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

Molina stopped at the elevated edge and stared down, looking a little like Mount Rushmore's Jefferson, if stone faces could outweigh gender.

"I assume you're the famous aunt," she told Kit, "with the migrating name."

What was Kit to say? Nothing, and she did it well.

"Nice to see you again, Lieutenant," Electra chirped like a Technicolor cricket.

She had worn raspberry and violet for her writing class, and accessorized the usual muumuu with matching bangles, shoulder-dusting earrings and fingernail polish, raspberry and violet on alternating nails. Her hair was a monotone, tasteful shag of unnatural silver today.

Molina came down the steps, then leaned against the runway lip behind her, crossing her arms.

Her maroon wool pantsuit gave her olive skin a darker cast. Temple wondered where her gun was: under her arm, at the back of her waist, around her ankle. Hard to tell, which was the idea. Her partner materialized from somewhere behind them, sat on the chair arm across the aisle and flipped a long, narrow reporter's notebook to the back section.

"First your names and addresses."

This they gave, in turn, as Molina's partner wrote it down.

"You"--she eyed only Electra and Kit, in turn, like a mama eagle deciding which of two offspring should get the gory little mouse goodie next--"are attending the romance convention." Nods.

"You"--Kit only--"write romance novels under the alias of Suelah Savitch?"

"Sulah Savage," Kit said in her demurest voice. "I once considered using the pseudonym of Vernah Verandah--alliteration is critical--but decided that esses are more sensual." She pronounced the last word in the British fashion, without a "sh," slowly: "sen-sue-al." Slowly and sen-sue-al-lee. The male detective behind her choked back a laugh.

"Kit is a published author," Electra explained in awed tones.

"And you are here--?"

"I'm aspiring. An aspiring . . . author. Like Kit. Or aspiring to be like Kit. Published."

"That's why you left this morning to attend a romance writing class?"

"Yes."

"Did you learn anything?" Molina inquired pleasantly.

"Oh, yes. All about alpha males and pacing and sexual tension--"

"But you both were with Miss Barr this morning when the victim came on stage?" Molina interrupted.

"No," Kit said. "I'd already left for the ladies' room. By the time I came back, it was curtains."

Electra spoke. "Temple and I were leaving when we heard the horse come on stage. We were standing halfway up the aisle, awestruck."

"You both had the same view?"

Electra nodded.

"Why did only Miss Barr go up on stage when the man fell?"

A silence held as they regarded each other.

"Temple works here," Electra said. "I was ... a visitor."

"And Temple's pretty at home on a stage, anyway," Kit put in. "Besides, Electra, you hadn't figured out yet that something was going wrong, right?"

"Right. I couldn't imagine why Temple was hotfooting up that runway ... unless she couldn't keep her hands off that darling Cheyenne a moment longer--"

"Oh, please!" Temple cast a beseeching glance at the unnamed detective whose moving pencil would write and move on, putting her in that ridiculous light forever. He was quashing a smile under cover of his mustache.

"I simply realized that the man was sick," Temple said, "that he was sliding off the horse, not dismounting. Gallopin' Gertie, I even knew him a little. I didn't think about interrupting the act, just getting to the scene of the ... the problem."

"A true PR person down to her press kit." Kit's pixyish smile would get nowhere with Molina.

"So ..." Molina turned to Kit. "Tell me about your meeting with the victim in the hotel bar last night?"

"What 'meeting'?" Temple interrupted with a trace of huff. "Aunt Kit and I were sitting there chatting when he walked by. Pure chance."

"Well, I don't know--" Kit began.

Molina pushed her long frame away from the support of the runway. "What do you mean?"

"Hard to miss that man. Looked to me like he had spotted Temple, then hung around until our conversation paused and he could slide in there suavely."

"No ..." came Temple's modest, disbelieving drawl.

Kit nodded soberly. "He was after you, Temple. And then when he asked you to have a private drink with him--"

Temple found it high time to state the obvious. "This is a police detective, Aunt Kit. She is looking for likely suspects. You being such a congenital matchmaker could establish me as knowing the victim, or him as knowing me. In simple terms, you are marching me down to storewide services and setting me up for what is known in the trade as a murder wrap, with satin bows on it. I didn't go with him, did I?"

"Not then ..." Kit's tone was pure, puzzled honesty.

"Not ever! We all three went to the MGM Grand to sightsee after that, returned to the Phoenix for dinner, then went to our rooms and to bed. Electra and I were roommates! We were there all night."

"Well--" Now Electra was looking uncertain.

"Yes, Mrs. Lark?" Molina's voice cracked like a whip.

"She . . ."--Electra gave Temple a hangdog look--"I woke up and you weren't in your bed, dear."

"Aargh!"

Kit cleared her throat in a warning. "Was that a confession, Temple dear?"

"No. I didn't sleep in my bed. I slept in the bathtub."

"Oh?" Molina was really interested now.

"Actually, I mostly read in the bathtub, where the light wouldn't disturb Electra. All those books you gave me to study, remember, Auntie darling?"

Kit nodded sagely.

"But I did sleep finally, yes, Lieutenant, in the bathtub. And, believe me, Cheyenne was not there.

So that's where Electra found me in the morning. Alone."

"But you could have been not there," Molina observed. "Mrs. Lark had no way of knowing if you left and returned sometime in the night."

"Okay. I've got the books. You can give me a surprise quiz on any of the contents."

"That's hardly necessary, although it might be fascinating."

Molina nodded at her partner to close his notebook. "At this point you are not a suspect, despite your ardent attempts to implicate yourself."

Temple strangled another inarticulate cry of protest.

"But don't leave the hotel," she added, as if Temple were about to.

"Ladies." She dismissed the other two with a nod.

"No. I want you to play amateur sleuth. I want you up to your anklebones in romance writers, and readers, and especially in Incredible Hulks."

"Hunks."

"Incredible Hunks. I want you to notice everything, talk to everyone, bother everyone, annoy everyone. I want your little pug nose sniffing about the premises and the programming."

"I do not have a pug nose!"

"I do physical descriptions in my job. Trust me."

"It's retrousse."

"Retro-what?"

"Retrousse. That is French for turned up. Piquant. Pointed. A pug nose is thick and bulbous. Ugh.

Mine is narrow and refined."

"And French, apparently. All right, Miss Barr, stick your narrow, piquant little nose wherever you like, but if you smell anything suspicious, report it to me."

"You're ... deputizing me?"

"Please. I'm offering you a deal. I will not report your liaison with the victim to any interested parties at the Circle Ritz you might not want to know about it, on the condition that any results of your congenital nosiness come home to me? Got it?"

"Absolutely."

Temple had never received so clear an assignment to meddle.

Chapter 14

Every Little Breeze ...

I stand inside the Crystal Phoenix, bothered, bewildered and bewitched. Everywhere I see women scurrying somewhere, tote bags like Miss Temple carries swinging on their arms. Every bag bears an animal warning sign: g.r.o.w.l.

Luckily, the sentiment is written, not articulated. I am also bemused by the presence of several large gentleman who appear to be hard up for clothing, such as shirts, and for grooming assistance, such as barbers. I like to consider myself the hairiest dude on any scene (in both senses of the word). I am mightily miffed that these ponderous dudes are attracting all the attention, not to mention that they are often in danger of squashing me underfoot like a rug.