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

Kit slid onto her tailbone in embarrassment, hiding her face behind her open award brochure.

"That woman is unbelievable! She's too vain to wear reading glasses. With that level of delivery, this awards list will take hours to get through. I hope to heaven I don't win. I can't imagine how she'd mangle my name."

"You overestimate her," Temple muttered. "Glasses wouldn't help her reading and speaking skills. She's a film actress, after all."

And so the evening stumbled on, with every ear and eye fixed on Savannah Ashleigh in the spotlight, struggling vainly to interpret award titles and winners' names.

"And for Best Sex!" Savannah looked up, proud, then down again. "Uh, Best Sexuality . . . no, Sense. Best Sense of. . . Reality? Sue LaSavage!" She used the French pronunciation, of course, or her best approximation of French. "Soo La Sa-vahge. "

"I sound like a nymphomaniac railroad line!" Kit stood, threw her napkin to the table and stalked up to accept the award by graciously thanking every insensitive idiot who had ever stood in her way, therefore ensuring her sterling success.

Temple was still laughing when Kit returned to the table, slammed an object that resembled gold-plated mating dolphins down on the thick tablecloth, sat, picked up her discarded napkin, unfolded it and covered her head.

Temple was still laughing when Mary Ann Trenarry waltzed up to collect the "Most Innoculated Heroine" award.

"Innovative! " Kit, still under her peach-linen tent, translated with disgust.

Ravenna Rivers undulated up to retrieve a "Sexy West Hero Award."

" Sexiest Western Hero , " Kit droned ominously.

Seeing both women onstage was a study in super-feminine stereotypes, blonde on blonde.

Before Savannah Ashleigh could butcher another category, someone tapped Temple on the bare shoulder.

She turned to recognize Molina's mustached partner. He bent to whisper sweet somethings in her ear: "The Lieutenant would like you to meet with her now."

Molina, here? Had to be, if her partner was. What was up?

Temple excused herself, to little notice. Electra was so nervous she sat rapt at Savannah's maunderings, wringing the fabric of her diaphanous muumuu. And Kit, the Wise One from the East Who Speaks Only from Under a Veil, Soo La-Saa-Vahge, continued to commune with Thespis.

Molina stood against the wall like an idle waiter. With her neutral bearing and navy pantsuit, she could pass for one. She stood even with Savannah and the podium, watching both as if she expected them to creep, like Birnam Wood, utterly away.

Temple eased into place against the wall beside her, feeling like shrimpy Shirley Temple paired for a tap-dance with looming, lanky Buddy Ebsen.

Molina held out an awards brochure, and indicated a certain name. "You know her by sight?"

Temple nodded.

Molina leaned down to whisper.

"Don't do anything, for God's sake." Molina drew back against the wall. "Just point a finger."

"No kisses required?" Temple couldn't help asking. "This is a romance convention."

Molina glowered but didn't answer. Temple knew why. She was armed and dangerous. She was about to arrest a murderer.

Savannah Ashleigh, meanwhile, sounded quite giddy. She assumed that she was getting the hang of this awards thing, quite erroneously. She giggled between categories, and grew coy before she announced the winning name, which she invariably mangled.

"For... for Ass... Asset to the Feel Award--" Giggle. "That's field , everyone. For Field Asset Award, Sharon Rose!" Savannah drew the list to her face. "Is that it? Sharon Rose. I can do that!"

Sharon Rose moved toward the podium. Her gown was yellow polyester chiffon, long and full.

She had a matching yellow organdy bow pinned dead center of her brown hair, just above the curled fringe dusting her forehead. Her hands and unvarnished nails clasped the dolphins around what would be their waists, as if they never meant to let go.

"I can't tell you how much this means to me," her quivering voice trilled over the microphone to every nook and cranny of the ballroom. "I have labored so long and hard to make this field reach its full potential, to prove that good writing is the road to success, that our covers don't have to rely on the tawdry and tacky. Quality, That is the word I live by, and write by. Thank you so much for recognizing mine."

She rustled down to the dinner table level, afloat on sunshine chiffon and the audience of admiring fans.

Molina stepped forward and drew her toward the wall where a woman photographer waited. All the winners (except Kit) had paused to record this moment for posterity.

Molina whispered something to Sharon Rose while Savannah giggled and garbled at the microphone. Sharon Rose nodded. Molina turned to Temple, and passed on the message.

Temple, stunned, wove discreetly into the tables until she reached one. She spoke to someone there, who immediately rose and followed her, followed her back to Molina and the wall, and the silent partner by the waiter's portable tray table. Back to a triumphant Sharon Rose, beaming like a polyester daffodil.

The police closed in, including two uniformed officers, one male, one female, who materialized from the swinging doors to the kitchen.

Another author was weaving through tables to the podium in gratified surprise. Not Sharon Rose.

Some other author was thanking whatever gods may be, not Sharon Rose. Some other author was hearing the applause of her peers and fans, the sweetest sound in the world. Not Sharon Rose.

Sharon Rose was hearing her Miranda warnings, delivered in a crisp, official drone that made Savannah Ashleigh sound animated.

Sharon Rose was extending her hands to surrender her trophy.. . and extending them behind her for the handcuffs.

So was her husband, Herbert Harvey. Or was it Harvey Herbert?

Poor man, Temple thought, watching the stunned couple cowed, corralled and led discreetly through the kitchen doors. She glimpsed an anxious Nicky Fontana and Van von Rhine waiting against the institutional stainless steel.

Poor Herbert Harvey. Now that was an epitaph for a runner-up. A henchman. The lesser half in a merger of murder and greed. And, ultimately, a hit man with Fabrizio to his credit.

Molina handed Sharon Rose's award to Temple.

"You may wish to return this to the committee," she said. "And they may wish to forward it to her relatives. She did earn it."

"Why arrest them here and now?" Temple asked.

"To get them before everyone left town, and we had to wait for confirming information from Italy and the Orient, both on very different time zones, with very different languages. Especially the Italians, when it comes to efficiency. You have heard about Italian trains?"

"No doubt rank stereotype, Lieutenant. The Fontana Brothers are Italian."

"I rest my case."

"Was I right?"

"I'm afraid so. I checked. Sharon Rose and her husband were in Italy--Milan, in fact, meeting with her Italian publishing house--at the same time Cheyenne and Fabrizio were modeling for Armani there. The Harveys had commissioned the boots in Florence, noted for its leather goods. Both murdered models were 'given' the boots to commemorate their meeting with Sharon Rose and her husband in Milan a week ago. Both men considered such perks their due as rising romance-cover models. They never knew they were acting as mules for smuggled diamonds."

"Cheyenne was killed because he was going to reveal the scheme, wasn't he? That's what he wanted to ask me about the night before he died."

"Hey!" Molina smiled. "He may have just wanted to ask you out. You'll never know. But you're right. Cheyenne was not stupid. He went direct from Milan to Las Vegas, as did Fabrizio. Different flights, but not by much. We checked. Cheyenne also went straight to what passes for an honest pawnbroker in Las Vegas when he saw some stones from one boot heel had fallen off into his duffel bag during the transatlantic flight, and examined them. The pawnbroker gave us a statement: he identified the stones as gem-quality diamonds. I'd guess that Cheyenne told Fabrizio in his dressing room, then realized that Fabrizio wasn't about to give up the gold in any field. Finders, keepers.