"Where? Not here! You finally admitted yourself that Colby's clear." Renaldi was fighting back too, for the cause, for the ill-gotten gains, for the firm. They were still the three musketeers from the sixties.
" A' Colby's clear. And 'a' Renaldi's clear, as is 'a' Janos. But Kendall Colby Renaldi is not clear, and I doubt she ever will be."
"Kendall?" Renaldi sounded incredulous, even contemptuous.
"Are you surprised a woman masterminded this? Don't be. Kendall was a rock-climber in college. She could have rigged the trap easily."
"But she was devastated when the body was found and everyone assumed the victim was her father," Janos put in eagerly, too stunned to stay furious.
Temple nodded "She acted out the fears that drove her to destroy Rudy. Those same fears made it easy to point hysterically in directions away from her father when she was aghast to realize that the very man she had killed to protect might be suspected of killing Rudy himself."
"But--" Colby had found his voice again, and a measure of authority. "It was all a mistake, a misapprehension, if it happened the way you said. Janos is right. It's going to be hard to prove."
"Maybe. But this roach under your desk isn't the only piece of evidence Midnight Louie found."
"What else is there?" Colby sounded defiant.
"Something he found on the floor of the chimney and batted around. I picked it up, but I didn't realize what it was until yesterday when I dug it out and turned it over: a broken-off fingernail, a ragged, pretty big hunk. That's one thing I noticed about you gentlemen after the death: your fingernails. None were missing, and rigging that step and chain in the narrow dark chimney would probably have shown on the culprit's hands. When my aunt and I went to the ME's office to identify Rudy's body, none of his nails were broken, not that he had much fingernail to lose; they were chewed down.
"Kendall's fingernails, though, are perfect salon models, exquisite. It's her trademark."
"So?" Janos was unimpressed. "She's always beautifully groomed. So what?"
"Yes, but women get to don false claws. I keep seeing her that night, so distraught, her fingers tightly curled over each other, only the thumbs visible. I took it for a sign of extreme stress, and it was, but it was also a form of concealment until she could repair the broken nail, which has traces of the same bronze enamel she wears."
"But Kendall--" Renaldi was still unconvinced. "Granted the death-trap was a simple rigging job. A loosened rung on the way up, the chain anchored to the top brace. Rudy could have slipped and the noose could have failed to have tightened on his neck. He could have grabbed it to save himself. The whole scheme might have failed."
"But it didn't. If it had, the chain could have been dismissed as it almost was: a jingly prop someone had added to the traditional routine without mentioning it to anybody. A miss wouldn't have been significant enough to investigate."
"And then?"
"I don't know. I don't know if Kendall would have tried again. Maybe the delay would have encouraged her to talk to her father."
Janos sighed and Renaldi echoed him, but Renaldi spoke first. "I think Kendall should talk to her father now."
Colby didn't disagree, but he glared at his two partners. "She's been taking her divorce from Carl hard, feeling she let down the firm and the family. I guess I'm all the family she's got left, and when she thought I was in trouble ... if my daughter's involvement in this comes out, so will our self-serving drug deal in Vietnam."
"That was only money, Brent, money made off a killing ground." Janos shook his head. "This is murder."
"Rudy didn't have much of a life."
"It was his life," Renaldi said. "You know, Brent, it's pretty ironic. We all killed in Vietnam, and tried not to put faces on the dead. You did your share, and I bet we could all kill again, given extreme enough circumstances, but I never thought a kid of ours would ever grow up to do the same thing. I thought that's what we all went through 'Nam for . . . for the future. Nothing we bought, or stole or made of ourselves afterwards is worth protecting the past at the cost of one goddamn more death."
And that was that.
They rose and went into the hall, the men's feet dragging as they neared the ajar door of Kendall's office. They could hear her on the phone, her voice animated with the unflagging energy of an advertising account exec making a call.
Temple began hooking up the CatAboard for Louie.
"Aren't you coming in?" Renaldi asked.
She shook her head. "Too many people for a small office. Besides, it's not my job; this is private firm and family business."
Chapter 36
Louie's Last Laugh
Well, I never expected to be renowned for my superior snout.
That is such a canine characteristic.
Nevertheless, I am carried in triumph back to Miss Kit Carlson's digs, where she is much gratified to see Miss Temple and me return no worse for wear.
Rudy is revenged, and Colby, Janos and Renaldi are facing a troublesome reorganization.
Unless, as Miss Temple tells her aunt, the surviving partners can conceal the ancient skullduggery.
"Poor Kendall," Miss Temple sighs.
"Poor Rudy," sighs Miss Kit.
They are a devoted pair of sighers. I wish we sniffers would get more credit.
"How did Louie know that there was a roach ... I mean an unfortunate remnant of an old habit . . . under Brent Colby's desk?"
Miss Kit Carlson asks in all innocence. "I did not think that cats were sensitive to that sort of thing."
"Oh," says Miss Temple in reply. "Cats are sensitive to all sorts of things. I noticed that Louie was well aware of roaches of both the insect and vegetable variety when we visited Rudy's apartment."
"You did not say anything."
"I did not wish to embarrass you about the circumstances of your friend's lifestyle," Miss Temple concedes.
Miss Kit nods with heavy head. "You are right. Especially in regard to Midnight Louie's inestimable nose. Cats are indeed sensitive to all sorts of things."
"Except the human heart." Miss Temple sighs again. "I can solve everyone else's problems, except my own."
Well, I would cry buckets over that, but I do not see how nailing another murderer is going to have a quelling effect on my Miss Temple's love life. Mr. Max Kinsella is still in the same business, so to speak, and Mr. Matt Devine is hardly one to criticize her penchant for crime and punishment, being off on peculiar missions of his own half the time.
"Well," says Miss Kit, with great energy. "We girls will have a fine time on our own celebrating the coming New Year at my party tomorrow night and toasting Louie and your forthcoming media career--"
"You really think we have a chance in hell of snagging the Allpetco assignment after our role in exposing the advertising agency by solving the Santa slaying?"
"Well," Miss Kit begins gamely, "It does establish that you both have exceptional crime-solving tendencies ... oh, Temple!"
"Oh, Kit! What?"
Miss Kit Carlson is laughing so hard she is sliding to the floor. Again. I look around for wine bottles, but none are visible. "I know I should be sober and saddened into the New Year, but. . . what you just said!"
"What did I just say? Tell me!"
"Santa . . . slaying."
"So?"
"Santa sleigh-ing."
"Is nothing sacred?" Miss Temple demands as she comprehends Miss Kit's meaning and begins laughing hysterically and sliding to the floor as well. I sense that I am in for one of those girl-talk evenings again.