Douglas, Nelson - Cat with an Emerald Eye

"And the chimneyful of fog-bound ectoplasm."

"So you did see something in the fireplace."

"Smoke, probably. That's what the police concluded too. Excuse me."

He brushed past Temple, a photo dripping solution between his fingers, and hung the print on a drying line.

"What about the face that appeared on the various windows?"

Wayne stopped what he was doing to frown at Temple.

"Face? No face. Except maybe some uneasy rider outside slipping past in a programmed car.

Or a reflection of my light. That glass all around is murder to shoot in. No wonder the freaks fantasized seeing someone's face there."

"But you... didn't."

"Nope. Just saw what my film showed. A lot of nothin'."

"And there's nothing odd or unexplained on the film?"

"Only the psychics, like I told you, and the police. They can play with it all they want; what they see now is what they'll have later."

"Then what killed Gandolph?

"Boredom?" he asked pointedly.

"Sorry, and thanks. I won't keep you." Temple turned to feel her way out, then paused. "You work with Crawford Buchanan much?"

"Just lately, now that he's got this national TV stringer job. It's a good deal for me, great for the resume, you know? Never hurts to look big-time nowadays. That's what I love about Las Vegas, opportunity comes to you here."

"So you're new to town?"

"Been here a couple of months."

"Think you'll stay?"

"Maybe, but not at the Scoop for long."

"And with Crawford and Hot Heads ?"

"As long as I have to in order to make a name for myself. That Buchanan guy is a pain in the butt. Thinks he's the cat's pajamas and its cream and sugar too."

"I know." Temple sighed. "Did the police ask you anything special when they interviewed you?"

"Only said not to leave town without telling them. I hope to God there's nothing on my film they give a piss about. I hate testifying at trials. I'm a shooter, not a talker."

"Got the message. I'm through, anyway. Aren't you curious why I want to know about the shoot, though?"

He shook his head. "Everybody wants to know. That's why rags like this exist. That's what pays my rent. Everybody's got to know the gruesome details about everything. And I'm the guy who'll give it to them in Technicolor."

He lifted a close-up print of a mutilated body to the line, clipped it, and left it there to drip-dry... developing solution oozed off the limp paper like body fluids.

Outside the revolving door, Temple stood still for a moment while her eyes adjusted to the overhead lights. That moment of disorientation was her mistake: she wasn't a moving target anymore, just a target.

"There she is," a voice rumbled too nearby to dodge.

Cold fingers clasped her forearm. "What brings the star of the local newspaper Gridiron Show to our humble doorstep, T.B.?"

Crawford Buchanan was looking suspiciously cheery. Maybe it was the orange tie. Even his usual smirk turned up at the corners as if auditioning to be a grin.

"Just checking into a few things."

"Check on," he said, his smirk now a full-fledged expression of extreme self-satisfaction. "If you're trying to get the spotlight by solving another murder case, though, you should have read your horoscope this morning. You are out of luck."

"Why?"

"See it on Hot Heads tonight, and weep. Will you be surprised! This time I've got the scoop, and you're out of the loop, my little amateur snoop."

"Watch your adjectives, Crawford. My' and little' could be actionable." Temple jerked her arm out of his custody, but he remained perfectly smug. "I can't believe anything you've got to say about the seance murder could be news to anyone."

"Just keep on burying your perky little red head in the sand, T.B.; there's plenty of it around here."

"There's plenty of nerve around here too, and you're a fine one to sling the word little'

around."

Crawford adjusted the lapels of his double-breasted navy blazer that made him look annoyingly officious, like a cruise-ship captain, or something.

"Keep on fooling yourself. This time I was at the death scene too, with a cameraman, and my report tonight is going to make you look like yesterday's warmed-over squash." He edged nearer and lowered his voice. "We could meet in the Crystal Phoenix bar at six-thirty to watch the show together. I'll even buy you a drink. You'll need it."

"I would if I was dumb enough to meet you anywhere."

Temple headed for the safety of the newsroom, but Buchanan caught hold of her tote-bag strap.

"You're so cute when you're mad, T.B. And you will be tonight. Don't forget to turn on the TV and tune in."

"Drop out!" she suggested, digging her high heels into the cigarette-burned vinyl tile.

He released the tote-bag strap just as she shrugged away, so she hit the floor running and took several steps to slow down to normal speed.

Meanwhile, heads all over the room looked up to see Temple lurching toward the door.

Crawford Buchanan was gifted, she had to admit, gifted at making everyone around him look almost as bad as he did.

She was so infuriated by the encounter that she fussed aloud at the Storm all the way home.

"Creep! He's just pretending to know something I don't. The cameraman said the film canister was bare, so to speak. Nada. The Big Nada , like C.B. himself. Or... why should the cameraman tell me if his footage has a hot image on it? It could be his ticket to the top. He admitted he came to Vegas to 'make it.' Damn Crawford Buchanan! I knew when I heard he was on the seance list that he'd be trouble. What does that make me, huh? A fortune-teller?"

Temple slammed on the brakes before the Storm bruised its nose on the oleander bush at the end of her parking space, and came out of the car slamming the door shut as well.

She stormed into the Circle Ritz and ran up the two flights of stairs to her condominium.

After she let herself in, she bolted for the living room VCR to ravish the instruction book until she was sweating bullets and to push buttons until she was fairly sure that the machine was set to record every annoying second of that night's Hot Heads telecast.

When she rose after her struggle with button sequences, she took her spleen out on the lifeless television and recorder.

"He probably won't even get on tonight. He'll end up on the cutting-room floor with the rest of the second-stringers. He'll probably lose out to a Rush Limbaugh feature."

That notion was so pleasant that Temple headed for the kitchen to grab a bite. She ended up taking a carton of nonfat yogurt in the car with her. This time when she put the Storm into gear, it backed out as smooth as vanilla-raspberry yogurt.

"You know," she speculated aloud, "Crawford could have done something himself to create a story, to get him the notoriety he so desperately wants."

An interesting theory. Maybe even collusion between Buchanan and the ambitious cameraman. Temple nodded. Who was the one person who was almost as effacing as a ghost during the entire seance? Wayne Tracey. Everyone in these media-conscious days-- and spirit mediums in particular--knows what to do when there's a video camera in the room. Ignore it, act natural, maybe get your face on national TV. The last person anybody in that room was looking at Thursday night was Wayne Tracey.

She clicked on the radio and nodded along to the country music as the car headed toward her next stop, where she would meet another man she wouldn't trust as far as she could throw him. And even with Matt's martial arts lessons, she'd never been about to throw the Mystifying Max.

It took Temple ten minutes of driving around the housing development to find the front of the house she and Max had broken into the night before.