I admit to an inborn intolerance of the double standard, by which the arranged mating of show cats produces prestigious lines, and by which we alley cat “accidents” are deemed worthy of quick quietus. That is a fancy word from Shakespeare for “put down.” I too can sling around literary hash with the Old Bard.
So I consider this, my first solo case with my female human posse, a testing ground. I am free of male supervision for once. For once, I am Midnight Inc. Investigations, riding to the rescue of my old man, and I intend to prove my prowess.
It is no accident that I have invited Ma Barker, my partner’s supposed mother, to aid me on the case. We girls are up for the challenge. If Ma Barker and her gang are established at the outskirts of the Circle Ritz, I believe Midnight Inc. Investigations will benefit from a large network of legwork operatives.
I do not expect the senior member of the firm to cede a chin hair on any reorganization of our assets. But I expect to win. If I solve this Sapphire Slipper murder on my own, with the semi-able assistance of Ma Barker, I will have a fine bargaining position.
So I tell Ma Barker to follow my lead and keep a low profile, and we trot after the Ladies’ Number Three Lucky Detective Agency at our forefront. The humans can take the lead. We will untwine the tail of the case.
Compromising Positions
Matt had observed the change of power in the Sapphire Slipper’s parlor with a certain regret.
True, he’d held a Fontana brother’s Beretta in his hand and had prevailed, but what use was taking over this scene when every woman in the place, and he especially, was a suspect for a particularly awful killing?
He’d watched a few of the TV forensics shows he could stomach.
Women were usually the victims; men were usually the killers.
He knew enough of the secular world now to know the earmarks of a sex killing: a sex industry woman stalked, controlled, brutally murdered. The setup was perfect. All these young bachelors out on the town for a night. The predictable implication of an orgy here in Nevada, the only place in the nation where illicit sex was legal.
A notorious local “family” up to their silk pocket scarves in murder most premarital.
A girl dead in salacious TV show-style: semiclothed, an elaborately erotic setting, costume and makeup by the Marquis de Sade.
Matt shuddered at the implied inhumanity of it all. Camera-ready.
And him a prime suspect, all because he’d opted not to be a Peeping Tom.
If only he had looked! Seen the crime and the criminal.
But no. He’d dutifully turned off the window on mayhem. Made himself into a suspect. And now Nicky was jubilant that his wife, Van, and her friends Kit and Electra and Temple, were coming here to the Sapphire Slipper brothel, to sort things out.
Oh. My. God.
The fact that Midnight Louie, Temple’s cat, was here for some bizarre reason and rubbing back and forth on his pant leg was minuscule comfort.
If the big tomcat was sympathizing with his plight, he was in deep trouble.
His alibi was so hard to explain. Trapped in a brothel bedroom, he’d retreated to a built-in watching and listening post . . . and promptly disabled any watching and listening, so he knew nothing of the murder that had transpired afterward.
Either he was a totally naive ass, or not a red-blooded human male.
Or both.
Matt couldn’t decide which role was worse: innocent or prude.
If only he had decided to take advantage of the admittedly embarrassing situation to live and learn.
He might have stopped the murder. Caught the killer.
That fact that he hadn’t felt worse than being a Peeping Tom.
A little scandalous curiosity could have saved a life.
Instead, a murderer had made him an unwilling accessory, by default.
A murderer had made him very angry. Righteously angry.
They were stuck here.
They were supposed to let Temple and her crew solve this mess.
Matt would be happy about that, but he’d be even happier if he took a hand in the investigation and found the killer himself. The killer who’d made him an impotent nonwitness.
Whoever had done it had malice aforethought toward the victim, and maybe malice toward every man and woman in this house of prostitution, whether unwillingly hijacked, or not. A disgruntled client? A sex pervert? Or something tragic, like a family member unable to accept a relative’s working in the sex industry. He’d heard it all on his radio advice show.
It had been planned, beyond the bridesmaids’ wildest schemes. Perhaps that very reservation had given the killer the idea for hiding a murder in the tangled webs of a silly prenup-tial prank.
And it mattered that this was a bachelor party.
That had something to do with the motive and the means.
Matt may be an amateur at bachelor parties and bridal parties and brothels, but he knew a thing or two about murder from Temple.
He’d do everything he could to help her, as she would to help him.
But that might not be enough.
The murderer might be way out of their league.
They both might be too innocent for this situation, this conspiracy.
He’d have to get savvy fast.
Wildest Schemes
“Okay,” Temple said as the Range Rover cooled its engine in front of the brothel’s well-lit porte cochere, “we need a plan. We need to divide and conquer, given that we’re dealing with multiple suspects here. And we need to find out about any support personnel for the brothel. There must be a madam, for one. And a cook and bottle-washer.
“Van, you get the brothers Fontana and Uncle Mario. You and Nicky should be able to corral them, and they look like the least likely suspects, having been handcuffed from arrival until after the body was found. Barring a Houdini among them, they’re in a fairly good position.
“Electra, you’re the JP. You’ve had to deal with a lot of nervous brides, so you bird-dog this gaggle of eight bridesmaids for eight brothers, who have demonstrated a lot of nerve, including confiscating serious weapons. One of them could have used this wacky scheme to cover a murder.
“Kit, you’re the veteran actress and jaded New Yorker. I hereby bequeath to you the madam and the house hookers. I’m sure you’ve seen it all, or at least acted it. If one of them recognized an opportunity for murder, and took it, I’m sure you can sniff out the guilty party.”
“And you?” Van asked.
“I need to consult with Nicky and Matt about the scene of the crime, and on their own nebulous movements while hiding out of sight, out of mind, although it is hard to imagine either of those gentlemen being out of mind with all those loose women around. Though I may be prejudiced on this subject.”
“Not at all,” Van said. “Hiding those two good-lookers in a whorehouse would be a real trick.”
“‘Loose’ women?” Electra asked. “Isn’t that a prejudicial description for a legal profession in Nevada?”
“I was thinking of the screw-loose bridesmaids,” Temple said. “They’ve made a royal mess out of trying to have some serious fun with the groomsmen. Somehow their crazy-brained daisy-chain scheme allowed a murderer a free hand to commit the perfect crime. No matter how bizarre the setting and the scheme that got everyone here, the murder sounds like the usual sordid and awful business.
“Everybody ready for her assignment? We’ll have to consult periodically. We’ll also need to confine each group so no one can confer without one of us overhearing. It’s going to be a long night’s journey into noon tomorrow, to paraphrase an O’Neill play title. And if we don’t find a likely suspect, the police will charge us all with failure to report a crime. If Lieutenant C. R. Molina has anything to do with it, she just may do that anyway.