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

Danny pulled Temple upright as if she weighed six pounds and dropped custody of her hand. "Any questions?"

Temple had one. She knew she had been heaved around like a side of beef, but she had never really felt out of control, despite her fears. And Danny probably weighed a hundred and forty pounds with his hair wet.

A slow, ponderous wave of clapping bestirred the becalmed hunks, who understood the weight problem, if nothing else. Danny took Temple's hand and stepped away. She recovered fast enough to take a shallow (due to the dress) bow, and smile like a trouper.

"My hero," she whispered wryly as Danny bowed and kissed her hand.

"Better than being a hero sandwich," he muttered, rolling his eyes at the risers, where Breezy pouted like the world's largest five-year-old.

Danny's angelic grin as he regarded Fabrizio sobered to a director's sternness. Temple ambled offstage, trying not to feel dizzy.

"Spotlight-hog," Lacey greeted her. "Too bad you got stuck with the wimpy director."

"I'll tell him you said that," Temple answered sweetly. "I know he'll make sure that you get all the dorkiest guys as pose-down partners."

"Right on, Batgirl!" Quincey grinned at Temple.

Together they watched Lacey slink away to wave at the guys on the risers.

"You did okay," the sixteen-year-old told Temple in a hurried, hoarse whisper. "But don't be such a nerd about the damn neckline."

It was, Temple realized sadly, excellent advice.

Since the worst, for now, was over, she realized her subconscious had been playing tricks during her mental sojourn in Historical Romance Heaven. The least of them was the unlikely handle of Tempest Storm: it had come to mind so quickly because it was the stage name of an infamous stripper.

Did this fact offer an omen for Temple's fate during the real, live dress rehearsal and actual performance still to come?

Temple decided to distract herself from forthcoming indignities with another shoe hunt.

Chapter 27

Witch Switch

I am more than somewhat worried about Miss Temple Barr.

After witnessing her odd behavior the other day at the MGM Grand theme park, which resulted in her being swept off her tootsies not once, but twice, by dirty, greasy pirates, I fear that her recent emotional upsets have also swept off her sanity.

So I resolve to keep a weather eye on her (in keeping with the nautical theme of her recent expedition).

And what do you know? The very next time I find her slipping away from the Crystal Phoenix for a little R&R (Wrest and Wreckreation) it is the dark of evening, and where do her size-fives head but back for a return engagement with the Big Guy at the MGM Grand? Does she not get the picture? She is not safe on these nasty, neon streets.

I amble after her, wondering what sort of aerial antics she is up to tonight.

Once again I risk life and lateral limb nipping through the awesome glass doors, which would like nothing better than to snap shut on any part of my anatomy in arrears. These casino doors are hungrier than a loan shark on a diet.

On this occasion, Miss Temple appears to be playing the role of innocent tourist. She immediately heads for the quaint little kiosk with the cabbage-size Technicolor flower blooming all around it at the back of the "Wizard of Oz" enclosure just inside Leo's welcoming paws. I note that an admission fee is charged, so I slink into the ersatz greenery and belly-crawl on the skimpy dirt until I am a mere whisker away from the Yellow Brick Road.

(By the way, do you have any idea of why the Yellow Brick Road is yellow? This is real insider stuff, so listen up. Toto. Yup. For a pipsqueak, he was mighty powerful in the elimination department. Dogs will do it anywhere, you know. And that goes for other matters, as well. An inferior species from start to finish, but they do have their occasional uses.)

I wait impatiently for Miss Temple to catch up to me. There are many disadvantages to being human, but having to pay admission must be one of the worst. Not only does Miss Temple have to slam down five bucks for this insider tour of the Haunted Forest and the Emerald City at its center, but she has to wait until showtime while a mob of tourists jostles and stomps behind her.

According to a sign on the gingerbread kiosk, the Emerald City houses a magic show. I could show her some real magic: just belly-crawl under the fence and you are in free of charge. Of course Miss Temple might claim to find the notion of crawling into an attraction rather undignified, but--given her recent shenanigans in the rigging with the pirate scum and her new role as wench--she is hardly one to plead dignity as an excuse for not doing something.

So I hunker down in the so-called woods and wait, trying not to let the artificial smells of plastic and putty put me off the scent. Soon I pin my ears back as a gaggling crowd of tourists and their jabbering offspring stumble down the Yellow Brick Road that weaves through this movie-set woods like a center highway line painted by a drunken sailor with Montezuma's revenge. An awesome assortment of tennis shoes parades by, but nowhere do I spot my little doll's high-heeled sneakers. Okay, they are not really sneakers. They are black denim with a rubber-clad sole and heel made to resemble maple, so they are easy on the ears.

The babbling gawkers hunt and peck down the Yellow Brick Road while I shimmy my way near, sniffing for Toto. Luckily, this setting is so artificial that nothing natural has been permitted to permeate the pathway. At last! I spot Miss Temple's dainty spikes hushing down the lane. She is tailing the sightseers, but pauses by the first solo act in this compact scenario, little Miss Dorothy Gale with her Red Riding Hood basket and her red-sequined shoes.

Miss Temple Barr has no time to dally with picnic baskets and checked pinafores. She squats down by Miss Dorothy and studies the sequined pumps. She doesn't even look up when the mannequin cranks into life and begins declaiming a pre-recorded message. I can tell what Miss Temple is thinking, even from the rear (hers, not mine). She is mooning over the ruby red slippers, though she knows that they are a copy of a reproduction. She is never one to overlook a snazzy pair of shoes.

But she rises with an audible sigh and makes a face at Miss Dorothy Gale. It is not really her shoes Miss Temple covets in her high-heeled sole. Too low, too dowdy, too dusty for my little Rustilocks. She minces on, eerily silent for once in her new snooping shoes.

What can a fellow do but follow?

Not forty feet farther down the YBR, she stops cold. Or perhaps she stops hot. Either way, she is as still as one of these overdressed, over-chatty statues. I slither closer to discover the object of her attention.

I am soon sorry.

Someone has escaped the gingerbread kiosk, and it is no ticket-seller. In fact, this figure could not sell flying monkeys to a circus. There she stands--tall and green and thin and unlovely-no girl from Impanema, but the Wicked Witch of the West, a sight designed to give even an anteater an upset stomach. Her clawed hands are clutching her glassy spy-globe while her sharp nose and chin try to touch warts as she cackles about what she will do to Miss Dorothy Gale "and the little dog, too."

Actually, maybe the Wicked Witch is not such a bad sort, after all.

Miss Temple must have come to the same conclusion, for she stands mesmerized by the animated performance, which is good, but not earth-stopping. I am somewhat taken aback--in fact, I am forced to scoot under a scraggly spreading plant of some sort-when Miss Tempie bends down and begins examining the ground around the witch.

She keeps an eye over her shoulder for wandering tourists, but seems to be looking for something.

Not five feet away she finds it. A genuine tree branch, about three feet long. Scrawny, like the witch.