Douglas, Nelson - Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle

Murder on the Hoof

Death had taken the stage of the Peacock Theater, demanded the attention of everyone in the house, and then had bowed out, leaving only the props from a vanishing act behind.

A fallen man. A riderless horse. A deadly, never-shot arrow. And one sound effect: silence.

Forty-some mute, pallid-faced people sat scattered like whitecaps on empty waves of blue-green velvet seats in the theater's empty house, waiting, not for Godot, but for Clouseau.

Temple and Danny Dove were not among those lackluster islands of people. They sat alone together on the runway's top step in matching poses: glum faces on fists, elbows on knees, like Debbie Reynolds and Donald O'Connor poised to jump up to sing and dance in a movie musical of forty years ago. These two weren't in the mood for a melody.

The stage itself was deserted except for Cheyenne's crumpled form and the heavy-set girl who had finally volunteered to manage the horse. She stroked its long muzzle now, down to the sensitive, flaring nostrils, all the while whispering sweet equine nothings into the nervous, mobile ears.

The auditorium's double entrance doors sprang open with a echoing clank that startled humans and horse alike. The animal whinnied--an eerie, anguished scream that carried like crazy in the semi-deserted house. The people managed to keep silent.

"Is it the police?" Temple asked Danny, not lifting her eyes from their fixed consideration of the thousand-eyed peacock-feather pattern carpeting the aisles.

"How should I know? Two strangers in town, for sure--"

"One of them a woman?"

"The light's at their backs, love, as it is for all good strangers in town. They're both awfully damn tall to be female, though, unless one is a showgirl."

Temple's lips twitched at the notion of applying that word to Lieutenant C. R. Molina. Her gaze lifted to the pair moving down the spectacular carpeting toward them like a bridal couple in civvies on a gaudy magic carpet.

The newcomers paused at the foot of the steps, where Lieutenant Molina didn't even bother saying something witty like "You again."

Mute yet still in tandem, Temple and Danny stood, then parted to reveal the scene behind them.

"What's going on here?" Molina asked Temple after a cursory glance at the body, the horse and the horse-holder.

Temple knew she wanted terse talk. "Rehearsal for the Incredible Hunk contest sponsored by a romance convention meeting in the hotel."

"Incredible Hunk?" Molina's tone was more than incredible.

"Male cover models for romance novels. You know, pirates, Vikings, Indian chiefs. Thirty-some guys competing. One keeled over after riding onstage."

"That's the horse he rode in on?"

What other horse would it be? --Temple nodded

"And the woman with it?"

"A volunteer handler. The horse has no saddle or bridle, and no union hand would object to an outsider taking care of it, I bet.

But I figured you'd want the crime scene as undisturbed as possible, so it made sense to keep the horse nearby."

"You consider the horse a witness? Did it happen to make a plaintive wail?"

"Only a plaintive whinny," Temple answered, stung by Molina's eternal sarcasm, "but it does have some of the victim's blood on its rump. Won't you need photos and samples?"

"Unfortunately, yes. And probably videotape at five, thanks to the Dream Team." Molina mounted the steps, clumping loudly in her low-heeled loafers, her partner behind her.

Temple had never seen him before: a dapper man with a neat salt-and-pepper moustache. He murmured an apology as he cut a swath between Temple and Danny.

Danny sighed loudly when the officers paused mid-runway to survey the damage.

"Just what I need when I've only got a few piddling hours to mount a show." Danny answered Temple's unspoken question in a hoarse stage whisper. "The police camping out on stage for who-knows-how-long. You've had experience with murders; how many hours will it take them to do their little dust 'n' bust routine?"

Temple surveyed the desultory clots of people. "The cast of witnesses and possible suspects would fill a Cecil B. DeMille crowd scene. Interviews could last all day. The physical crime scene is fairly limited, but the whole backstage area will have to be gone over with a blusher brush, of course. Ask Lieutenant Molina what can be arranged. The Las Vegas police understand about working around public places, crowds and deadlines."

"Lieutenant Molina's the hard-boiled dame in the Hush Puppies? The one you were afraid was coming?"

"You got it, Danny."

"I'd rather ask one of the guys on Mount Rushmore for something."

"Hey, better you than me. She really hates my guts."

"She must have as poor taste in people as she does in footwear."

He grinned an impish farewell before bounding down the stairs to round up his cast and crew for the inevitable police questions. Choreographers always bounded, Temple observed wistfully, as if they had inner-springs in their ankles. Where did they get the energy?

She suddenly had a mental image of Mount Rushmore looming behind her and turned back to the stage. Lieutenant Molina had approached on sneaky Hush Puppy feet and was watching her with the usual disconcerting deadpan before speaking "The Amazon with the horse said that you instructed everybody present at the time of the murder to stay put."

"I did."

"Good thinking, but can you be sure someone backstage didn't skulk off unseen?"

"No. I guess that's your job."

"But no one has left, that you know of?"

"Well--"

"Who?"

"Just Electra Lark, my landlady."

"I half-expected you to be here, God help me, knowing that you're working for the Crystal Phoenix, but what brought Mrs. Lark to this convention of weight lifters?" She nodded at assorted, half-attired hunks lounging in the seats. Sober faces went oddly with their luxuriant manes of well-tended hair.

"She had to attend a romance-writing class she signed up for."

"That sort of thing can be taught?"

"Apparently. And--"

"Who else has left?"

"My ... Aunt Ursula. Well, actually, her name is Kit. Nickname, that is. . . when she doesn't go by Sulah Savage."

"Your Aunt Ursula." Molina repeated in numb, computerized tones. "Explain."

"I ran into her at the hotel yesterday. Didn't even know she was in town, and she didn't know I lived here. She's a famous romance writer."

"Sulah Savage," Molina repeated, her voice cold enough to flash-freeze a fish.

"Well, famous to some. Her given name was Ursula, you see, but she couldn't stand it, obviously, so her friends call her Kit."

"Kit what?"

"Er, Kit Carlson."

"Kit Carlson." Molina thought. "She ride horses?"

"Oh, I'm sure not. She knows absolutely nothing about horses and, and arrows. She's from Minnesota, you know, but she's lived in New York City for years."

"That clears her, all right."

"Anyway, Electra and Kit were sitting with me two-thirds of the way up the aisle. They couldn't have done it."

"We don't even know how the man was killed yet, so don't rule them out."

"With the arrow, isn't it obvious?"

"Perhaps, but was the victim shot... or stabbed? Tell me what you saw. You're the closest thing to an expert observer I've got."

Temple didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. She certainly knew enough to comply.

"His animal act was a surprise. Only a few people backstage must have seen the horse brought in; the rest would be dressing or undressing, or helping the guys dress or undress, as the case may have been. He had arranged for a girl to help him with the horse--"

"Yon dainty wench." Molina jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the buxom lass by the Appaloosa. "Her name is Camellia Stubbins and she gave her reason for being here as 'groupie.'