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

"Don't be ridiculous."

"That's kind of hard not to do in this airy-fairy getup." Electra continued, patting iridescent glitter gel on her face and hair.

The costume was more of a cloud, an amorphous gathering of shimmering fabric.

"Now if you win the writing contest," Temple went on indulgently, "you'll be dressed for the occasion. But, trust me; there's nothing in that computer but notes to myself about the Crystal Phoenix renovation. I tend to get ideas at odd hours."

"Hmmm." Electra didn't sound convinced, but that was her problem. "You're not even saying who killed Cheyenne and Fabrizio, and why."

"There's nothing to say. The jury is still out."

"I'm not used to waiting until the jury decides these matters, dear. I'm used to you spelling it all out for me, the moment the perpetrator has been apprehended."

"Maybe the perpetrator hasn't been apprehended yet."

"You do know something!"

Temple slammed her brush down on the travertine. "I don't even know who's going to win the writing contest. Why don't you concentrate on the big unanswered question in your life, and leave the murderer to Molina?"

"You don't."

"And what big, unanswered question do I have in my life?"

"Both of them start with M, as in Men."

Temple was silent, and then she grinned. "Molina and I are cooperating lately. And Midnight Louie has just vaulted into a big TV contract."

"Playing innocent does not become you," Electra said tartly. "Good thing you reneged on the pose-down model role."

"I did not renege! I was nearly killed. Besides, a Lolita-in-waiting was rabid to take my place."

Electra shrugged. "Still, you don't have an escort for tonight."

"I don't need one. Besides, Matt's working and Max is working at being invisible again."

Electra stopped primping long enough to examine Temple's silver-beaded dress and steel-heel shoes. "I'm worried about you, Temple. You wore that outfit last night. It's not like you to forget to dress for every occasion."

"No one saw me last night, and I don't feel like traipsing around in costume again. I've wenched my last wench. I'm only going to this folderal tonight in case you win."

Electra beamed. "That's sweet. I suppose I shouldn't hope, but I think I have a real strong entry.

He's a highwayman and she's a gently reared aristocrat."

Temple looked startled, then a bit uneasy. "Isn't that ... a rather common romance scenario?"

"Perhaps, but it's how you execute the primal fairy tale that matters. Some situations reside so deeply in our psyches that we retell them again and again. Like Beauty and the Beast."

"Like Cinderella, " Temple added, smiling at herself in the mirror as she clipped on long, dangling earrings. Too bad she had only one shoe, and two Prince Charmings, however dubious.

"Exactly." Electra regarded Temple with renewed suspicion, but gave up. "I expect you to tell me all about Louie at dinner. Time to go down and find out what happens."

"Amen." Temple picked up her tiny silver evening bag.

The ballroom that had hosted luncheons and dinners all week was decked in even more gossamer than before. All the tiny chandelier lights glittered through rainbow veils.

Beneath this celestial whimsy, an earthier artifice prevailed in a carnival's worth of costumes and masks, of brilliant jewelry and clothing.

"They're really puttin' on the glitz tonight," Temple noted.

"I suppose it seems like an anti-climax to you," Electra said. "You have no surprises in store this evening."

"I've had my surprise." Temple knew her mysterious smile would torment Electra, but that was as much as she was going to say about the shoe, and how she had gotten it.

"Let's find Kit and a table before everybody rushes for seats. I want to sit near the center front, in case--"

"In case you have to run up for an award," Temple finished. "I hope you do, Electra. I really hope you do."

"Kit's up for an award, you know."

"I didn't know that!"

"Neither did I, until an award candidates' list fell out of one of your author press kits."

"Well, that sly bootsl Oops, unfortunate expression. I'll chide Kit severely for not telling us."

Just as they chose a table, Kit found them and pulled out an adjoining chair.

"You're too modest for an acting Carlson," Temple told her before she had sat down. "Why didn't you mention that you were up for a, a--"

"A Romie? So are about twelve thousand other authors. Don't put your white gloves on to cushion your hands while applauding for me. Although I hope our friend Electra will cause us to callous our palms."

"What does 'Romie' stand for?"

Kit frowned. "How the hell would I know?"

Electra leaned in to recite, in a true believer's voice, "RO-Mance Is Everything. Capital ROMIE."

No kidding." Kit looked impressed. "Where'd you find that out?"

"In class."

"What's the award for?" Temple asked.

Kit dropped her beaded evening bag and dove under the tablecloth to search the floor.

Electra leaned over her bent back to whisper, "Best S-E-X."

"No!"

Electra nodded solemnly. "Only we call it sensuality. Looks better to the press."

"I would think so! Find anything, Auntie?"

"Two breath mints and a purse." Kit resurfaced, flushed and ready to change the subject. "What's the scoop on the Fabrizio offing? Surely the killer will not go unpunished? I'd sentence him to life--a lifetime of watching Fabrizio videos, and hearing Fabrizio motivation and romance tapes, Fabrizio playing the kazoo, Fabrizio gargling--"

" She might just like that."

"A woman did it?"

"Maybe."

"You're no fun." Kit pouted and kicked the long tablecloth skirt like a restless child. "I wish they'd get this show on the road; there are eighty-nine award categories, each with several candidates, which means that two thousand and eight possible wrist-slitters occupy this room."

"I can understand why they decided to do the awards before dinner," Electra said. "But did they consider that, since losers will outnumber winners, a lot of appetites will be lost before the waiters even serve the salad?"

Temple skimmed the award brochure lying across her dinner plate. Kit had exaggerated only a little. Award categories recognized every wrinkle on the much-traveled face of romance fiction: time travel and futuristics, historical and contemporary, suspense and intrigue, stand-alone and line titles. That only emphasized how many romances were published each month, and how they had become virtually half of the paperback market.

Yet at this convention Temple had heard tales of exploited and underpaid authors, of a midlist purge, of authors cut from publishers' lists by the tens and twenties. If there was big money to be made, only a few lucky authors hopped aboard the gravy train.

Those authors' names peppered the award brochure pages. Temple now knew and liked--or loathed--some of them. Sulah Savage, of course. Shannon Little and Misty Meadows. Mary Ann Trenarry and Sharon Rose, who must use her first and middle names as a writing pseudonym, although "Sharon Harvey" didn't sound too bad. Ah, yes: and Ravenna Rivers, the Homestud Man's Vamp of the West.

"Hello," a timbreless voice echoed through a microphone. "I'm Savannah Ashleigh, your surprise awards moderator tonight. And I'd like to extend all you G.R.O.W.L.ers a great big grrrrrrr."

Temple regarded the podium. A blitz of blond scintillated behind the speaker's box. Blond hair, blond body, blond gown. Spell it b-1-a-n-d and you'd be closer to the truth.

"First," Savannah's breathless monotone resumed, "the All-Time Readers' Favorites Awards. For Best Mistress ... ah, for Mistress Widow of Best Single Tittie . . . er, Title. Release. Oh."

Savannah gazed upon her attentive audience, decided their dropped jaws indicated adoration, and held out her hands to urge the silent mob to quiet. "It's Misty Meadows, Best Single Title Release!"