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

"I meant thirty-three contestants. Cheyenne would have made thirty-four. That's a lot of potential victims, and suspects. Poor Lieutenant Molina!"

"You feel sorry for Molina? This is a first."

"It doesn't make sense to kill Cheyenne over the contest. There are just too many contestants to fix the outcome with one death."

"Oh, goodie. Now you're going to tell us we have a serial killer at large," Kit said.

"No, we don't. Not yet, anyway. I've got to get closer to the contest."

"You mean the contestants," her aunt said. "You think you can stand the heat?"

"They're just a bunch of nice guys trying to finish first."

"Right," said Kit skeptically.

"Without getting finished off."

"Well, I'll look into your wish, Pinocchio, and you may prove to be made of wood, even with all those sparks around. But if your nose starts growing, I'll yank you out of there."

"Don't worry. I told you. I'm off men. I'm immune."

"With that attitude, you are not a good candidate for a reader of mine. At least you're not entering the Love's Leading Amateur writing contest."

"Contest," Temple repeated dreamily. "People coming from all over to compete for a prize. And then they die. Why?"

Chapter Interlude

Hysterical Again

Great to escape the hullabaloo of the crowd. A writer needs quiet to create. Now where was I? The jewels. Where could I hide them in a carriage? Maybe in the tire. Or weren't they inflatable then? Does it have a trunk? Hard to say. I know--

"The jewels?" Even in the moonlight, the lovely Amaianariala's skin was seen to pale. "My good sir, I have no jewels. My carriage was a ruse to divert dastardly robbers from the real treasure trove. The jewels are on their way to

Timbuktu. Was there a Timbuktu then? If not, where?

to Sicily."

"Cecily? Is this your sister?" he gruffed, brandishing his dagger.

The fair Aananamiklia was seen to blush. "I have no sister. Sicily is an island in the Mediterrean Sea."

"And I have no ship, so I am in no position to pursue the jewels by sea. I see. . . . Then--" The Demon Dagger of Devonshire grinned and leaped off his steed into the roadway.

In a moment the carriage door was jerked open so quickly that the lovely Amslslisdmkdl Dammit! Rotten, stupid name. Never comes out the same twice. Oh, well, fix it later.

tumbled to the road and right into the arms of the Demon Dagger of Devonshire.

"Aghhh!" she screamed. "Would you mind not brandishing your dagger, sir? It pricked me."

" 'Twill do more than prick you, madam, do you not do as I say you should do."

Hey, I'm really getting the hang of this flowery language. And that repeated use of "prick" isn't too shabby. A little subliminal sex never hurt anyone. Now what?

The duke's daughter swooned, so the Demon Dagger tossed her back into the carriage, ordered the driver to move on without any tricks and tied his faithful steed's reins to a Carriage wheel. Oops, that might strangle the damn, inconvenient horse. Ah!

lantern (thingamajiggy at the top, find word later).

Then he leaped into the carriage, his dagger between his teeth.

The comely Arianainla cowered in a corner.

Sex, remember, sexual tension.

The Demon Dagger thrust his dagger in

in ... in .. .his (belt? too modern) . . . sash!

his scarlet sash, and took out his

Finial!

That's the damn word I wanted to tie the reins to.

moneybag.

"I have no money," shrilled the lass.

"Luckily, I do," he rasped. "I don't want your money, I want justice."

"And for you, justice is--?" she inquired spiritedly.

"Whatever of the Baron's possessions I can take," he snarled, as he looked her lush, recumbent form up and down.

"What has my father ever done to you?" she cried.

He has transported my brother to the wilds of Australia, my other brother to the coal mines of Wales, my eldest sister to the gin mills and my youngest sister to the streets of San Francisco (check for time). And he has made a wanted man of me."

"You sound a thoroughly degenerate lot, sir. No doubt you deserved my father's treatment."

"But you will not deserve mine," he swore, sitting beside her on the seat of the carriage.

"What do you intend?" she said faintly.

Okay. Got to get down to the hard stuff. Where's that section in this one book? I can kind of. . . echo it. In my own original way, of course.

Moonlight washed through the casement carriage window like midnight lace, and painted the face of Lady Hester lovely Arianaina soft silver. Moonlight shone from the white silk shirt of the Demon Dagger, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow hips, his long limbs and pale long hair, his hairless face, his washboard stomach and rain barrel chest.

Say, rain barrel goes pretty well with washboard. Wonder if this is what the tipsheet meant when it said to avoid "laundry lists" of physical description? Maybe I'd better cut that washday analogy, save it for a rainy day. Heh-heh. Look at me! I can write wringers around these dumb romance hacks. Bet I win.

Chapter 22

Morning, Moon and Molina

"Charlie Moon."

"Charlie Moon?"

"Cheyenne's real name."

"Really?"

"Would I kid you?"

Temple looked up into Molina's ice -blue eyes and knew that would be the day.

The lieutenant didn't seem happy about conveying information to Temple, but in her profession she must have to deal with snitches, and one does not get unless one gives.

"That's a charming name," Temple said after a moment. "Why did he change it?"

"I suspect other kids used to laugh at it when he was a child.

On the reservation and off of it."

"So he did have Native American blood!"

"Some. Enough to bounce between relatives on the reservation and in Phoenix when he was growing up. The usual 'troubled youth' clashes with the law. Petty stuff. We can't find any next of kin to claim the body."

"No one to claim him? That's ridiculous. This guy could have been a celebrity, if he'd won. He would have been on Hard Copy and Hot Heads "

"Even then no one might have claimed him. Family is a forgotten concept for some of these kids growing up today. Charlie Moon never had much, except his looks. Now they're on ice at the medical examiner's, and the show goes on."

Temple followed Molina's glance to the stage, with its ramp, stairs and partial set.

"Somebody even showed up to claim the horse." Temple knew she looked as disgusted as she sounded.

Molina cocked her head like a hungry robin who had heard worm stirrings. "That's right. The horse.

Getting an animal that big into--and out of--a hotel can't be that easy. How did he manage it?"

"Don't ask me, Lieutenant. I never had a horse, unfortunately. I just know that Danny Dove said one of those horse-haulers whisked it away. He was big-time nervous about horse droppings on his stage."

"Where's Danny Dove?"

"Backstage." Temple pointed. She could hardly wait to see Molina and Dove go one-on-one.

"And what are you doing around here anyway?" "Ah, I'm helping with the show."

Molina nodded, slipping her narrow notebook into her sage-green jacket side-pocket. "You're practically on staff here now," she noted.

Temple said nothing. She wanted Molina to think that duty kept Temple around the crime scene.

Temple knew that it was a different kind of duty than her employment at the Crystal Phoenix: guilt over Cheyenne's death.

"Any fingerprints on the arrow?" she only remembered to ask as Molina turned away.

Molina turned back and her dark head shook. "Not a one. The killer was clever enough to think of that. Probably used a cloth, snatched up just before he, or she, grabbed the arrow from Cheyenne's quiver, and struck. The backstage area is cluttered with odd pieces of costuming and such. If you can call it costuming! The victim had nothing on but a flesh-colored jockstrap, a loincloth, and the quiver and bow case. And a medicine pouch with a bone and a feather and a few crystals," she added. "Not much material for evidence."