Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

“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—”

“Except.”

“I hit a cliff. A high, solid cliff.”

It was true. He’d just had a flash of that dark looming wall. Yet a mountain cliff ought to be white. And the object of his mental impact was black. And reflective. Black ice.

“That’s good.” She was leaning forward, watching him intently. “Something has come back.”

The tremor of excitement in her voice echoed in his chest. If only he could trust her. He needed a coach, a passionate partner in his recovery. No. Not trustworthy. No one here was, except for Garry. Garry. Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana . . . it was some silly song. Garry. The name was all right, but he remembered the man by something else. A nickname? Ga . . . Gan . . . Ga! The memory search was painful.