A Carnival of Killing (18 page)

“Oh, shit!” I said. “I know somebody who wears red boots.”

Booting Up

Al flashed through the entire collection of Victory Dance shots again, and we found one more that showed a red-booted Vulcan in the background. It also had been shot only a few minutes before the scream.

“Okay, so your friend Kitty wears red boots,” Al said. “But where would she get a Vulcan costume and why would she wear it to the dance?”

“Beats me,” I said. “And early in the evening we all saw her—and you photographed her—wearing regular clothes.”

“So the red-booted Vulcan probably isn’t her.”

“Probably not. But we need to find out for sure.”

“So, how do you plan to do that?” Al asked. “Call her up and say, ‘Hey, Kitty baby, did you wear a Vulcan costume and your sexy red boots to the Victory Dance?’”

“It’ll take somewhat more finesse than that,” I said.

“Do you have a plan based on this finesse? Or even a plan based on your usual lack of finesse?”

“Not off the top of my head, but I’ll think of something. If we can eliminate Kitty as the Vulcan in red boots, we can go to work on finding out which member of which Krewe has red boots.”

“What if this is Kitty in the picture?”

“Then we find out why she’s wearing this get-up. And I think I’m getting an idea of how to do it.”

“So enlighten me as to how you’ll quiz Miss Kitty.”

“Well, the best way to catch a kitty is to entice it with food and petting, right?” I said. “This Kitty has been coming on to me since the day we met, but I cooled her off the last time by saying I was working on a commitment with Martha. Suppose I call Kitty and use that commitment thing—tell her that Martha has dumped me—and ask her to have dinner with me? And suppose I invite her to my apartment after dinner? As you know, Martha is away until God knows when. Then, when the moment gets mellow, I show Kitty a print of your photo and ask if it’s her.”

“And what if she says yes, it is her?”

“Then you’ll pop out of the closet, where you’ve been hiding, and record the moment with your trusty camera.”

“Are you going to get the lady naked before you pop the question?” Al asked.

“As close as possible,” I said. “I figure the less clothing she’s wearing the less likely she’ll be to run out into the cold when I show her the picture.”

“In that case, how about I drill a peephole in your closet door?”

“I’m shocked that you’d even think of resorting to voyeurism,” I said.

“I’m just thinking that you might need an eye witness,” he said. “Think of it as your witness protection program.”

“Keeping you in the dark is the best witness protection program I can think of.”

I was itching like a monkey with its armpits full of fleas to call Kitty Catalano the minute her office opened at 9:00 a.m. on Wednesday, but timing was important. I was afraid that if I jumped on the phone first thing, I’d sound impetuous. I wanted her to think I’d been brooding, so I controlled the urge to call for almost an hour. My goal was to come across as wounded and down in the mouth, not salivating over prospects for an after-dinner roll in the hay. If I could convince her that I needed solace, I was sure that she’d suggest a suitable method.

I filled part of the waiting time with a call to Detective Curtis Brown. He informed me that Ted Carlson had not been apprehended, but that every possible means of departure was under observation.

“You can’t have every road blocked,” I said.

“His wife told us where he parks his car when he’s downtown, and we found it there,” Brownie said. “He’s either going to bail out by air, train, or bus. We’ve got all those stations covered.”

“You’re sure he didn’t beat you to the draw? He could have been long gone before you set up surveillance.”

“That’s true, but nothing has showed up on any of his credit cards. No tickets for transportation of any kind, no motels.”

“Maybe he’s a cash customer,” I said.

“Whatever. Have a good day, Mitch.”

When I finally called Kitty, I got her voice mail. She was either out or on another call. “Please, God, don’t let her be out for long,” I whispered after I left a message and put down the phone.

She wasn’t. The return call came exactly sixteen minutes later. Not that I was watching the clock.

“Hi, Mitch,” Kitty said. “What can I do for you?”

“You can give my shattered ego and sagging morale a boost,” I said in a flat, expressionless voice.

“Wow, that’s quite an order. What’s going on?”

“It’s what’s not going on. You know that commitment project I told I’ve been working on? It’s been de-committed, so to speak.”

“The woman left you?”

“She took off for Duluth with somebody else,” I said. I didn’t even have to lie.

“That sucks,” Kitty said. “You want to have dinner or something?”

“Maybe dinner and something,” I said.

“Ooh, that sounds like fun. Where do you want to eat? Before the something, that is.”

I really liked the way this conversation was going. I suggested a restaurant and Kitty said that would be great. “I’ve got some errands to run after work, but I could meet you at the restaurant at seven,” she added.

“Sounds great,” I said. “I feel better already.”

“Glad to hear it. See you soon.”

“Oh, hey!” I said, catching her before she hung up. “Wear your red boots. They’re really a turn-on.”

“Anything you say, Mr. Shattered Ego.”

I put down the phone and walked quick-time to the photo department where Al was working on his late-morning coffee and doughnut.

“She bit,” I said. “Took it hook, line, and sinker.”

“Great,” Al said. “When do we reel her in?”

We estimated that dinner would take about an hour and a half, which meant that Kitty and I would be starting for my place to do our “something” at about 8:30. Al would use the key I keep hidden in a shrub near the parking lot door to get into my apartment. I would go to the men’s room before leaving the restaurant and call his cell phone so he could tuck himself away in the bedroom closet.

The layout of my apartment is simple. From the hall, you enter through the kitchen/dining area and turn left to go into the living room. From there it’s a straight shot to the bedroom, where the bathroom is on the right and the closet, with sliding doors, faces the foot of the bed. My plan was to get Kitty into the bedroom and at least partially undressed before showing her the picture. My thought was that the lack of clothing would prevent a sudden departure, and the element of surprise would bring forth an honest answer if she was, in fact, the Vulcan in red boots.

At noon, Martha called to say that jury selection had been postponed again because at least a dozen people in the pool were still stranded on unplowed roads. The judge vowed to begin the process on Thursday morning, no matter how many prospects were missing, but it looked like Martha’s sojourn in Duluth would carry over into the following week.

“Bummer,” I said. “I want you home tomorrow.” I refrained from adding, “But not tonight.”

“Me, too,” Martha said. “I miss sleeping with Sherlock Holmes.”

The afternoon dragged by, the way time does when you’re eager for it to fly. When the clock finally got around to 5:00 p.m., I shut down my computer, put on my coat and went home. I took a shower and changed into a fresh powder-blue shirt and black pants. I topped this combination off with a red tie and my best navy blazer. Just before leaving the apartment, I tucked a tiny tape recorder loaded with a thirty-minute tape into my shirt pocket. I arrived at the restaurant at 6:58 and was led to the table that I’d reserved. Five minutes later, when Kitty was escorted to the table and took off her coat, every head in the restaurant turned in her direction.

She was wearing the red boots all right. And above them she was dressed in full Klondike Kate regalia, a low-cut red blouse with puffy short sleeves and a red skirt with black trim over a full white petticoat. Her long, dark-brown hair was flowing free and her green eyes were sparkling. The effect was as spectacular as it was surprising.

I rose from my chair, and she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on the mouth, letting her lips linger longer than necessary for a friendly hello. When we parted, the other diners were all studying their plates or staring at their table settings. Being Minnesotans, they were embarrassed by Kitty’s un-Minnesota-like public display of affection and they couldn’t bear to look at us.

“My ego is rising already,” I said when we were seated. Her signature perfume, which teased my nostrils during the kiss, had permeated my mustache and was lingering there.

“My mission is to raise your ego and anything else that needs raising,” Kitty said.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to accomplish your mission. You can look forward to my complete cooperation.”

This witty repartee was interrupted by our server, a round, rosy-cheeked young man named Taylor, who took our drink orders—wine for Kitty and coffee for me—and hustled away.

“I asked for the red boots, but I wasn’t expecting a full Kate costume,” I said.

“I wear this when I introduce the Kates at special occasions,” Kitty said. “And I figured this was a special occasion.”

“I’m flattered, and flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Everywhere is a good destination. I’d say I’m sorry that your friend ran off to Duluth, but I’d be lying. I think most media people are assholes, but you’re different somehow.”

“Must be my boyish charm,” I said. “But beware. I can be as big an asshole as the next guy.”

“I doubt it. You’re just not the asshole type.”

“Again I’m flattered.”

She responded by reaching under the table and caressing my leg a couple of inches above the kneecap. I reached under and laid my hand on the back of hers. I don’t know where our hands would have wandered next if Taylor hadn’t returned right then with the wine and coffee.

To say dinner passed pleasantly would be an understatement. We talked and laughed about a wide range of topics without ever mentioning the killing of one Klondike Kate or the attack on another. In fact, I’d had so much fun with Kitty I was feeling guilt pangs as I walked back to the restroom to make my cell phone call to Al. Here was this bright, gorgeous, fun-loving woman eager to share the night with me, and here was I, setting her up for a sneak attack. However, I made the call, and Al said he’d be in the closet when we arrived.

“My place?” I said, as I helped Kitty slide into her coat.

“I have a better idea,” Kitty said. “The Winter Carnival keeps a Jacuzzi suite in the Crowne Plaza for VIPs when they come to town. It’s vacant tonight and I have a key. We could do the hot bath bit together before getting all wrapped up doing that something you were talking about this morning.”

Here was an unexpected glitch. “That sounds great, but I’ve got my place all ready with candlelight and champagne for the lady.” I had, in fact, put a small bottle of bubbly into the fridge.

“We can order champagne in the hotel,” she said. “The room is gorgeous and the Jacuzzi is marvelous. I love to get naked and soak in hot, swirling water with a guy before I, uh, do something with him.” We had stopped just inside the front door of the restaurant and she breathed the last sentence into my right ear, which caused a rise in my overall body temperature.

Still, I resisted. “But you can’t justify taking me there,” I said. “I’m not a VIP.”

“Nobody needs to know except the maid who makes up the room,” Kitty said. “And she’ll be quiet if she receives a small token of gratitude from me. This will be way better for your poor, limp ego than going to your apartment, which must have some sad memories now that your lover has left you.”

I couldn’t see a way out of this. If I kept insisting on my apartment, she’d probably think I was planning some sort of perversion and had set up a complex of chains and whips. I’d have to yield to her invitation, and find a moment to call Al and inform him of the change in venue. “Okay, the Jacuzzi suite it is,” I said. “Shall we both take our cars and meet there?”

“Let’s go in my car,” Kitty said. “I can drive you back to yours in the morning.”

“We’ll have to get up awfully early. Tomorrow’s a work day. Maybe we’d better take both cars.”

“I don’t mind getting up early if you don’t. Maybe we can have another little something if we wake up early enough.”

How does a guy counter that without looking like a dork? I agreed to ride in her car, which turned out to be a black BMW, and gave up on my plan to call Al from my car on the way to the hotel.

As Kitty parked the Beemer facing a wall in the ramp attached to the hotel, I noticed that no light was reflecting off the concrete on the passenger side. “Looks like you’ve got a headlight out on this side,” I said.

“It’s been out for a couple of weeks,” Kitty said. “I keep forgetting to get it fixed. It’s no big deal”

“You should get it done. You’re lucky you haven’t been stopped by the cops. One time in Wisconsin, I was stopped less than ten minutes after a light went out.”

“Some of us just live right,” she said.

On the elevator, Kitty pressed the button for the twenty-first floor.

“I’m impressed,” I said as the elevator began to rise. “The very top floor.”

“Nothing but the best for the Winter Carnival,” Kitty said.

I followed her down the hall to room 2112, where she slid her plastic key into the slot and the green light flashed. She opened the door, stepped in, turned on the light, seized my hand and drew me in. “Entree, Monsieur Mitchell,” she said, emphasizing the second syllable of my name.

She was right. The room was gorgeous, not to mention huge. Two of the walls were made up of rows of windows adorned with drapes. One row of windows overlooked the Mississippi River, which must have been spectacular in daylight. The Jacuzzi sat in the far corner where the windowed walls joined, opposite the bathroom and kitty-corner from a bed that would have filled my bedroom wall to wall. This room had yards of open space, even though it also contained a sofa, an armchair, several potted plants and a bar.