Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

High furry boots, or … Puss-in-Boots, Las Vegas style.

“Louie?” she rasped. Whispered. Ground out.

The feathery presence drifted away but a step caught up with it.

Okay. She was either tailgating an ostrich or following a fine-feathered friend who just happened to have a cat tail.

In the dark, all things being equal, it was probably a cat. Her cat. Hers not to question why. Hers but to do or die. Into the Valley of Doubt marched Temple and her phantom feline.

A slice of light beckoned in the distance.

Was this a trap laid by a sneak-thief psycho nail-polish correspondent? Or … enlightenment?

Temple felt another plumy brush against her bare calves and decided she need to be very Zen right now, right here.

She pushed toward the light, into the light … and through a swinging door into the mansion’s brightly lit and darkly designed kitchen, all stainless steel and black marble and granite.

And all … Mariah. Sitting on a black granite countertop in her pink Teen Queen nightshirt, sucking on a raspberry Popsicle.

“You total idiot!” Temple accused, knowing this was not the proper esteem-building tone but she had lost that concern. Funny that relief could be so enraging. “I was worried to death.”

“Around this place that’s serious,” Mariah said. “How’d you find me?”

“You’ll look terrific on spy TV.”

“One Popsicle. Sugarless. That’s the best they have in those three giant refrigerators. It’s not a federal case.”

Temple eyed the Popsicle stump. “Sugar-free, really? Where are they?”

“Bottom freezer drawer, fridge on the left.”

Temple eyed the black marble floor between here and there. Not a creature was stirring, not even the proverbial mouse. Or tarantula. Or cat.

“How’d you know where to look, really?” Mariah asked. She wanted an answer.

“Oh, maybe I was ready for a taste of faux sugar myself.”

“It’s fructose. Real fruit sugar. That’s better than added sugars or even artificial ones.”

Temple boosted herself up on the kitchen island beside Mariah. The black granite’s chill seeped through her thin cotton T-shirt.

“I’m sorry I was crabby,” Mariah said.

“That’s all right, kid. I get crabby too.” She leaned into Mariah’s ear. “You’ll be even crabbier when you know that someone used up your whole bottle of nail polish writing nasty notes on our bathroom mirror.”

“No!” Mariah looked around, her soft young features squinching into suspicion, and annoyance. “This place is getting off the wall. The show’s gonna be ruined.”

“Unless the Teen Queen slant was a front from the first, and the show was always intended to be an updated game of Clue.”

“What’s Clue?”

“Let’s shuffle off down the hall again. I think that’s safer than talking here. And we sure don’t want to steam up our bathroom mirror again.”

“Why not?” Mariah jumped down and actually held a hand out to help old Temple make the same leap.

“Evidence,” Temple whispered against her ear again.

She had a feeling the location of this last prank would merit some serious, and open, police involvement. And probably the presence of the one person that the two of them least wanted to see here: Mama Molina.

They sat up the rest of the night, leaning against the foot of the giant bed while Temple explained the game of Clue to Mariah, and Mariah explained current teen hotties to Temple.

All of their dialogue was suitable for public replay. Breakfast was served at seven, just like at camp. So once Mariah had been escorted to the ‘tween dining area, which was ashriek with excited girls having so little to chew on that they were chewing on each other, Temple headed for the Teen Team offices.

“Oh, Beth, thank God you’re here.”

The bustling, plump woman paused in pawing through an open file drawer.

No wonder. That had definitely not been a Xoe Chloe opening line.

“Why, Zoo-ey, what are you doing here, dear? You’re supposed to be at breakfast right now.”

“I kinda lost my appetite. Got a stomach full of red nail polish last night.”

“You … you drank some red nail polish! Oh, I knew you looked like a paint sniffer. This means expulsion.”

“Hold on to your granny panties, lady. The nail polish was the writing on the mirror in Mariah’s and my bathroom. Like the hot foam jobs on the yo-yo yoga mats in the patio area the other day.”

“Writing? Like—?”

“Like handwriting? Like graffiti. You know, nasty messages in public places. Only our bathroom is private. I thought.”

“I must see it … we must see it. At once.”

“Then you’ll call the cops.”

“The police? Oh, no.” Beth Marble paled, if that were possible for one so wan. “The producers don’t want them here.”

“Gonna be hard to keep them away. Better if you play Sally Citizen and call them before they call on you. Cops get agitated about the littlest things.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I’m a little thing, right?” Xoe Chloe spun to indicate her punk but petite form.

“The police.” Beth Marble imitated her last name and plunked down into her chair as if the weight of Michelangelo’s David had suddenly descended on her from above. “Dexter will be so disagreeable about that.”

“What’s new? Besides, he doesn’t run the show. You do. Don’t you?”

“Yes. I’m head coach. The show was my idea. But Dexter’s the star.”

“I thought all of us mini-teen wonders were the stars in the making.”

“You’re not the draw. No one knows you. As the show unfolds, yes, they’ll get to know the candidates and like or”—she glanced significantly at Xoe Chloe—“dislike them. And then they’ll vote for the winner. But Dexter has the right to discount an audience winner at the last moment. The final decision is his. He’s the star maker. Thus, he’s the star.”

“Thus. You learn that in Latin class forty years ago, lady? So. Dexter has audience veto power. I wonder what an enterprising girl has to do to get ole Dexter’s vote. Sleep with him?”

“No!” Aghast. “You’re almost all minors. That’s unthinkable. Such a thing would never happen.”

“Happens all the time in the halls of junior and senior high schools. Read the paper.”

Beth frowned sternly. “Not here. We have cameras all over the place. Any hanky-panky would be recorded.”

“All the better to titillate the viewers, eh? Then you must have our bathroom action on tape. Whoever wrote the hate note would have been sneaky, and pretty good at it. But no one could write in the dark, especially with something as thick and quick to run out as nail polish. It took a whole bottle, which means it took some time.”

“We aren’t allowed to record in the bathrooms, young lady.”

“What about alerting the police?”

“Oh, I don’t think we need to involve them in these malicious little pranks.”

“Do you mean that ‘these malicious little pranks’ are part of the show script?”

“We are unscripted!” Indignantly said.

“No. No, you’re not. Somebody’s pretty good at writing in a lot of ‘unauthorized’ scenes. If you figure out how my roomie and I are going to get a decent night’s sleep after this, send us a memo. Just don’t leave it unsigned on our pillowcases. We need our beauty rest, you know.”

Chapter 27

Midnight Assignation

It was during the Night of the Living Lipstick (okay, it was nail polish but that does not sound as good) that I decided I must take what they call “a proactive role” in the proceedings.

I, of course, had remained cleverly concealed, listening in with my awesome radial antennae (i.e., pointed little ears) when my Miss Temple and little Miss Mariah discussed the defacement of their bathroom mirror.