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

Kit rolled her eyes, but accepted the two twenty-dollar bills

Temple had pushed upon her and buried them in her handbag.

By the time they reached the exit, she was digging for them again, apparently to no avail.

"Oh, dear." She slapped her purse atop the cashier's glass case and began rummaging frantically. "Do I have my glasses on?" she asked the fiftyish blonde behind the counter. "Maybe I'm blind and don't know it. I could swear I'd taken the bills out and--"

While Kit distracted the cashier with her blithering idiot act, Temple did the unthinkable and edged over to the helpless puppets. Both Miss Piggy and Madame were much bigger than they looked on TV, virtually life-size. Temple eased up Madame's ostrich-feather hem, and then peered into the darkened tent within. No feet, ergo no hidden Austrian crystal-covered shoes.

Casting a glance around the restaurant, Temple ignored Kit's exasperated huffings and puffings behind her--her aunt was now systematically emptying the considerable contents of her purse on the countertop, managing to leave the money hidden inside. Madame was positioned higher than Miss Piggy, so Temple had to bend down to peer up the glamorous pig's skirt. Some might take her curiosity for evidence of a perverted act, but faint heart never won fair shoes.

"Wonderful, aren't they?" a woman's voice boomed behind her.

It wasn't Kit's or the cashier's.

Temple straightened in double time, quashing a shriek. "Yes, fabulous. And so. . . big. I was just wondering if they had.. . feet."

The restaurant hostess nodded. "Miss Piggy does. You can look if you like."

Well, thank you! Temple liked and did so. She unveiled pale, shapeless stuffed-cotton stumps, incapable of holding any article as exquisitely shaped as a Weitzman Austrian crystal slipper.

The hostess misinterpreted her disappointed sigh. "How sad that both of the men who created these wonderful characters died so young. That's why this hotel is also a show business museum, to keep the costumes and artifacts of these entertainment milestones alive. Have you seen the museum presentation yet?"

"No." Behind her, Temple heard the sound of twenty-dollar bills being rung up. The charade was over. "What's it like?"

"Wonderful! A multimedia experience in the theater section, with a tour of an adjacent costume display area. And, of course, other costumes are on display throughout the hotel."

Kit was jamming her goods back into her purse when Temple caught up to her in the hall.

"Hear that? We have to see the museum."

"Why?"

"Well, the shoes might be secreted in the show somehow."

"Honestly, Temple. You have a finder's fixation. If it isn't murderers, it's migrating shoes."

"It'll just take another half hour or so. Please!"

"Yes, dear child. But ever-practical auntie suggests we eyeball the free exhibits before we pop for the price of two tickets."

"You should love this, too. Costumes used to be your business."

"No, they used to be my props. What have we here?"

"Oh, lordy ,I'm in love."

"Now, Temple, you know that shoes are your thing."

"My addiction has just expanded to black velvet evening capes covered in star-shaped rhinestones."

"Julie Andrews." Kit smiled nostalgically at the well-dressed mannequin in a glass case decorated with floating silver stars. "I saw her in Camelot when I first came to New York. Not Burton, though. He had already left the show and was off in Rome making headlines with Elizabeth Taylor during the Cleopatra filming."

"That was eons ago. I wasn't even born yet."

"I know. Now look at you. A woman grown and engaged in a madcap scavenger hunt for some Cinderella shoes."

Temple shrugged off her aunt's point. "At least I'm seeing parts of Vegas I might have missed otherwise. That's always good for business. Oh, look. Yummy red velvet."

Another mannequin, another era, another vintage film under glass.

"Betty Grable. She was old even before my time," Kit said pointedly.

"That's some long-barreled pistol in her hand. The MGM Grand pirates could have used it."

"And that's some holster on her hip. Kind of clashes with the thigh-high slit in her skirt."

"And here!" Temple had found an entire tableau under glass further down the hallway, and another spectacular red velvet gown. Mannequins of Debbie Reynolds and leading man Harve Presnell from The Unsinkable Molly Brown occupied a Victorian setting, backed by a portrait of them in their roles of Molly and her silver-striking husband.

In the upper reaches of the glass, the theater at the end of the tunnel cast reflections of its twinkling marquee lights, as it had all along the hallway.

"The Star Theater." Temple turned to read the illuminated sign, staring into a Milky Way of tiny lights. The entrance was a mini-Broadway theater front with all of its lights and action. "'The Debbie Reynolds Show.' Smart to buy your own hotel/casino and perform there."

Kit, who had seen plenty of Broadway in the flesh and flash, was already heading back down the hall's other side. "Here's another classic."

"She was thin," Temple marveled as she examined the street-length, copper-colored jacket-dress light and glittery enough to tap dance like a dream. "Eleanor Powell, Broadway Melody of 1940. Look at the military-style cap."

"War already."

Another forties-era tap dancing outfit, this one long-sleeved and short-skirted, clothed the next solo mannequin. Then came a full vignette of Tudor costumes, appropriately modeled by headless mannequins, since that was the time of Henry the Eighth, although the setting for this film had been France

"Diane," Kit read from the placard. "Must be Diane de Poitiers, a famous mistress of a French king.

Don't remember the movie."

"No wonder you write historical romances! You certainly know the odd historic fact. These costumes are gorgeous. Imagine sewing on all those tiny pearls on velvet."

"Imagine gluing on all those tiny Austrian crystals on your mythical shoes."

"They're not mythical. That reminds me. We passed the Movie Museum marquee. Want to see? I'll treat."

They came out blinking, like all people who spend time in the dark looking at magical things. That was the underlying purpose behind the stupefying magic shows and chorus lines, behind the entire circus of magicians and the high-wire acts and the big cats. Las Vegas liked its visitors to come out blinking . . .

and reel right into the oh-so-near gaming area, still believing in whatever magic they have seen. Call it Las Vegas Architectural Principles 101. No one can reach a hotel theater without walking through a gaming area. Beyond the Hollywood Hall of Fame, only fifty feet away, waiting slot machines were wailing their metallic song. Temple and Kit paused in the hallway, getting their bearings.

"Wonderful stuff," Kit said. "It's even more wonderful to know we were seeing the real thing, that these artifacts are being preserved as well as presented. What did you think of the ruby slippers? They make the pussycat shoes pale by comparison."

"They're fabulous, but I never wanted to go home, like Dorothy did. I want to stay in Oz, thank you, and the pussycat shoes fit the territory better."

"That's a nice operation," Kit said in a theater insider's tone. "Not massive, but classy, the gray flannel surroundings and then lights up on the exhibits. High tech."

"High tech for what some might call old dreck."

"Not for long. People today realize that the labor that went into those long-ago costumes and props would be priceless now."

They were passing the restaurant area when Temple suddenly stopped and pointed to a glass case they had missed.

"Oh! It's the Santa suit from Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street. Wine-red velvet and white fur. I had no idea Edmund Gwenn was so small! I mean, this costume really isn't big enough for a traditionally fat, jolly Santa."