Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

The aristocratic white fuzzy eyebrows lofted while the dark eyes beneath sized her up. Oh, God. She couldn’t help that she looked like the Sugar Plum Fairy as a blonde.

“You’re right,” he surprised her by saying. “The death is indeed ambiguous. The police and coroner haven’t declared a cause, and the coroner’s office, thank God, is far behind on its case load. So we may be lucky enough not to get a determination until after the exhibition moves on to the Frick.

“However . . .”

Temple stopped basking in her good-student mode and held her pen poised above a blank line, ready to record the nitty-gritty that was about to issue from those pale, wrinkled Russo-Parisian lips.

“The excellent police in this city have identified this man, at least under his alias, and have informed us of his criminal career here. We do not know his real identity and, whatever the cause of death, we feel we need to know if he was connected with someone else. Perhaps they may discover an international connection, even with such as Chechen rebels. I merely mention the more dire international possibilities.”

Temple’s pen hit paper, making a period on the notebook sheet.

She was inclined to object that simply being a Chechen made anyone a “known” criminal, but there was no doubt that Chechen rebels had been making it as hot for the Russian government as unknown anarchists had for the czars in the bad old days a hundred and more years ago.

A possible dead Chechen swinging from a bungee cord in the New Millennium wouldn’t be just a would-be jewel thief but a possible political gauntlet slapped across everybody’s face. And as a PR problem, he would be a top-drawer nightmare. It would take a pile of artful public relations to salvage a situation like that. No wonder she often ended up solving crimes as well as creating press releases. It was the only way to protect her clients from the law’s delay. She had to do it herself.

Well. A big cold, slimy salty mouthful of dead fish eggs might be just the thing to snap Temple out of the serious PR funk Monsieur Volpe had just put her in.

Maximum Insurance

Temple kept her own counsel until she got home to the Circle Ritz.

Who would have ever thought that a PR person for a major exhibition would have ever welcomed the idea of plain and simple out-and-out jewel thieves?

Especially since the only model that came to mind was Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief . Who wouldn’t want Cary Grant on one’s case? Speaking of art thieves, there was always Pierce Brosnan in the remake of The Thomas Crown Affair . Not too shabby either. Every female PR freelancer should be so lucky!

Except. Here. Now. A Russian exhibit blending Czarist and post-Soviet politics with Las Vegas capitalist commercial sizzle. A marriage made in hell, for sure. And if a Chechen rebel in black spandex accessorized with bungee cord turns up dead on the scene?

Oh, hell indeed!

Temple speed-dialed Max on her cell phone. It was the relatively early hour (for a magician) of 1:00 P.M., but she hoped he was out there. Somewhere.

An answer!

“Well. Hello, Miss Teen Hottie. You still a bad, bad bottle blonde?”

“Yup. Sorry I was so out of it when you paid your respects the other night.”

“I hate to disillusion you, but those weren’t respects.”

“Hmmm,” she responded.

Max was doing his best to sound Max-errific, but Temple could tell that he was . . . simply . . . tired. Just awakened. Getting his bearings. Pretending to be perfectly alert, perfectly all right.

Just as she was. Pretending, that is. Rats!

“Listen, Max, I have that New Millennium Russian exhibition PR job and I need your input.”

“The Millennium? You’re doing the public relations for it?”

“Yes, duh. That’s what I do for a living. This is my biggest commission yet and it’s already going south.”

She outlined the exhibition and her role in it, surprised he didn’t already know. Max’s job was being preternaturally informed and his avocation was keeping an eye on her, wasn’t it?

“So, how can I help you?” he said.

“So . . . if it turns out that this death means that terrorists are stalking the exhibition, what’s a savvy PR person to do to prevent more mayhem, murder, and, worst of all, bad publicity?”

“Watch her back?”

“That’s all?”

“And front.” Max chuckled. “Now that you’re a platinum blonde, everybody else will be. It’s a knee-jerk response.”

“And unwanted, but I can’t just wash that dye job out of my hair.”

“Nor me either.”

Temple warmed to the conviction in his voice. “Max, this is way out of my league. I’m supposed to be getting goodie-goodie artsy coverage, but all the media will want is gory details.”

“That’s all the media ever wants these days.”

“True, it’s all sunk to National Enquirer level. Maybe I should become a . . . I don’t know, an etiquette columnist. Miss Manners is looking rather wrinkly these days.”

Max laughed until he sounded like his old self. “You as an etiquette dominatrix? Brave New World. Don’t worry about the New Millennium job. I’ve got a feeling it’ll work itself out.”

“Max, I know I wasn’t at my best the other night. But I did tell you that she’s there, yes? On the scene.”

“She?”

“That treacherous bitch.” The phrase even surprised the usually ladylike Temple. “That awful female magician who napped your ring right off my hand on stage. Shangri-La.”

A long silence, then Max said, “The ring that Molina found near the murder site of Gandolph’s former assistant, you mean.”

“Right. That one. I swear, Molina would never be girly enough to have a hope chest, but her custody of that ring of yours, of ours, is as close as she’ll ever come to one. It’s evidence of something, though I don’t have any idea of what. Do you?”

Max was silent again.

“Shangri-La is Asian, supposedly,” he finally said. “This exhibition is pre- and post-Soviet Russian. She may be involved merely as the Cloaked Conjuror’s co-performer. Even treacherous bitches have to work.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know what his real game is either. He’s masked, isn’t he? A conundrum. And so is she.”

“Masked magicians are an ancient tradition.”

“You always performed bare faced.”

“Maybe I was just a good liar.”

The last word hung suspended in the ether that connected their voices, but not their faces.

“I’m not a good liar, Max,” Temple said.

“That’s why I love you.”

Oh. He still did . And she still did. And that combo still made her heart sing. But. She knew she’d been treading toward lies of omission with her new, closer relationship with Matt. If only Max would sweep her off her feet again into surety, security.

Give me a rope, Max! You who are so good at spinning over the abyss. Give me something to hang on to besides faith and fairy tales. Be my prince, not my pauper .

“I don’t know where you are,” she said in a little lost voice.

“Neither do I.”

Temple recognized truth even when it came wrapped in three little words over a cell phone line. She sighed. “We need to really talk, Max. Face to face. Soon.”

“We need to do much more than that. Agreed.” Pause. “I can’t now. Later, though.”

“Later,” she agreed.

“Don’t worry.” His voice was already fading.

She thought he’d added, “I’m on it.” But it could have been anything murmured in passing, some good-bye formula that meant nothing.

She snapped the cell phone shut, torn between taking comfort from Max’s certainty that everything would work out all right, and an odd worry about why he should be so certain. She had the unpleasant feeling of having been sweet talked. Max knew better than to offer her Splenda instead of simple, high-calorie sincerity. Didn’t he? Didn’t Max, more than anyone? That was her mantra, her faith, her story.