Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“Okay. I’ll give you up for those precious post– Midnight Hour rendezvous, but you’re all mine from noon to eleven P.M.”

“I’m all yours around the clock, only I’ll have to be absent for my work hours.”

* * *

Finally. The men had left. Temple didn’t believe she’d ever feel that way about either one of them. Still fretting over Matt’s strange new indifference to his exciting job opportunities, she unleashed her own anxieties. She hied back to the bedroom and the small chest that housed accessories. The notorious scarf drawer was so full of its airy contents that it jammed a bit on opening.

She pawed through the contents for the few ring boxes and rings. Not a good hiding place, but she’d felt so safe at the Circle Ritz, when Max lived here with her, with Matt just a floor above.

Her fingers found the heavy gold of a man’s ring; the worm Ouroboros symbol of eternity, swallowing its own tail; and the box with the cheap cocktail ring she’d wasted her money on at the women’s exhibition, something sparkly and girly that had fit her mood then. She didn’t find the opal and diamond ring in its plastic evidence Baggie from Lieutenant Molina.

She sat on the bed, her heart pounding, the two rings in her lap. She shut her eyes, remembering the saleswoman behind the ring counter she barely looked at over the array of glittering stones.

That’s when Matt’s “returned” Ouroboros ring must have been slipped into Temple’s bag and had emigrated with the boxed ring into her drawer unnoticed. When had Max’s ring vanished—again—then? Much more recently.

Temple looked up, to the rooms beyond the bedroom. Midnight Louie jumped up beside her, nosing the two rings.

“Oh, Louie,” she said. “Has Kitty the Cutter been breaking in here all along? Collecting ‘trophies?’ And what am I asking you for?”

His sturdy merow clearly meant he was just the one to confide in.

And then her phone rang.

Chapter 5

Wynning Number

“Am I talking to the greatest little stunt PR woman on Planet Hollywood or the Las Vegas Strip?”

Temple reared back from her own cell phone–holding hand. She welcomed new clients, but it was a bit early in the day for dealing with a carnival huckster.

“I am a PR freelancer,” she answered evenly, “and I try to do a great job for my clients, but in all other respects, I find your introduction offensive.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the man’s voice went on. “I’m a blunt businessman. I am not easily impressed, but you have caught my radar. Let me make a pitch in person, anywhere you say. Lunch, dinner, or even breakfast.”

Temple didn’t think she could stomach breakfast with this guy. He had the always “up,” booming voice of a used car salesman.

“We can decide by phone if…” She paused, considering her next words. Temple seldom had to juggle words, but she already felt that “my services” or “our interests” were not phrases to use with this guy, like she should wash her cell phone surface after finishing the call.

“No, no, no.” he said. “Nothing useful is done by phone except call-in sex.”

Whoa! She reared back again.

“Silas T. Farnum, ma’am. I have a big investment property under way just off-Strip. Not much this size is going now in the Nevada economy. I sure could use a vice president of media. I could use the Wizard of Oz, frankly, ma’am, but maybe a munchkin will have to do.”

Temple’s jaw was nearly resting on her clavicle. Of all the insulting, off-putting idiots …

“You do know I’m—”

“Cute as a ladybug in a rug? Yes, ma’am. I saw pictures of you in the paper next to that elephant Jumbo, or Dumbo, at the Oasis. That was a slick eye-popping way to raffle off a million cash. That’s when I first became an admirer.”

Temple didn’t think it necessary to mention that the event had become a crime scene and she had almost become elephant pâté.

“Well,” she told him, “this ‘ladybug in a rug’ has a number of important, legitimate PR clients who aren’t booking circus acts to keep me busy.”

“Yup. I would be an illegitimate one, that’s for sure. My mama was young and poor when she had me, but she’s living in Versailles”—he pronounced it Ver-sails, not Ver-sigh as in proper French—“Versailles on the Intracoastal Waterway in Florida.”

Temple sighed. “Why did you call me?”

“Love the business card: TEMPLE BARR, PR. I feel like I’m hiring Samantha Spade.” And he chuckled with the enthusiasm of a clown.

“I’d have to know what sort of attraction you’re financing, the budget, and the clientele.”

“You’ve heard a picture is worth a thousand words?”

“Right. Unfortunately, I sling words, in whatever media. I don’t take pictures.”

“Now, now, now.”

Apparently, Silas T. liked to repeat himself. Maybe that kept him from hearing that folks were tuning him out.

“I swear, Ms. Barr, this concept can’t miss. It’s so obviously meant for Vegas, and nothing like this has ever hit the Strip before. I dare not mention it to the cell phone towers, so you’ll just have to trust me and agree to discuss it in person.”

“Where?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.

Nevada still wallowed in a stagnant stew of recession. It wouldn’t hurt to rustle up new business while Matt was waiting to hear on plans for his network TV talk show career. Even if they relocated to Chicago, she could always commute back to Vegas to finish projects in progress.

The Crystal Phoenix would need more than a fly-in-by-night PR person, though, she thought with a pang.

“What about the Wynn?” her caller was suggesting.

Temple was glad they weren’t on Skype so her caller could see her twin elevated eyebrows. That was a high-end venue for this low-brow-sounding huckster.

“Lunch today?” he pushed.

She agreed, more out of curiosity than great expectations.

* * *

Steve Wynn was the self-made Las Vegas tycoon most known to the public. The crazy karma of his last name alone had been a gift. Naming an entire hotel-casino after it had been marketing genius. Talk about “branding.”

So it was no wonder that his self-named hotel-casino had led the charge to super-upscale venues in Vegas. Not far from the Wynn’s display area of high-six-figure Ferrari and Maserati sports cars was a charming restaurant.

The Terrace Pointe Café extended from indoors to outdoor tables overlooking an aquamarine pool and formal gardens with Italian pines and awnings and a cloudless blue sky. The hostess led Temple to a prime table for two with wicker chairs resembling small thrones. Just what the vertically challenged ego would order.

An elderly man at the table stood at her arrival, waving a pale linen napkin, having ID’ed her from news reports of the recent debacle at the Oasis.

Silas T. Farnum standing wasn’t much of a production. He was barely taller than she and four times as round. He reminded her of a Mini-Me of someone she couldn’t quite place, she realized. He hadn’t been insulting when he’d called her a munchkin on that morning phone call. He was bonding.

“Sit, sit, sit. Do sit, Miss Barr,” he urged. “We can have a delightful tête-à-tête here.”

“Mr. Farnum,” she greeted him as she set her tote bag on the floor, a bit dazed and wondering if Alice’s rabbit hole wasn’t far away.

She’d better avoid anything on the menu that called to her with an “Eat me” vibe, like—she glanced at the single placard menu faceup on her place setting—like the upscale turkey burger with sherry vinaigrette and pea tendrils in addition to the usual lettuce, tomato, and onions. She’d come to terms with her five-foot-zero plus three-inch heels and yearned neither to shrink nor expand. The same was true about her business, so her host had better have an interesting assignment.