Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (9 page)

Chapter 9

Bling-Bling Babies

Molina sat, sober as a judge, on her comfy old living
room sofa, reading for the fourth time the entry form that Mariah had filled out.

She'd reached the fiction part now, Mama Molina's
own creation: Julio Sanchez, heroic off-duty cop killed helping a citizen change a flat tire on the side of the notorious Los Angeles freeway system.

Would the TV-show staff research the contestants' family histories? Or take them at face value?

“
You're still not mad at me," Mariah said hopefully
from the armchair, where she lounged on her tailbone, petting Caterina.

“Not mad. Disappointed.”

Silence. Mariah was still new enough to teenhood to cringe a little at that word. Disappointment.

Molina tossed the entry form aside, making a mental note to fax a copy to TempleBarr. Had to give the kid
credit; she'd beat out a lot of candidates to get a chance at
the reality show slot.

Molina sighed and checked her watch. Mariah surreptitiously checked her mother's face.

Standing up, Molina stuffed her bare feet into moc
casins. "Come on. The mall's open until six. A Teen
Queen wannabe will need some new duds for her stay at
the Teen QueenCastle. In fact—" Inspiration hit. It was a
galling inspiration, but then the whole situation was
galling from the get-go.

She drew her cell phone and hit a preprogrammed number. To this she had sunk.

Mariah watched, blinking.

“
Yeah," Molina told the phone when the ringing
stopped. "Mariah and I are hitting the mall for some drop-dead Teen Queen garb. Maybe you'd better come
along. Yes, it's '
kinda
an order.' Half an hour. Right.
We'll meet you at—?" Molina lifted interrogative eyebrows at her daughter.

“Junior department at Dillard's."

“Junior department at Dillard's." Molina flipped the
phone shut and grabbed her buckskin hobo bag.
"Who was that?"

“Image consultant," she said.

“Who'd you know that I'd want having anything to say about my clothes?"

“
You'd be surprised." Molina shot a smile Mariah's
way as she snatched the car keys from the kitchen countertop. "You go to all the trouble of being on a national TV show, no matter how tawdry, you ought to get a little help.”

Molina felt naked as she followed Mariah into the
dark garage. She wasn't carrying tonight, for the first
time in a long time. It would have been too awkward.
Mama needed a new pair of shoes, and then some too.
She just hoped to heck that tonight was not the one some
gang member decided to go postal in the mall's Hall
mark Card Shop.

Temple
Barr
appeared to know the junior department as well as Mariah.

In fact, Mariah had about three inches on the woman.
Molina hoped she'd stop growing soon. But maybe too
tall was no longer a female liability.

Molina stood uneasily in the main aisle, eyeing rows of
skirts the width of cummerbunds and see-through mesh tops skimpier than sports bras. The color and glitter were
showgirl seductive, but there were so many clothes, and
so little of them.

For the first time she felt like her own mother.

Red head and espresso-brown head bowed together
over the racks, pulling out selections and tossing them
over arms or thrusting them back onto the chrome poles, rather like blasé strippers.

“Cool color.”

“Oh, too rad.”

“To die for.”

The murmurs were both vapid and excited. Molina smiled, maternally, as she observed Temple and her
daughter together. Temple acted like an older sister,
caught up in the same girly ritual but far more sophisticated than Mariah with her cherubic halo of baby fat still intact, thank God.

Good pick,
Molina told herself. TempleBarr was ex
actly what she herself always had lamented not ever being—petite and pretty enough to pass as a teenager.

Temple
looked up as if Molina's speculation about her was tangible and she'd felt it. Good instincts for an ama
teur. "Mama have a budget for this extended prom
party?"

“Whatever you think she needs.”

Temple
's eyebrows raised, borrowing that tic fromMolina. She consulted the two stapled sheets advising "contenders" on "what to bring."

“
We are in plastic heaven, kiddo," she told Mariah. "Let's rock.”

Two hours later they emerged from the dressing room, giggling like classmates on a spree. Temple's arm held al
most as many draped items as Mariah's. That's what
Molina had hoped for: Mariah's taste would clue in Temple on current hot teen items, and Temple's PR influence would guide Mariah to what worked on TV.

If Molina had cherished any reason but bodily safety to encourage a relationship between the two, she might even
have found their bonding . . . sweet.

If they made the show, Mariah would have to know
that Temple was there as a stooge before the charade began. No way would she be fooled. Hey, the kid would probably get off on being part of an "undercover" team.

How had a smart homicide dick like her ended up in such a mess? Daughter dearest and her mad, hopeful, predictable, determined desire to be somebody five years older than herself.

Molina played her prime parental role: she laid plastic on a checkout counter and watched the LED numbers hit the mid four figures. Yikes.

Temple
Barr
, she was pleased to note, had done as
well. Molina supposed she should reimburse Temple but let that be a surprise after the ball at the Teen QueenCastle was over. If there was one for her.

Molina checked her watch.

“Done with still an hour's time," Temple chimed in, shooting a conspiratory glance at her pal Mariah. "Shoes, maybe?"

“
Actually, I need to make a stop," Molina said.
"Ladies' room?" Temple asked.

How heedlessly insulting. TempleBarr would make a
fab teen queen. "No. Family members appear in the audience on the final show. I need something . . . less casual.”

Temple
eyed Molina's jeans, moccasins, gauze cotton
top, and suede bag. "I guess! Your cop shop pantsuits
won't cut it either. And I don't suppose you want to trot
out Carmen"—she cut off as Molina glared from Mariah to her—"a Carmen Miranda ensemble."

“
Who's Carmen Miranda?" Mariah wanted to know. Trust kids to sense when adults were getting their lies and deceptions in a wad.

Temple
vamped expertly into a diversionary path. "Oh,
an old-time performer. Wore these tall, tall headdresses
of tropical fruits. Sang, danced. One hot Hispanic cha-
cha chick. The movies in the forties were big on Latin music and performers."

“The forties?"

“During World War II."

“Latin was in?"

“
Ole! There were some great, fun movies, all black
and white. You should rent a couple."

“Sounds coolio."

“As coolio as Julio Iglesias.”

Mariah frowned. "Don't you mean Enrique?" she said,
mentioning Julio's cleft-chinned singer-son in the sexy
chip commercial. "To die for!" Nauseating sigh.

“Right," Templebackpeddled. "Enrique.”

Molina feared that Temple's love of vintage anything was giving away her age. This was definitely not an Igle
sias, Sr. crowd. Molina would have to warn her about that.

Temple
turned a sharply focused eye on her. "Now. What does Mama Bear need? Something not too casual,
not too formal but just right. For what reuse once the
show is over?"

“I don't know." Molina did know but she wouldn't say that. "Something suitable for dinner at one of the big hotels. Maybe.”

Temple
reared back, obviously daunted by the challenge. "Let's hit Ladies' Dresses."

“
I'm not much for dresses," Molina objected. "They're always too short."

“
Not with long skirts so hot right now." Temple did the
teen eyeroll like an expert. "If I don't buy petite sizes I have to roll up the waistbands until I look like I'm pregnant.”

Mariah giggled hard at this notion that her mother had hoped would never cross her mind under any circumstances, except when saying no to boys, until she was in college.

What have I done!

The stroll through Better Dresses was agonizing. Molina understood for the first time her Jekyll/Hyde clothing phi
losophy: slacks and jackets, jeans and tops for on- and off-
duty. Vintage velvet for Carmen, a distant star who was
seldom coming out at nights to sing these days. And in be
tween these two extremes lurked a jungle of fussy, expen
sive clothing that did not scream "date" with a maybe man.

Temple
Barr
, however, obviously relished the extreme challenge of making over Molina. TempleBarr thrived in the messy middle ground. She and Mariah ravaged the racks, then pushed Molina into the dressing room with armloads of improbable clothing.

She ended up with an outfit chosen by their mutual consent.

“
Car-wash skirt, definitely," Temple told Mariah.
"Very cool," Mariah concurred.

“
It looks like Jack the Ripper's been at my hem from
the knees down," Molina grumbled.

“
Dangerous," Temple said. "Ideal for a law-
enforcement type. And not black. Deep, dark plum. Good contrast for your eyes."

“My eyes don't need contrast."

“Absolutely right," Temple said. "Just a little mascara—you do use mascara? No! Makeup counter's on the
way out, Mariah. Take that down. Lash Out, just the
thing.”

Mariah meekly wrote that at the bottom of her clothes sheet.

“An eyebrow waxing would be a gift from heaven," Temple mused.

“I'm
not
going to go through that sort of ridiculous assault in the name of female exploitation."

“
Too timid for a little pain in the name of self-
improvement, Mariah. So like a guy! Add a Tweezerman
to the cosmetic counter list. You might be able to sneak
up on her when she's asleep and pluck."

“Scratch that!" Molina ordered. "Or I cancel the credit card charges.”

Mariah did as told.

But Molina had been conned into the skirt with the shredded hem, $128.00. A black sleeveless top shaped from bands of ribbons. And a net shawl of purple, black, and turquoise iridescent beads.

“That is so cool, Mom," said Mariah, who was sold on the outfit. Mariah had never seen Carmen.

“
This may be a little dressy," Molina said with a frown,
eyeing herself grudgingly in the mirror. Short, tiny Temple had a feel for supermodel togs.

“You'll need heels," Temple decreed.

“No. You do heels. I don't do heels.”

What,
Temple
had been about to say,
about those vintage forties pla
tf
orm heels Carmen wears?

Molina could read the entire sentence as it formed in
her mind and her eyes. But Carmen did not exist here, and
besides she stood solo on stage and sang. She didn't have
to worry about dwarfing some insecure man from the
stage.