Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Aqua Storm

“That’s right." Temple followed Lindy into the relative normalcy of the hall outside the ballroom. “Savannah Ashleigh's cat was in the dressing room during the murder. If only cats could talk." She considered how much Midnight Louie had already witnessed of her life and times. “On the other hand, thank God they can't."

12

WOE vs. WHOOPE

N o matter howritzy or glitzy the hotel, its understage dressing rooms are as welcoming as a warehouse basement. Temple knew that. What point was there to installing such luxuries as wall-to-wall carpeting, upholstered chairs and decorative countertops in the theatrical equivalents of Grand Central terminal? Too many itinerant bodies come and go, spilling lurid makeup, burning out the bare bulbs that surround the inevitably smeared mirrors and dropping sequins from slowly disintegrating costumes like gaudy tears shed at their passing.

Yet Temple found herself standing hushed in the cavernous dressing room beneath the Goliath's glittering superstructure to which Lindy had led her. She was spellbound as usual by the tawdry glamour of these cold, hard-surfaced places where people transform themselves and emerge to perform wonders in the way of song, dance, and in miming emotion or magic.

One of these human butterflies had not emerged from the cocoon beneath the stage to spread her performer's wings in the spotlights, Temple reminded herself.

“Where—?" she began.

Before she could finish her question, Lindy pointed to a row of gorgeously feathered capes hanging about six feet from the floor. The single crooked finger of one empty wrought-iron hook beckoned, as might the ghost of Dorothy Horvath.

Everything about the room reverberated with absence, rather than presence. The flimsy wooden seating common to dressing rooms—battered, round-seated ice-cream chairs with splayed legs—sat askew to parallel gray Formica countertops. A dressing room, even empty, always held its breath in expectation of a chatty, frantic throng of invaders.

Lindy's lighter scratched in the silence, conjuring flame, then the faint perfumes of fluid and sulfur—presto, a lit cigarette made a dramatic entrance into the dormant setting.

The mundane sound and scent of smoking banished the spell of recent death. Temple stared at the opposite wall and mentally counted cloaks. “What happened to the sixth cape that should have been on the empty hook?”

Lindy’s first drag on the cigarette ended with a smoky “I don't know." Her voice creaked like a scratched LP record. “Don't know what happened to Dorothy's prize G-string, either. The cops probably have ’em both."

Temple approached an abandoned chair, curled her fingers around the curved wooden seat back and gently shook it. Its feet screeched against the floor as it rocked to and fro.

“Tippy," she pronounced. “These chairs always are. Doesn't help the suicide theory, the victim having to balance on a tippy chair to reach that hook."

“Hey, strippers are used to high heels." Lindy leaned against the countertop, inhaling with the true nicotine addict's slowness. “Wouldn't a murderer have to climb a chair to hoist poor Dorothy up, too? A tippy chair would be twice as hard on him.”

“The police say it's a him?”

“Well... a mostly naked woman strangled with a G-string. Who else? Besides, strippers always have man trouble.”

“They're not the only ones,” Temple muttered as she strolled through the space, getting its feel, trying to impress the fact of a murder on her fond memories of a dozen dressing rooms exactly like this one, including Max's upscale private dressing room just down the hall.

A mostly eaten birthday cake frosted with turquoise and pink rosettes sat on a cardboard tray atop the counter. All that remained of the sweet, icing sentiments, also turquoise, were the looped terminal y’s of “Happy,” “Birthday,” and the birthday girl's name. Was it Missy? Cindy? Lindy? Or Dorothy?

The room was filled with discards. Powder dusted the worn countertop, snaring a lone bobby pin in its tinted toils, while an abandoned false eyelash lurked in a corner like a curled spider. The scents of a dozen cheap perfumes melded into olfactory goulash. A two-inch-long pencil with no lead lay on the floor. The same corner that harbored the eyelash also held a bit of paper flotsam.

Temple picked up the crumpled shape: beige and orange, with black printing on flimsy card stock. Some kind of ticket—? A clue?

“Food stamp,” Lindy's down-to-earth voice said flatly.

Temple dropped it as if she had been caught stealing. Or was she just guilty that she hadn't recognized it? No matter how dicey her cash flow got, she could afford food, even Free-to-Be-Feline.

Lindy ambled around the place, too, pausing before a mirror. Six of its framing makeup bulbs had gone gray and cold instead of pouring out the usual white-hot glare. Her fingers touched an eight-by-ten glossy photo stuck into the mirror frame's lower right corner.

“Someone must have put this here,” Lindy rumbled pensively, and coughed.

Temple came to join her in staring at the portrait: pale hair and features scribed by a classic oval, posed at a flattering Hollywood tilt, caught in stark theatrical tones of black, white and shades of gray.

Even without a hint of coloring, the face was gorgeous. Perhaps a makeup artist could analyze the proportions, features and their balance, could explain why the face was so mesmerizing. Temple wouldn’t want that. The face spoke for itself, radiated an inner expectation that enhanced the outer loveliness.

“Dorothy Horvath?” she asked.

Lindy nodded, tears turning her dark eyes into slick, black marbles. “She was a beautiful kid, a drop-dead knockout. She would start her act in an organdy pinafore that went electric blue-white under the overhead ultraviolet lights. Called it her ‘Dorothy act,’ 'cuz she came from Kansas, she said. Funny, quiet kid with a face to die for.” Lindy realized how apt that expression was, and winced before dragging deeply on the cigarette.

“ ‘Glinda North,’ ” Temple said. “I understand her stage name now. It’s after the good witch of the north in The Wizard of Oz . Maybe Dorothy wished for a fairy godmother like Glinda. What about the men in her life?”

Lindy shrugged. “Same old story, and, anyway, who knows?”

Temple studied the photograph. “Beautiful women often complain that no one relates to the real person inside.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lindy said with another shrug.

“Hey, you’ve got a great face.”

“Maybe.” Lindy’s quirky smile wanted to, but didn’t quite, believe Temple. “Once you’re past thirty in this game, you can either be an old stripper trying to keep up with the young stuff, or an old ex-stripper.”

“Don’t say that!” Temple gave a mock shudder. “I’m not that far from thirty myself. Now I learn another career choice is kaput. I’ll have to keep slinging press releases.”

Lindy waved a dismissing hand. “You don’t look a day over eighteen.”

“Don't say that, either. That's the story of my life.” Temple shook her head at Glinda North's glamorous photo face. “I wish I knew the story of hers.”

“Come back later, when the other girls are here. Maybe you can put the pieces together. We all know a little bit about each other. Can't help it in such close quarters.”

“But no one had an obvious motive to kill her, not even a jealous rival?”

Lindy shook her lusterless black-dyed hair. “No way. We all looked out for Dorothy. That girl couldn't string two safety pins together without losing one.”

Temple eyed Lindy's world-weary features. “Is your age the only reason you don't strip anymore?”