Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

“This crowd heard my name because—?"

“I gave it to them. I needed an instantly recognizable moderator for a live debate tomorrow on the roles of aging men and women in our society."

“Temple!"

“You'll be perfect. The media are chomping at the bit. Your radio station will love it. Better phone 'em to start hyping it now. They'll probably want to cover it live."

“Temple."

“Five nights.”

“What?"

“Tied to your four-poster. You can do anything you want.”

“I'm new at this. I don't have five nights' backlog.”

“I'll help."

“You don't have to bribe me. You just have to explain the situation.”

She did, while they sipped the first Margarita.

Matt heard her out. He finally nodded. "I'm thinking a week."

“Whatever. I'll pull the whole thing together. Get you a list of possible questions, panelists, everything.”

He glanced at his watch. "In less than twenty-four hours?"

“That's why I gotta get going. I can count on you, then? Salud! Skoal! Cheers! 'Bye now. Adios. Au revoir. Ta-ta. Gotta fly." She pecked him on the lips. He caught her before she could dash away and made a minute of it.

“Tomorrow," she said. "The Phoenix lobby, I:00 P.M., to get you up to speed. I'll be the 'little blond filly' in the pink hat. Thanks a million!”

She skittered away on her festive slides, heart flying too.

This was the first time that Matt, and not Max, would be assisting her, not only in a skin-saving PR capacity, but maybe in a crime-solving one. Who knew what could come out in a heated debate between these warring men and women?

Temple hit her own place, kicking off her heels and skating barefoot over the slick wood floor to her office, where she riffled through her trusty Rolodex and started making a list and checking it twice. Everything was on computer, but the Rolodex kept her grounded.

Her first calls were to her best sources, so it was easy to slip in a casual question about who alerted them to the protest.

“One of the Red Hat women," Sunny Cadeaux, a sister PR woman-around-town, said. They hadn't talked in ages, but it was instant girl chat.

“You're sure?"

“She didn't leave a name. Just said they were all meeting there and it was very upsetting.”

The anonymous Red Hat tipster proved to be a universal source, until Temple got tired of hearing it. She punched in a number she usually didn't have much reason to use.

“Pete," the woman on the phone yelled to a passing colleague, "how'd we end up sending a videographer to that nothing mini-protest at the Crystal Phoenix?”

Temple held her breath as she heard a muffled answer. "One of our stringers," the reporter reported, sounding disgusted. "Usually is more reliable."

“You have a name?"

“You flack the Crystal Phoenix. I don't want to get an associate in trouble."

“Actually, I'd like to thank whoever it was. I've set up a debate between the Red Hat Sisterhood and the Black Hat Brotherhood moderated by Matt Devine, Mr. Midnight at WCOO-AM."

“No kidding. Mr. Midnight, hmm. Nobody ever gets to see him in person. When is it?”

Temple told her, listening to the faint scratch of pencil on paper.

“Good thinking," the reporter said. "People are dying to see what he looks like off the syndicated airwaves, given that dreamy voice. Probably bald and three hundred pounds, like your usual radio personality."

“Decidedly not," Temple promised.

“Okay, we'll send someone. Oh. The tipster was someone who hadn't worked for us in a long time.”

Temple crossed her fingers.

“Natalie Newman, Mark says. She goes back with us to before she got married and was Natalie Markowitz. She used to be a lot savvier than to call us out on a silly story like this.”

No, Temple thought. She was still savvy. And a lot of other things.

Temple thanked the woman, then cut the connection to listen to the lullaby of the dial tone.

Natalie Newman clearly had a double agenda at the convention. Her two cameras proved that. But maybe she had a triple one, and maybe Oleta Lark's murder proved that.

Proving that would be a tough assignment for Temple, but she suspected it involved something in the past, something she wasn't seeing yet. She'd keep her eyes and ears on the alert and on Natalie Newman.

Maybe by the time she was through, the local media would think she was Santa Claus, offering the gift of exposing a murderer.

Chapter 26

Mr. Midnight Sings the Blues

Matt showed up for his usual midnight talk radio gig half an hour early, whistling.

He felt this boundless energy nowadays.

Love was a many-splendored thing and way more than an ex-priest like him was equipped to deal with. He understood that his euphoria and repressed upbringing would soon have to slug it out, but for now, now that he was reassured that all was right with their world in bed and out. It was all gravy with truffles.

“Matt, my man!”

Leticia greeted him during the two precious minutes she was off-mike. "You're lookin' fine, honey. Happy and oh-sohot. Tell Auntie Ambrosia all about it.”

She did resemble an aunt: Aunt Jemima crossed with Queen Latifah, both comfy and glamorous. Ambrosia was her on-air name and it fit what she dished out over the late-night airwaves. She did a heartfelt oldies and goodies show, full of the songs that made people forget old wounds and work their way through new ones. She coaxed the callers into expressing deep feelings as they recalled some person lost or found, emotions old or new, painful or joyful. Ambrosia cooed the introductions to the songs she picked, always exactly right whether they targeted angst or euphoria. Matt was the station's midnight shrink. Ambrosia was its pre-midnight guardian angel.

Now she grinned at him. "Matt, my bro, you are acting way too happy for the Evening Emperor of Angst. Don't tell me Mr. Midnight is losing his melancholy, baby!"

“Sorry." Matt smiled and sat on the desk's edge. "I just won the personal stakes lottery."

“ O-o-o-oh?”

There was nothing about an engagement for a man to flaunt but his happiness. "I asked. She accepted."

“Why shouldn't she, honey, whoever she is?"

“I don't know, because she has free will?"

“Aw, all that Cat-lick stuff. That isn't exciting, man. That isn't entertainment."

“I asked her to marry me."

“Now, that's entertainment. And—?”

Matt shrugged. "She accepted the ring."

“Now, that's just entrepreneurial. The girl want the ring, or you?"

“Me. I think."

“Whatcha doin' thinkin' at such a time? Hey. Wait. Gotta get back on the air. Here's a song, just for you, Jude dude.”

The Beatles' "Hey, Jude" hit the airwaves with the press of Ambrosia's long, false fingernail painted tangerine.

Matt listened to the classic lyrics, finding them new and, now, personally significant. He was remembering to let her into his heart so he could start to make it better. He wasn't afraid anymore. He knew he was made to go out and get her under his skin. And she was. And he didn't have to carry the world on his shoulders alone anymore. Well, not entirely.

“She had a good guy," he couldn't help saying as the song ended. "Before."

“But he wasn't somebody like you, Mr. Midnight Heartthrob. You think you get all those lovesick females callin' in 'cause you talk pretty? Station didn't put out all those billboards of you lounging on that red suede sofa to bring in the blind, baby.”

Matt still felt squirmy about that ad campaign.

“Her former guy was somebody: rich, good-looking, dazzling performer, smart, and really a decent guy."

“So?"

“So, I don't feel free to give away his name."