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

Studying the scene of the imminent forthcoming crime--a dress rehearsal for the pageant pose-down--Temple shuddered. The architecturally eclectic set resembled a Hollywood back lot awaiting an invasion of Barbarian hordes. Or perhaps invading accountants.

She tiptoed closer in her costume's odious flat-heeled stretch slippers (discount store glitz in bronze-metallic fabric). Yup, as she had feared, the Gothic niche included a pseudo-stone windowseat on which she could be wooed in endlessly contorted positions. At least a pair of black velvet pillows would make the condemned woman's fate a tad more cushy while she was slowly crushed to death.

"Look at that neat wood post," an awed voice breathed beside her. "I can work with that."

Temple turned to face a stage struck Quincey. "You actually look forward to this farce? Why are you doing it? And how did you get chosen, anyway?"

"Step-weasel." Quincey answered the last question first, while teasing the wispy tendrils at her ears into spit-curls.

"Are you referring to Crawford Buchanan?"

"Please! No names. Just thinking about the creep is awful enough. Though I must say that Step-Daddy Dearest did come through and get me this great gig."

"Now I know how, but why?"

"Why are you doin' this?" Quincey flicked sullen lashes over Temple's costume.

"Because--" The truth would never do. Maybe a half-truth geared to the audience would serve. "I'm mad at my boyfriend."

"Cool." Quincey snapped her everpresent gum.

"Actually"--Temple modified her previous statement with twenty-five percent more frankness--

"boyfriends."

"Cooler." Quincey eyed Temple with new respect, then hiked her knee-length skirt and vamoosed into the shadowed wings, leaving Temple no wiser about her sixteen-year-old motives. Temple suspected that it had much to do with being--what else?-- cool.

Actually, Temple was pretty cool herself. Here she was, about to undergo a serial pose-down, and she was no nearer a solution to Cheyenne's murder in these very wings than three days before. If she were playing the child's game where onlookers shouted "Hot!" and "Cold!" to guide someone in finding a missing item, everyone would be yelling "Frigid!" at Temple.

She shuddered again, this time at the iciness of her mental image. If she began this pose-down charade in her current mood, everyone would be yelling "Frigid!" at her anyway.

But don't think of the ignominy to come, she told herself. Don't even think of England. Think about committing murder.

She strolled alongside the entry ramp at stage left, then mounted the four steep steps at the end.

Troy Tucker was right. This height was enough to give a midget hubris. The burgundy curtain that protected this area from the audience view also put anybody standing against it into shadow. So this route would be murder to negotiate in the semi-dark of a rehearsal, given the usual stampede for places backstage. Yet the murderer must have used it. Temple imagined a horse beside her on the stage level, about to enter, its rider's back within easy striking distance.

Death was usually symbolized as the Dark Rider. Horseman, pass on by. This time death had lain in wait to strike, and the dark rider passing by had died.

The killer must have taken the fatal arrow from Cheyenne's quiver before this point, even before the victim-to-be slung its leather strap across his chest. It would be easy to pluck an arrow from a quiver at this height, but the action would have alerted Cheyenne. So the murder had been premeditated by at least a few minutes. Still, Temple sensed an indecent haste in the act. It had been risky, even desperate.

Was someone trying to silence Cheyenne? Or was the scene of the crime, the pageant, simply a distraction? Was Charlie Moon killed--not his alter ego Cheyenne, the pageant contestant and model--

but Charlie Moon, for some ancient, unrelated reason?

Crew members rushed by below Temple, never glancing up at her alongside the burgundy curtain.

Anyone preoccupied with the thousand hectic details of a large-cast production, Temple knew from her Guthrie Theatre experience, was far too harried to notice anyone else's actions.

So the murderer had participated in such events before, or had witnessed backstage action and knew how to use the situation. Great! That still left the cast of Ben Hur as suspects.

Could a scurrying crew member harbor an unsuspected motive, like the volunteer costume ladies, who had dubbed themselves the "Wardrobe Witches"?

Another bustled by, a prototypical grandmother unkindly described as dumpling-bland and nondescript, wearing the comfortable, concealing sweat-suit uniform some older women adopt as protective coloring. This edition was an ivory knit ensemble with a rearing navy unicorn etched upon the chest.

Perfect look for a murderer.

"Oh, my God," the woman was muttering, looking everywhere but up at Temple, thus proving how easily one could lurk backstage. "What am I gonna do?"

Temple never could resist a problem-solving challenge. Still unnoticed, she ran along the ramp on her stealthy-soled slippers (what had the murderer worn for footwear?), and dashed down the end steps to intercept this female version of Alice's befuddled, ever-tardy White Rabbit.

"Is something wrong?" Temple asked.

"Huh?" The woman almost collided with Temple, then eyed her costume in confusion. "Wrong? Hell, yes. You're all dressed and ready to go. Oh, what am I gonna do? There's no time."

Temple resisted the temptation to hunt for a rabbit hole. "What's wrong?"

"One of the boys--the contestants--he--oh, my--split out his costume and we have to start the rehearsal in a couple minutes and he's on first!"

"Isn't there an emergency-fix basket in the dressing room?"

"Huh?" Brown eyes set in maroon bezels of fatigue blinked dolefully. "We're not using the regular dressing rooms."

"Where is the side-splitting hunk?"

The woman gestured wildly toward the opposite wings. Temple took off in that direction, long brocade skirts swishing. Behind her came the bunny-trail thump-thumps of the hapless Wardrobe Witch.

"We're all assigned certain contestants to dress," the woman behind Temple chattered in breathless relief now that she had found a partner in panic. "We're responsible. It's not as if this is the actual pageant, but Mr. Dove demands promptness, and poor Lance is competing for the first time and so nervous. If he misses his cue, or worse, looks laughable, it will simply shatter his confidence for the actual pageant. Poor fellow--"

"Listen. If I can find that basket, and I know there's one somewhere, everything will be fine."

The object of their concern came into view like a lachrymose landmark: a tall young man wearing a white, full-sleeved shirt open to the navel. He was standing in pale relief against the backdrop, watching for his wardrobe witch like some Romeo aching for a glimpse of Juliet. He hardly glanced at Temple, which, given her lusty wench's getup, was a testimony either to his anxiety-level, or his sexual preferences.

"Follow me," Temple said briskly, passing him without a pause to snatch her duffel bag from the floor and continue offstage. Now the clump-clump of boots trailed the sneaker-muted thump-thumps of the Wardrobe Witch.

What a parade they must make! The Wench, the Witch and the Wardrobe. And the luckless Wearer of the torn-asunder Wardrobe.

Temple pattered down the concrete stairs to the basement and dashed into the Four Queens'

dressing room. Last night she had automatically noticed just what they needed.

In the corner where dressing tables and mirrors met sat an innocuous basket overflowing with odds and ends--extra false eyelashes and fingernails, glue, safety and bobby pins, spare feathers and. . .

viola, as we say in freshman French! A tidy sewing kit with scissors, needles and a rainbow variety of threads.