Unknown - 19_Cat_In_A_Red_Hot_Rage

You’re the one whose baby-blond bleached head this is on, was the message.

“The media was eating us up for the five, six, and ten P. M.

news,” Temple said. “I had to do something to stop it for the moment.”

“But they’ll be back tomorrow, hunting for blood. For red ink for the hotel. We’ve worked very hard to establish a reputation as a first-class destination in Las Vegas. Not as the equivalent of World Wrestling Federation contest between middle-aged men and women.”

Nicky lit up. “Hey, maybe we can get all the debaters to wear those Stingy Dingy underwear like they do on the wrestling shows.”

“You mean tighty whities,” Temple said.

“Oh, my God!” Van hid her face in her hands. “There is no way out of this but disgrace.”

“Matt will lend an air of dignity,” Temple suggested.

Van looked up to skewer her with a steel-blue gaze. “Are you sure he’ll be willing to go along with this tasteless stunt?”

Temple stretched out her left hand and wiggled the heavy-duty engagement ring on it.

Van blinked at the high-end glitz. “Congratulations. Okay,”

she conceded. “He’s just a fool in love. I still don’t think he’ll do this, even for you.”

“I would,” Nicky said.

Van lifted a pale eyebrow. “You’d do it for Temple if you were Matt, or just on principle?”

“I’d do it because it makes sense.”

Temple released a hot, long-held breath. Van was the head of this operation, but Nicky was the guts and the heart.

“Look,” he went on. “The damage was done. Our clients were being attacked by a rowdy protester group. Someone sicced the media on that and I’d sure like to know who.”

Nicky eyed Temple, who nodded. She had media contacts all over town and they were going to get roasted on a red-hot grill until she knew who’d masterminded that ugly scene. Shehad her suspicions. She’d get to that just as soon as she got to Matt and did what Van von Rhine rightfully thought was going to be a hard sell.

Three nights tied to his four-poster bed ought to do it for a fiancé. Also for her.

But Matt had scruples, and those were very costly indeed.

Maybe five nights.

“So who do you think did it?” Nicky asked.

“Huh?” Temple pulled her imagination and libido back to the problem at hand. “I have my suspects,” she said mysteriously.

Actually, it was “suspect” singular, but she wasn’t ready to go on record for that.

Temple raced back down to the holding cells.

Wait a minute! She’d been doing too much unofficial police work lately. They weren’t holding cells, just neighboring conference rooms.

A pair of Fontana brothers stood guard outside each set of double doors. Aldo was waiting for her, and he introduced her to his siblings, just so she wouldn’t get embarrassingly confused about names.

“Ernesto and Rico are keeping the Black Hat Brotherhood bottled up with lots of beer,” Aldo said, rolling his eyes. Italians preferred wine to beer and hard liquor.

“Armando and Julio, on the other hand, have been trying to keep the Red Hat Sisterhood from unnecessary stress.” Temple could hear female hooting inside. “What did you have them served? Tea?”

Aldo winced. “Texas Tea, I was told. I was also told it would knock a mule-headed beer-drinking Black Hat Brother back on his ass.”

Texas Tea, Temple thought. Wasn’t that Jack Daniel’s and lemonade? She braced herself to enter the conference room to meet with the Red Hat Sisterhood on ninety proof.

Once inside, the double doors snapped shut, locking her in.

There wasn’t much choice of debaters. Whoever had been in the unruly crowds on both sides had been swept into swift custody by the Fontana brothers at Temple’s instructions.

She was surprised to see two pink hats among the red.

Holy Hattie Carnegie!

One was her aunt Kit, sure to be a strong debater, and one was Savannah Ashleigh. Talk about a loss leader.

Looking around, she was relieved to see that two of Electra’s Red-Hatted League members were among the group, Judy and Phyll, the Mutt and Jeff librarians. And of course she’d had to invite Jeanne Johnson, Her Royal Hatness, the founder and head woman. That pretty much made up a debate team, if she could ditch Savannah.

“Traitor!” the woman in question now spat at Temple. “I beg your pardon?”

“You named a man moderator. Why not me? I’m much better known nationally than some local radio personality.”

“The title is ‘moderator.’ You’re not moderate.”

“I’m as modern as the next Teen Idol.”

“Moderate. Like the weather.”

“Oh.” Savannahtrout-pouted, which collagen treatments to her lips had well qualified her to do. “You mean dull, boring. Bland.”

“Exactly,” Temple said.

“Well, I certainly am not that!”

“I agree,” Temple said with a broad smile.

HRH spoke next. “This could be a good publicity opportunity for our message,” she said, “but I’m worried about lowering ourselves to debate these rowdy protesters. This is our convention. We were violated.”

Temple sighed. “I agree, but protesters have a habit of tak-ing over the news media. At least a debate will even the playing field.”

Temple then set up the debaters: HRH Jeanne Johnson; “clown princess” Candy Crenshaw, recommended by HRH; Kit; and Phyll, one of the two Red-Hatted League librarians. (Never argue with a librarian; they know too much.) She designated Savannah Ashleigh as official emcee and note-taker. The ersatz actress would know how to pose and fidget to draw thecameramen’s attention. It would still effectively gag her. That was fighting dirty, but Temple worked for the Crystal Phoenix, not the Black Hat Brotherhood or Savannah Ashleigh.

Speaking of fighting dirty, Temple next headed to the roundup of Black Hat Brotherhood members.

Armando and Julio Fontana were concerned about allowing her entrance.

“These men have been drinking beer for an hour and a half,” Armando warned.

“I’ve been binge drinking upset-stomach acids,” Templeanswered. “We’re about even.”

She went in, bowled over by a yeasty reek. About fifteen cowpokes glowered at her from under the brims of their black felt hats. Holy Hopalong Cassidy! One was Elmore Lark.

All Temple could think was that this headgear must be mighty hot in a Las Vegas spring. At least the women had been inside and air-conditioned.

Temple introduced herself. “I need four candidates for the debate team, pronto,” she said. “You can draw straws or duke it out.”

The men murmured approvingly at her brisk directions. “I’m the head man,” one said. “The BHB founder.” He stood and nodded at her. “Mike Crenshaw.”

“Oh. That’s the same last name of the lead singer and jokester of that group, Candy Crenshaw and the Red Hat Candies.”

“They call me Cal, and the Big Hat Breaker:’ Crenshaw said with a tight grin.

Temple had lost her smile, suddenly realizing that she had another pair of warring exes on her hands. Crenshaw was a burly man in his sixties. Having plunged into a whirlpool, Templethought it might be interesting to muddy the waters. “And Mr. Lark, I see you’re a member. Want to the join the debate?”

She was thinking he’d never do it, not with bigamy charges against him. In fact, coming down here had put him into the teeth of his two ex-wives and risked bringing up his dicey marital history. Was he really that ticked off at a group that encouraged older women to embrace their ages and not “act” in the ways society expected? Maybe. The Black Hat Brotherhood was a strong reminder that a lot of men of a certain age didn’t like change, especially in their wives.