“Even better. As maid of honor she wore pale saffron—”
“Saffron?”
“We fashonistos don’t say ‘yellow.’ It was a saffron full-pleated skirt, ’50s length.”
“Oooh, the hem at calf-level, so accessible and a potential carousel of swing.”
“Unfortunately, there was no dancing afterwards. The Misses Van Von Rhine and Kit Carlson—”
“They were there?”
“Along with their spice, which is the plural of spouse, as mice is of mouse, Nicky and Aldo Fontana. Nicky was best man, and Matt led his mother down the aisle to some organ music he’d recorded earlier.”
“The standard Mendelssohn wedding march?”
“The very unstandard Bob Dylan. That music did work well. It was slow enough I got an excellent ankle-level perusal of footwear.”
Louise nods judiciously.
“Unfortunately, from groom to best man to the eight Fontana brothers in attendance, the uniform was shiny black patent loafers.”
“Hard candy,” Louise agrees. “As chewable as stale licorice twists.”
“Not worth raiding the closet for,” I concur. “Speaking of which, my Miss Temple had chosen a toothsome gold silk sandal with an Austrian crystal ankle button—”
“Glittering baby balls! So Las Vegas. Much fun, if you can detach them from the strap.”
“Miss Temple could not find both of them just before the wedding. I was falsely accused of making off with it.”
“You missed copping such a prize?”
“My role of the day was ‘little gentleman.’”
“And you wore the white-tie collar to prove it. I hope that is preserved on film and photo. Why did you not grab such a classic toy?”
“I was busy in the wedding chapel making sure that all the soft sculptures were sitting up pretty.”
“You were napping!”
“I had a very active time in Chicago, Louise. Philip Winslow wore a black tux, but all the dudes wore faint diamond-pattern tuxes in shades of gray and silver and gold, with black satin lapels to match the side stripes in their trousers and white-on-white paisley ties. Regular ties. I was the only one in a bow tie. Apparently the Fontana brothers’ Gangsters franchise can supply party garb as the well as the limos to wear it in. They all were pretty duded up, considering this was a hurry-up affair.”
“Not from what I heard in your Chicago reports. Miss Matt Mama took some long and winding roads to snagging a decent mate.”
“I meant the wedding was a hasty event, not the events leading up to it. You will remember, Louise, that had I not investigated Miss Matt Mama’s premises and sacrificed myself as handy kidnap victim to two Chicago Outfit thugs, our detecting friends would never have uncovered the Effinger connection. Makes you wonder about fate and redemption and true love.”
“Makes me wonder about your mental stability.
“I know you favor Mr. Max, but I will tell you Mr. Matt looked so good in his silver suit, Miss Temple seemed likely to make them the next couple in front of Miss Electra Lark in her black justice of the peace robes. They were a symphony in gold and silver.”
“And you were a tuxedo cat for a day.”
“For a couple of hours. I performed impeccably, by the way, when Mr. Matt bent down to unhook the wedding ring from my white tie and collar. I held still.”
“So, what was the ring like?”
“I heard Miss Kit Carlson describe it to Miss Van Von Rhine as a ‘fancy blue diamond solitaire surrounded by diamonds with a matching diamond wedding band.’ As per the usual wedding, the gemstone was outshone by the glitter in the eyes of the female guests.”
“Anymore pant-worthy details?”
“For the ceremony, which was short and sweet, all the unattached Fontana brothers sat in the pews next to Miss Electra’s soft sculpture congregation. It was interesting to see them paired with the likes of Gloria Steinem, Judge Judy, and Bette Midler.
“I, of course, cuddled up with the King, because I really did wear a ring around my neck, and I was ‘his, by heck.’ And that’s all she wrote.”
Chapter 55
Twisted Tight
It was over.
Matt moved aimlessly through his apartment at the Circle Ritz, not that it was a very big space. Mom married. The wedding banquet at the Crystal Phoenix had been festive … and underwritten by Nicky and Van. Temple had been amazing, as usual.
They’d kissed the happy couple good-bye and come home to change finery and chill out. Matt relished this time alone. He’d come to Sin City hunting the ghost of his mother’s almost willfully unhappy marriage and, now, thirty years later, had watched that misery dissolve into a midlife renewal with a good man.
He himself had been remade by coming to terms with the past.
Matt loosened his tie, kicked off the fancy black patent leather loafers, sat on his red suede vintage couch. So many of the people he’d met here in Vegas had helped him make a deep personal transition.… The staff at the ConTact phone help line where he’d first worked. Janice Flanders, the police sketch artist. Danny Dove, choreographer and friend extraordinaire. Letitia Brown at WCOO. Carmen Molina, always tough and resilient. Even the Mystifying Max Kinsella.
And Temple. He could never do for his mother what she had done, taken Mira in hand and out of her self-imposed isolation. Temple was always the warm, steady heartbeat of everyone around her. Especially him. His love for her was an inner island of calm … easily ruffled by waves of shore-shaking excitement.
Now would be time for Temple and himself, solely and exclusively, and their own wedding plans could commence without any baggage from his past. At last.
As he sat there, enjoying the silence, the thoughts of the future, he noticed a nagging background sound. Something tap, tap, tapping somewhere.
Matt shut his eyes. Breathed deep. Relaxed.
Still that annoying rapping, like Poe’s darn raven.
He stood up. Listened. Was it a water pipe? They could make that noise in an old building like the Circle Ritz.
He made the brief rounds, but the kitchen and bathroom taps were twisted tight.
Back in the main living area, he sighed. No clocks that ticked. Maybe something on the patio. He rarely went there, had never furnished or used it. He wasn’t used to providing for himself. He’d called rectories home for too long, had been spoiled by the parish housekeepers for too long. He’d have to watch that self-centered domestic side of himself when he and Temple were married.
He wandered to the dark row of French doors. Danny had insisted on installing shadow-box blinds over them for “privacy.”
Matt flipped the lock and opened one door. The pecking sound was louder.
Not a bird. A bird would fly away at this human approach.
Was it a lizard or insect of some sort making a maddening mating call to some rhythmic internal clock ticking?
No. The sound came from above. Something was spinning, something attached to the roof overhang above one French door.
A … mobile? A wind chime?
Certainly a shadow against the darker shadow of night.
Matt moved into the glow of the tall parking lot lights to reach up, touch, stop the spinning object.
A shoe.
A light, glinting shoe strung up like a wind chime. A petite silver satin pump with a glitter of gold crystals buttoning the ankle straps.