Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Aqua Storm

Molina abruptly changed the subject. “Buchanan was badly shaken, though he probably didn't admit it to you. Not a pretty murder."

“Not... a suicide?"

Molina's long, disconcerting silence forced Temple to fall into her trap and babble on, giving information instead of getting it. “Hanging seems a cumbersome way of killing someone, but I guess the victim had taken a blow to the head first, so it can't be suicide."

“Why not? The victim could have banged her head while mounting the dressing room chair to position herself by the hook. And how did you know about the head wound?"

“Someone told me."

“Who?"

Temple hated revealing a source, especially a ludicrous one. “Savannah Ashleigh."

“Savannah Ashleigh—? You do get around. How long have you been here?"

“About an... hour."

Molina sighed and reached into her side jacket pocket. Temple had never seen the lieutenant carry a purse. What little makeup she wore, and any necessities, must be crammed into her pockets along with a badge and a gun, presumably.

Temple studied the plain-Jane card Molina’s fishing expedition produced for her perusal.

“Call me if you hear anything that you think that I don’t know,” Molina said. “This is another cast-of-thousands murder scene, and I can’t afford to ignore rumors. But keep your nose out of the murder investigation.” Molina turned to go.

“Wait, Lieutenant! What do you know, so that I know what you don’t know, and don’t try to tell you what you already do know?”

“That’s one of those Temple Barr tortuous tunnels of illogic, isn’t it? Anyone ever tell you that you were terminally nosy?”

“Nope.”

“Then let me be the first. All right, the facts will be in the papers, many of them. You might as well get the proper information from the horse’s mouth so you don’t go blundering into trouble.”

“Could we sit?” Temple asked.

Lieutenant Molina glanced down at Temple’s baby-doll shoes and shook her head. “Those things can kill you.” But she pulled a vacant folding chair over and sat.

Temple sank onto the abandoned chair behind her. Even sitting, Molina loomed, but at least Temple didn’t feel like a tourist overshadowed by the Statue of Liberty freshly togged out in navy poplin.

“I just skimmed the news story last night,” Temple admitted. “Who was the victim?”

Molina pulled a narrow-lined notepad from her roomy jacket pocket and flipped through. “Went by the stage name of Glinda North. Real name: Dorothy Horvath. The other strippers say she had a face that would stop even a zombie in his tracks. The manner of her death took that away along with her life. Born March 4, 1963, in Tucson, Arizona. Claimed to be twenty-six. Birth certificate says thirty. Not much traceable family, schooling, employment record. There rarely is for these women. The clubs, the road, they’re home for strippers, a big, extended family.”

“And do they have family quarrels?”

Molina smiled tightly and shut her notebook. “Funny you should ask. Most definitely. Over men, over billing, over acts, over costumes. That rhinestone G-string she was found hanging from—”

“How is that possible, Lieutenant? A G-string is pretty skimpy. Is there enough of it to hang from?”

“Men in jail cells have hung themselves from shoelaces. There’s plenty of play in a G-string, and most stage G-strings are pretty strong. They’re tip-money clips, after all. Plus, the strippers lose that thin thread of decency, and they’re violating some state’s obscenity laws. That’s a jailable offense. ’’

Temple smiled her agreement. “I remember from my Guthrie Theater days in Minneapolis. No matter how delicate they look, stage costumes are made industrial-strength to hold up to repeated wearings. And rhinestones would have to be stitched to some powerful backing, like flesh-colored horsehair netting.”

The lieutenant nodded without comment, which told Temple that Molina had investigated her background thoroughly enough to know that Temple had worked PR in regional theater.

“This wasn’t just any rhinestone G-string,” Molina added.

“There’s a difference? You have been taking a crash course in burlesque, Lieutenant!”

“A definite difference here. Glinda North won the G-string that killed her two years ago in this same competition. She was making a comeback. The other strippers thought she stood a good chance of winning a second Rhinestone G-string.”

“Like family,” Temple repeated slowly, “and like family quarrels. Sibling rivalry. One of the other strippers might have wanted to keep Glinda from competing.”

“Just don’t forget that when you’re tripping through the tulips here in Pastie Land. Keep out of what you don’t understand.” Molina stood and moved her chair back to its former place, as if anyone would care amid that orchestrated chaos. Maybe Molina did.

Temple frowned, biting her lip, as she imagined what a strangled face would look like: swollen, distorted, discolored? No wonder Crawford had keeled over, especially after seeing someone he had hoped to date—the two-timing rat!—in that condition.

“You don’t really think Crawford might have done it?” Temple asked Molina’s already retreating navy blue back.

The tall lieutenant turned and paused a few feet away. “Anybody might have done it.”

“Not me,” Temple couldn’t resist pointing out. “This time I didn’t find the body.”

“But Buchanan did. Rivalry, remember? Maybe you wanted his job. You got it, didn’t you?”

“Hey!” Temple was on her feet, indignant. “I turned this puppy down. I was offered it first and refused.”

“You did?” Lieutenant Molina stalked back to stare down at Temple. “Why?”

“I find the ambience a little cheap, all right?”

“True, pasties aren’t as highbrow as books.”

“And I’m not sure women would do this for a living if they weren’t exploited.”

“What about the men?”

“I don’t know,” Temple confessed. “I hope to find out.”

“Stick to your amateur sociology,” Molina advised, amusement seeping through her stoic facade. “Keep out of amateur crime-solving.”

“Yes, sir.”

Molina no longer looked amused. She turned on her sensible heel—Temple had checked her footwear out: navy-blue, low-heeled matron-issue for fallen arches, ick!—and left Temple teetering atop a coil of heavy cable.

She picked her way among the cables, trying not to let the bulky tote bag overbalance her.

Where to start in such a wonderland of overexposed flesh? Despite Temple’s theatrical background, which inured her to casual states of undress backstage, she found this single-minded focus on presenting the naked flesh disconcerting.

She’d have to get over that. Anything Crawford Buchanan could do, she could do better.

In the next hour she met and quizzed a confusing array of acts. Bambi and Thumper, a rare man-woman stripping team, explained that some local ordinances decreed women-only and men-only stripping nights to skirt the X-rated area of live sex shows.

Wholesome and smiling like insurance sellers, the couple sported matching glossy brown tans and bright lime thong-style bottoms. Bambi had submitted to donning a tight, cutoff T-top for the rehearsal, but the thin material left nothing to the imagination but the placement of any identifying marks.

Near the stage, an arresting pair of gilt-haired twins in gold lamé bikinis were mirroring each other’s moves through and around the prop of an empty-looking glass frame.

“Bikinis?” Temple asked. She didn’t consider beach-wear imaginative enough for a stripping costume, despite the fact that some current bathing suits seemed designed to give local decency codes a workout.