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

She was waiting for the real question to surface.

Temple decided to end the suspense for them both. "Then why did you meet Cheyenne for a drink Wednesday night after I turned him down, and why didn't you mention that after he was murdered?"

Kit eschewed Jake's theatrics.

"Because I may not need hunks on my covers to sell my books, but I'm not opposed to admiring them in person," she said deadpan. "And then, of course, if I had murdered him, I wouldn't want to draw attention to our association."

"You had an 'association'?" Temple hadn't meant for her voice to rise an octave.

"Now, Niece, don't interrogate your old auntie." Kit smiled. "I didn't mention it because I was so damn embarrassed. I ran into the guy in the lobby bar after our expedition to the MGM Grand and dinner--and after you and Electra had gone to bed with visions of pirates swooping out of crows'

nests in your heads. We chatted and that led to a drink. I wondered why he'd wanted to talk to you, but I never found out anything, except that he was as charming as hell."

Nothing happened?" Temple demanded.

"Don't be so maternally vague. Spit it out. No, we did not go to bed. We did not even pass 'Go.'

We talked. We flirted a little.

I am single and past twenty-one. We said good-bye. Permanently, as it turned out. But I didn't want to look as if I'd grabbed your guy."

"As I recall, you liked the look of them, too," Temple noted suspiciously.

"Call it a postmenopausal speculation." Kit smiled again. "Once a woman reaches a certain age, she can get away with things men have been doing all along. Very liberating, really, and fairly harmless."

"Most of the author suspects are your age, or a decade younger." Temple, relieved, returned to her trail of pre-menopausal speculation. "Could one of them have actually done it?"

"Murdered Cheyenne?"

"Ultimately. But first, slept with him?"

"Anything is possible and maybe even probable. That's why I set up this interview, Niece. So you could study the prime suspects. Want to know if their position on cover hunks is righteously upright, or sleazily horizontal? Ask 'em in your own subtle way. Thanks to the cover controversy, they'll be so busy frothing at the mouth that they won't notice when you pose any not-really for-Prime-Time questions. And I know you'll pull off your impersonation with pizzazz. Not only do you have a legitimate news background, but you have the famous Carlson acting genes!"

Temple shook her head. "Name one famous acting Carlson."

Kit was stumped. "Well, since I retired from the stage--" Then she screeched out, "Richard!"

"Who is ... or was ... that?"

"Lord, give me patience with the child. Richard Carlson did some great grade-B sci-fi movies and lots of TV in the fifties. I Led Three Lives." Temple's expression remained unenlightened. "About the Communist menace in America." Temple didn't bat a press release. "Oh, and all those neat kiddie educational films for Bell Telephone Company, too, that we saw in grade school." When Temple still looked as blank as a ream of fresh twenty-pound bond, Kit added wistfully, "You have at least heard of Ma Bell, haven't you?"

"Just barely. Rings a bell. Okay, where am I to meet this posse of grand dames?"

"Electra said she'd arrange a private room with the hotel. In fact, she's seeing to the food and everything."

"Food?"

"You can't expect a major network show to buttonhole people in the corridors, can you?" Kit fumbled in her purse, then squinted at the neon pink Post-It note that emerged sticking to her forefinger. "Here it is. Room seven-eleven."

"Okay." Temple gamely turned toward the hotel elevators, then stopped. "Isn't that the . . . Ghost Suite?"

"The Ghost Sweet?"

"Never mind."

Temple trotted briskly for the elevators, as if she wasn't lugging six pounds of press kits. The seventh floor was purely residential, so it was quiet as a tomb when she stepped out of the elevator alone.

She advanced down the lush, recarpeted hall. Yup, 711 was the infamous Ghost Suite all right.

Temple paused to listen at the door. Faint laughter, but a clink of silver and crystal indicated corporeal life behind the sturdy wood door. Ghosts may snicker, but they don't eat. Although, Temple recalled, Jersey Joe Jackson's shade had shown a certain fondness for drinking champagne on one not-so-distant occasion. . ..

Temple shuddered and put her hand on the cold brass doorknob. Then she decided to knock, just in case any lively ectoplasm wanted to do some last-minute tidying.

"Come in!" Electra stood there, resplendent in a solid yellow muumuu, her hair a curled halo of reassuringly plain, past-sixty silver. "The boys have already delivered the first cart."

"Boys?" Temple muttered uneasily as she edged past Electra.

"You'll see. Meanwhile, your guests await."

Did they ever! Temple had never seen the Ghost Suite so definitely occupied. A flock of prosperous-looking middle-aged women perched on the authentic 1940s furniture. All were sampling hors d'oeuvres from glass and silver trays. A brass bar cart glittered with Baccarat crystal and decanters glowed with amber, topaz or diamond-clear liquors.

Temple immediately glanced to the end tables, but each one was protected by coasters.

"It's all under control, dear," Electra said beneath her breath, which smelled of. . . Johnny Walker Black. "Trust me. Would you like something?" She waggled her eyebrows at the bar.

"Not when I'm working," Temple said through her teeth, and under her breath as well. "Where did you get all this?"

"Restaurant. Van. Chef Song. The boys."

Boys? "Free, I hope?"

"Of course. You know they'd all do anything for you."

"I just wish it was something I knew about."

"I'll be right back," Electra said, slipping into the hall. "Go to it, girl!"

Temple pulled the light chair away from the desk beside the door. She put the heavy press kits on the desk, where they immediately slid into avalanche mode. She contained them as best she could, then smiled at her . . . guests.

"I'm impressed." The slender woman Temple had seen pointed out as megastar Misty Meadows nibbled cream cheese and caviar. "The network really knows how to put on the ritz."

Temple smiled broadly. Very broadly. She would say not one word that could be interpreted as misrepresentation. She shuffled press kits on her lap and beamed at the assembly.

"I'm sorry to be late, so much to do! And I just grabbed your press kits, so I'm afraid I haven't done my homework yet."

"No problem," said a heavyset woman in hot-pink linen, making inroads on three celery sticks and a radish. "We're used to improvising."

"We're also used to abuse." Another woman's voice came clear and challenging from the chartreuse-upholstered loveseat that Midnight Louie so liked to lounge upon, who knows with whom ... or what? "I hope you won't hand the on-camera personality a script that says we romance writers 'crank out' these bestsellers in an effort to 'put a little sexual fantasy' in our lackluster, overweight, middle-aged women's lives."

Temple's upraised hands fanned in a plea for peace. "I understand your problem, and hope to be part of the solution. In fact, that's my first question. About these so-called cover hunks ..."

They groaned as one, which was more than she had hoped for. While they tossed disparaging comments about current cover trends back and forth, Temple made a quick study of the press kits, matching photographs to the actual persons.

The lineup was: Sharon Rose on the chartreuse satin loveseat; Misty Meadows on the armchair.

The solemn woman in glasses beside Sharon Rose was the outspoken Mary Ann Trenarry, who had carried the banner against the cover-hunk trend, although she had said nothing significant yet.