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

"This murder stuff does make us skittish." Troy's earnest true-blue eyes looked out from under sun-whitened eyebrows.

He was a real appealing galoot, all right. "What about a rival?" Temple asked abruptly.

"You mean some other contestant?" Troy demanded incredulously.

"That's who's back there." Temple's thumb jerked toward the stage and its behind-the-curtain labyrinth.

"And a whole lot more," Nance said quickly, with emphasis. "There are the technical guys, the stage crew, and a whole lot of lady volunteers eager to lace some he-man into his open shirt or his tight leather pants that open all down the sides. And"--her eyes, a muddy green, were flicking Temple up and down--"there are a whole lot of lady authors hanging around checking out the contestants, supposedly eager to get the lay of the land for their walk-ons with the guys."

"What walk-on with the guys?"

"Every contestant comes out first on the arm of what they call 'a romance industry professional,' "

Troy explained. "That could be a cover artist or even an editor, not jest a book-writer."

Nance grinned. "Gives the ladies a chance to get all gussied up and get their names and their book titles or whatever called out," Nance said. "They do put on the pooch."

Troy frowned. "Speaking of dogs, I sure hope I don't get one for my escort this year," Troy said.

"Honey, that batch of ladies are worrying the same thing about you guys right now, don't you fret."

Nance was laughing.

"So the matchups aren't announced yet?" Temple asked.

"Naw, we do that on pageant day," Troy said. "It don't keep the ladies from coming around, though.

They want to know what the setup is, and what they have to do. 'Course, they gotta wear high heels and those long dresses, and this runway is pretty dicey. They're in and out of here all of the time."

"Speaking of which, I have to check on something backstage."

Temple excused herself to follow Molina's route up to the stage, her mind churning. It sounded like everybody and anybody at the convention could find an excuse to be backstage, and as if no one would be noticed. Temple hoped Molina had somehow found her way out. She arrived behind the curtain, relieved to spot no familiar face, although she recognized the various portions of male anatomy hustling to and fro in an undressed condition. She'd just think of England and forget about it.

But where was Danny Dove?

She asked that question of a guy nailing down a section of the raised backstage ramp Troy had mentioned. He gestured left, so she edged into the wings to find Danny consulting with the sound man.

"Let's set a level and keep it," Danny was saying, "no matter what. I hate it when the sound goes up and down like a see-saw. So unprofessional."

He turned away and saw Temple waiting.

"Hello, Miss Muffett. What can I do for you?"

Temple edged nearer the wall, for more privacy. "I need a favor."

"You need only ask."

"I want to get closer to the pageant. I need a reason to hang around."

"You can be my assistant and carry my clipboard." Danny slapped this everpresent artifact against his blue-jeaned leg.

"Something that gets me in greater contact with the contestants."

Danny's lowered blond eyebrows forced his forehead into corrugations of worry. "I thought we had a boyfriend."

"I did, too. Had, past tense. And that has nothing to do with my request. My aunt Kit said the best way to get acquainted with the contestants was to be a model in the pose-down."

Danny's eyebrows seemed to be leaving the planet.

"Who is your aunt? The Mayflower Madam? Do you know what the pose-down is?"

"It sounds like something in wrestling."

His laugh was loud, long and delighted. "So it is, in a way." He pulled her deeper into the shadows and lowered his voice. "Dear girl, do you have any idea of what you're putting yourself in for? No, of course not. The pose-down is the pageant's third and final tier. First the boys come out in evening clothes with authoresses and other interesting and interested females on their arms. Piece of cake. Then they come out solo and introduce themselves. Then they come out bareback."

"Everybody rides a horse?"

"I was speaking literally. It's the equivalent of the swimsuit competitions in women's beauty pageants, except that too many hairy legs might offend the refined sensibilities of this particular audience, so our boys wear tight jeans, or less, and a broad smile."

Temple nodded. She was not surprised that, with the amount of upper body development on some of these guys, inspecting their progress would serve everybody's mutual interest.

"The third, and final, heat--if you'll excuse the expression under these circumstances--is the pose-down."

Temple nodded seriously.

"That's when the men come out in costumes fit for a historical romance cover and assume cover poses with young lady models."

"That doesn't sound too hard."

"Oh, my dear. I have tossed a ballerina or two around a stage in my time, but that is nothing compared to this. You must be prepared to be nuzzled, nibbled, smooched and pawed by almost-nude savages who are seeking a like degree of dishabille from you. You must expect to have your skirt pushed up and your bodice pushed down. You will suffer from tickling hairs, particularly from these pre-Delilah Samson types. You will be bent backward like a bow. You may be thrown belly-down over a shoulder like a feed sack. You may even be, horror of horrors, 'dipped.' "

"What is ... dipped?"

"You have done the tango?"

"Not in this lifetime."

" 'Dipping' is similar, but much deeper and it should be performed by an expert, 'else the dippee, that is to say the lady, could suffer permanent back injury."

As he spoke, Danny took Temple's hand, then whirled and tilted her until her torso was horizontal to the floor. She had a swirling impression of the wires and flats in the flies above. She had a sense of bending over backward until she broke. She had a tummy-churning fear that she would fall or be dropped much farther than the distance to the wooden backstage floor.

"You see?" Danny brought her up slowly, with perfect control, but she could feel his arm muscles trembling with strain. "And I am a professional. I have done this for a living. These guys are, on the whole, untrained amateurs."

"Do I have to get dipped?" Temple inquired in a small voice.

"It won't be your choice, believe me." Danny threw his hands up. "That's all these unoriginal bozos know to do with a woman. They want to come out, show their muscles and dip the nearest female.

When you are dipped, you must not try to hold your head up. It creates too much strain, and besides you want a long, vulnerable throat line so the gentleman can go for your jugular like Dracula, and then you will have to try not to sneeze when his languishing locks tickle your nose."

Temple blinked.

"In addition," said Danny, "you must keep on your face at all times a vacant, simpering expression that says you find the proceedings so impossibly exciting that you can hardly wait for the next gentleman caller and the next nauseating dip."

"That really doesn't sound too much different than the high school prom," Temple said. Still, she knew the secret terror of someone who announces that she will go on a really big roller-coaster ride and then wishes she hadn't. "I've had some acting experience. And in high school, I even played the shrew in Shakespeare's, The Taming of."

"Hah! In that play Katarina gets to knock the men around. In these vignettes, they will be pouncing on you. And imagine how two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of unfeeling muscle feels when it pounces in its own clumsy, oafish way."

Temple didn't have to imagine. She recalled the dubious benefits of having been uplifted by the adorable Fabrizio. For one of her petite size, these muscle men seemed abnormally huge and hazardous to her health. Still, a pose-down model would have a golden opportunity to get to know the contestants, and to find out what the contestants knew about Cheyenne's death.