Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (49 page)

Perhaps I will. I chuck her under the chin with my
most flexible member.

“Wish me luck, sweetheart."

“
Bonne chance,
Louie!”

Having restored international relations with our allies
of old, I push out into the ordinary hall, walking on air
and the inescapable scent of a spilled fruit smoothie
that will trip up a murderer.

Chapter 54

No
G
limpse

of
S
tocking

Max's watch read five past midnight when he climbed the
Circle Ritz's conveniently stepped black marble facing
up to the second-floor balcony of his and Temple's unit.

He was still officially half-owner. That's how he could make this clandestine expedition, knowing she was gone, with a semiclear conscience. No, nothing was clear about this intrusion except the night sky, spangled with stars.

He'd told enough necessary lies in his undercover work
to recognize a story that was stapled together. Temple was
gone, all right. Not to Minnesota though, and not to tend an ill father she hadn't even mentioned to Electra Lark. No, she'd just asked the landlady to look after the cat.

Speaking of Midnight Louie, Max had better be on the
lookout for him. He wouldn't put it past the territorial old boy to trip him in the dark, since they both always wore black and were fairly invisible at night.

The French door lock gave to a few passes of Max's
tiny metal wand. He'd told Temple to secure these doors again and again, but she probably didn't want to interfere with Louie's comings and goings.

The main room was unlit. Faint night-light glows came
from the office and kitchen, another concession to Louie probably.

He pulled out his slim high-intensity flashlight. The coffee table looked normal, including its clutter of scattered newspaper sections. Temple, an ex-newsie, was lost
without newsprint nearby. None of the stories laid face up
seemed relevant to anything: long security lines at McCarran Airport; one hotel mega-conglomerate offering
billions for another; a reality TV show setting up shop in a
deserted Vegas mansion. The usual nonsense that had
made Las Vegas famous.

Max ran the light around the floorboards but no Louie
lurked. Either crashing on the king-size bed or out to play
while his mistress was away.

The bedroom would tell the tale of the trip. Max
paused in the doorway, then shut the door and turned on the light.

Temple had definitely left in a hurry. Louie was not lounging on the bedspread because it was carpeted with clutter. Clothes, underclothes, and shoes were scattered
everywhere. Everything but pantyhose. Temple hated hot,
sticky hose. Never wore them. An admirable habit.

Empty thin plastic shopping bags also dotted the land
scape, bearing names Max had never seen here before,
like the Icing and Marvella's Marvelous Wigs.

Temple needed a wig to visit her sick father? Max
started a serious search of the closet. Was she on some
crazy undercover crusade again? All of her seriously
dressy heels were still here. Her summer slides were scattered over the parquet floor, obviously tried on and stepped out of, but never put away.

She'd been in a hurry. She'd put a wardrobe together ina flurry. At the dresser by the wall, a drawer had been plundered and left open, shutting askew and sticking, and then abandoned.

Max smiled to imagine Temple's hasty explosion of creative swearing. She never cursed with common expressions when a wacky euphemism was at hand.

The offending drawer was Temple's Sacrosanct Scarf Drawer, holder of every maternal Christmas present that had been found wanting, along with rosy purchases that soon proved completely wrong. All the things she didn't
use but couldn't bear to throw out for one reason or
another.

Max realized he missed the intriguing and amusing
clutter of a female housemate. He missed Temple's
clothes and sound and smell. He went over to set the
drawer on its proper track, to stuff the colorful, gauzy scarves that refused to knot and tie properly for her back
into their place of exile. As a magician, he had a far bet
ter way with scarves than she did. Maybe he'd make a
bouquet of all her rejects and surprise her with it when
she got back. From . . . wherever.

A tiny round box caught his eye, the cover off and something winking at him from inside it.

What winked was a ring, an inexpensive sterling gilt
and cubic zirconia ring. The bottom of the box still had
its adhesive price tag, thirty-eight dollars. One step above a Cracker Jack box trinket. Yet uncannily like the Tiffany
opal and diamond ring he'd given Temple last Christmas when he'd come out of hiding and entered her life again. The ring that had been taken from her by a renegade ma
gician named Shangri-La and had ended up in an evi
dence baggie in Lieutenant Molina's gloating custody.

Temple had spotted this cheap substitute somewhere and had bought it. Not worn it. Bought it. To remind her of the real one, and then tuck it away like something shameful.

Max could have strangled Molina if she'd been there. Could have kicked himself. He'd only learned what had happened to the ring recently. He should have gotten Temple another one ASAP, not left it to her to comfort herself with a substitute.

Not left it to her to comfort herself with a substitute.
The echo of that phrase sounded suddenly sinister.

He sat on the bed and stared at the ring, then glanced at
one of the abandoned shoes and picked it up. It lay on his
large, strong hand like a curio. A curve of red silk-
covered sole, a slender heel, a bejeweled band across the instep. Size five. Cinderella accessory, hands, and shoes, down. Made for a foot fit for a prince. One who actually showed up for balls.

Max put the shoe back down. He put the cover back on
the box because he couldn't bear to look at the ring. Temple didn't wear her heart on her sleeve, or her disappoint
ments on her finger. Obviously, his ring and its loss
meant more to her than she'd allow to show. As had the
promise he'd given with the ring that someday he'd be
free to be a real boy, with a real girl for a wife and a public career again and a house somewhere full of the magic of her laughter, with a dragon of a scarf drawer he could tame into submission with the flick of one finger.

Another opened ring box caught his eye from across
the room, this one plainer. He got up, put his hand out,
then pulled it back as if contemplating touching white-
hot metal. What the holy hell was this doing here? Gold metal. Real gold. A size big enough for a man's hand.

The ring was shaped like a huge snake coiled into a cir
cle, its jaws closing on its own tail. The Worm
Ouroboros. An ancient symbol of eternity. Given to Matt Devine by Max's own personal demon, Kathleen O'Connor, as a symbol of her undying hatred of them both.

Kathleen was gone. The ring had disappeared even before she had, to hear Devine tell it.

How the devil had it ended up here, in Temple's scarf drawer? Had Devine given it to her? Why? And when? And how could Max ask Temple without revealing that he'd come slinking around while she was gone, worried about her but even more worried about them, suspecting
she'd lied to him? Now he was certain she had. About this
trip, and about how much else?

How much had she had to comfort herself with a sub-

Chapter 55

Shoe
Biz

To avoid an overstaged look, the madeover 'Tween and Teen Queen candidates would strut their stuff on a small stage near the pool at twilight time in Las Vegas.

Temple had thought the arrangement rather tacky until she saw the area that afternoon. Fresh lavender and yellow lotuses and lit candles floated in the pool. A semicir
cular array of clear Plexiglas folding chairs filled the
large concrete expanse between pool and house. Banks of
flowers turned the planting areas into mini gardens of
Eden, with more candles burning on tall lily-shaped holders staked into the ground.

The raised stage was draped with pastel organza and seemed like a huge orchid cloud when viewed from the house.

Temple stared at the area's transformation into a
kinder, gentler place, realizing that what would happen here tonight meant a lot to girls like Mariah. This was akind of coming-out party, with the addition of killer media pressure.

“
She may have seemed flakey," a voice behind her said,
"but this event was really important to Beth Marble.”

Temple turned to her Aunt Kit, who knew nothing of the woman's real identity, or her very dark history and issues.

“
It reminds me of a garden wedding scene," Temple
said. "I wonder—?"

“What?”

Temple only shook her head. She had wondered
whether Crystal Cummings had married Arthur Dickson in this very spot. She'd have to look it up when this was over. If it ever would be over.

“
Beth planned every detail of this setting," Kit went
on. "It seemed to mean something special to her.”

Temple nodded, glad that the police hadn't made the
connection that the dead girl in the parking lot was Beth's
granddaughter until after Beth herself was dead. Glad
that she herself hadn't made that connection any sooner than now.

Even if Beth's hyper-happy exterior hid a vengeful
heart, there must have been some healing energy there somewhere. The bald head under the wig screamed "can
cer." Knowing you were likely to die might make the
most stable person a bit crazy, maybe even for, or especially for, a long-delayed vengeance.

“You ready to wow them?”

Temple grinned at her aunt. "I'm ready to do the most unwinning act you ever saw. Get out your pencil and prepare to draw goose eggs."

“
You should give it a real shot. I think Xoe Chloe could
hit as one of those alter-ego personalities. Like Martin Short in the fat suit as Jimmy Glick on TV."

“
Oh, Lord, no! There are enough closet performers in my circle."

“
You mean Max?"

“Ah . yeah." She'd meant Carmen Molina but why confuse her aunt.

“Anyway," Kit said, squeezing her arm. "I think you underestimate Xoe's Midas touch. Break a leg.”

On that contrary show biz good wish, Kit disappeared back inside like a fairy godmother off to minister to other Cinderellas.

Temple regarded the beautiful scene, not fussing about her little upcoming roller-rap routine, but about how to trick a killer into the open.

Beth Marble had dreamed up this entire event just to lure and kill a woman who had failed her daughter.

Who had penetrated Beth's carefully applied fake
identity and used the hunter's trap to kill the hunter?

"Is she there?" Mariah tugged on Temple's ostrich-
feather fringed sleeves, long enough for a medieval minstrel.

Temple pulled back from the crack in the side curtains. "Yes. Your mother is about two-thirds of the way back,
wearing 'our' outfit, with some guy."

“
She's with some guy? That must just be Detective
Alch."

“Alch is sitting elsewhere in the audience."

“Then it's some other girl's father or something.”

“They were whispering with their heads together.”

“Must be a cop." Mariah stuck her head through the curtain. "Must be . . . oh, gross. They're, like, laughing.”

“Mariah. Audiences have a lot of time to kill. They do things like that."

“Where's Matt?"

“Out of town, I think. The guy does look like a cop, though. I wouldn't want to mess with him."