In that case, maybe the UFOs weren’t an alien visitation but more on the order of a haunting.
Someone should look into this.
She was sure someone would.
Temple tossed the newspaper section on the coffee table and went to relieve anticipated family stress by making another peanut butter sandwich, this one with bacon.
Imitating Elvis’s eating habits was as weird as she wanted to get just now.
She had a forthcoming meeting that would make a call home to Mom look like a grammar school cakewalk.
Chapter 3
Ménage à Murder
An hour later, Temple was clinging to one concept: creative tension.
A public relations specialist could handle conventions hosting up to twenty thousand or more people, and Temple was well aware that major events weren’t orchestrated in environments of tranquillity, concord, and camaraderie.
No, it often took chaos on the scale of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—the one with the booming cannon—to move all the players and pieces around the board to reach a successful conclusion.
She was an expert at that.
Creative tension.
So.
One might think a mere party of three sitting at a round card-slash-dining table in her vintage condo could accomplish wonders with a minimum of fuss.
Temple shook her head mentally.
Two guys and a gal made a symmetrical but always awkward trio, especially if one guy had occupied the California king in the adjoining bedroom … and the girl was now a semi-permanent fixture in the other’s guy’s bedroom right above this very second-floor unit.
Would her mother ever be shocked! She’d think the Circle Ritz was some sort of swinging singles place when most of the residents were long-term and middle-aged-plus. Maybe what would shock her mother the most was that the triangle was still locked into place in mutual support because of criminal matters. How could Temple explain, if she ever had to, that each relationship was seriously monogamous? True at the time. Temple had never intended to be a serial monogamist. How had it happened?
Temple took the chance to study Mr. Now and Mr. Then from a distance as she hovered unnoticed in the kitchen archway.
A warm brown-eyed blond was as irresistible as a golden retriever, and Matt Devine had the inner warmth of empathy to light up her life and the room. A rotten childhood followed by years of dedication as a celibate priest had made him into someone who’d seen past his own hurts to tend to other people’s pain. That included healing the unwed mother he’d defended since a boy.
On the other hand, and side of the table, Max’s looks were compelling rather than handsome. His angular face, black hair, and pale blue eyes could make him seem mischievous … or dangerous. His great, all-American happy childhood had been followed by a hellish young adulthood that put his life on the line forever and had estranged him from his family and, ultimately, even her, despite his oodles of mercurial charm. She’d never before thought of the two men’s histories as being in exact reverse.
She’d truly loved them both and they knew it.
Max Kinsella himself had “disengaged” from her, bowing to the inevitable draw of Matt Devine. She was Matt’s first love, and nothing could stop their union … except themselves.
So now the three were joined into an uneasy alliance, forced to work together to declaw a psychopathic chameleon from Max’s past, a possible serial murderess with as many lives as a cat.
That last thought made Temple smile. Midnight Louie, her alley cat roommate, was sitting as unnoticed as a furry black statue of Buddha on the narrow buffet, his glossy black velvet paws tucked in and his slitty eyes indicating either napping or a disgusted meditation on human follies. Such as romantic triangles.
Temple sighed. Aloud. Not meaning to attract either guy’s attention.
Both men looked up from the centerpiece on the table and said, “What?” On that they were united.
“I’m in mourning,” she said, matching her tone to the sentiment.
Both men frowned in concern.
She pointed to the piece of paper they were all staring at. “My wonderful, logical Table of Crime Elements is ‘Mangeled,’ rubbed out, and Xed-out to bits, thanks to recent deductions.”
She followed her dramatic announcement by delivering bottles of sangria wine cooler to the guys. Max was Black Irish and favored whiskey. Matt wouldn’t care what he drank.
Temple set down a tall glass of her favorite mixer, even when it was solo: Crystal Light. She sat down at the third place and tapped the center of the table. “That single sheet of typing paper before you holds the most left-brained creation of my career. I feel ready to audition for CSI: Las Vegas.”
A mutual chuckle broke the tension.
Matt spoke first. “It’s brilliant. It’s methodical. It’s wonderful.”
“What’s wonderful,” Max Kinsella said after a swallow of wine, “is that you’ve managed to rule out several unsolved deaths in one swoop.”
“Yeah.” Matt Devine sipped his drink. “How did that happen? One day this flaky group of disgruntled magicians who call themselves ‘the Synth,’ are secretly running the Neon Nightmare club and hunting a hidden stockpile of Irish terrorism money and guns. The next day they’ve disbanded and the nightclub has gone dark overnight. Kaput. Closed. And you say—” He looked at Temple. “—they’re no longer a danger and their recently murdered member, this Cosimo Sparks, is probably a serial killer.”
“A multiple murderer,” Temple corrected. “All his victims could have revealed his plans. He was the mastermind for the Synth’s mounting the most astounding magical illusion ever staged in Vegas as cover for a huge heist and making off with the hidden IRA funds too.”
“So the theory,” Max said, “is that the Synth was on a recruiting jag for their illusion of a lifetime, treasure hunt, and heist in the making?”
“Yes,” Temple said, for Matt’s benefit. He was new to this scenario. “And the three surviving founders of the Synth and Neon Nightmare realized that Cosimo Sparks had the motive to recruit other professional magic workers. What if he panicked when they turned him down and thought they’d, er, squeal on him and the plan? The Synth founders even believed Sparks tried to recruit Gandolph, Max’s mentor in magic.”
“Ridiculous,” Max said. “Once ‘Gandolph the Great’ retired, Garry Randolph was on his own crusade against phony mediums.”
“He even faked his own death,” Temple told Matt, “so he’d be available to help Max when the angry IRA guys from the past came after him.”
“So.” Matt pinned his finger on a row of the table in turn. “You think Gandolph’s former onstage assistant, Gloria Fuentes, was also approached to be recruited, along with the Cloaked Conjuror’s assistant, Barry, and Prof. Mangel at the state university. When they all backed off, Sparks killed them one by one to shut them up. Sounds like that board game, Clue.”
Temple nodded.
“It’s important we remember,” Max said, “that the Synth members considered themselves the high priests and priestesses of magic, which had lost out on the Vegas Strip to artsy acrobatic productions by Cirque du Soleil and actual magic trick revealers, like the Cloaked Conjuror.”
“And,” Temple said, “they weren’t primarily after the hidden stockpile IRA loot and guns Kathleen O’Connor and her allies had amassed, now up for grabs. They wanted to provide the massive illusion that would astound the Strip and distract from the hoard being claimed. Maybe they were being used by the mob, and maybe by O’Connor. And who was using whom more, Kathleen O’Connor or the mob, I don’t know.”
“That’s impressive,” Matt said.
“My theory?” she asked.
“No, I don’t know where the heck that’s coming from. But you did use the proper usage of ‘who’ and ‘whom’ in your last sentence.”