,” she commented.
“And you.”
“I haven’t fallen off a mountain, merely come up one to stay a while.”
“You’re living at the facility now?”
“I could hardly meet with you daily if I wasn’t.”
“Daily. Somebody with deep pockets likes me.”
“Deep pockets?”
He rubbed his fingers together. They ached, but were more flexible than yesterday. “Gelt.”
She nodded. “Mr. Randolph . . . senior . . . spares no expense on your account.”
He eyed her mouth. “He’s a discerning old gentleman.”
“You Americans! You’re such serious flirters.”
“Flirts,” he corrected. Her response to colloquialisms was totally European.
“Flirts. You have a seriously bruised spine; two pins in your fractured legs underneath those casts; a concussion at the back of your skull; a skinned cheek. And a memory as solid as a, a . . .”
“Sieve,” he suggested.
“A seine, I was about to say. A fishing net.”
“A sieve is for flour. It’s finer.”
“You can be quite the pessimist.”
“Realist.”
“Really, Mr. Randolph. You need to get serious and help me to help you. Has anything about the accident come to mind?”
He checked the internal data bank. “Nothing. Except—”