Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

“Yes.” The voice was so sudden and stern that Temple momentarily couldn’t decide how to begin. She wasn’t used to being barked at.

While she hesitated, Molina’s voice came back on the line even more demanding. “Who is this?”

“Ah, Xoe.”

“Xoe?” Apparently, her alter ego hadn’t made an impression on Molina. So much for a chance with the judges.

“Right. I’ve found some fascinating papers in the dead dietitian’s office. You should have them right away.”

“You.” Molina actually sounded glad about that. “What papers?”

“A lawsuit involving Mrs. Klein several years ago.”

“We know about that. My detectives did a background check and it came up. So you woke me up for that?”

“And a scrap of paper dated last February fourteenth. It sounds threatening. It apparently was torn off the contents of a folder as it was being taken out. Someone didn’t notice.”

“Valentine’s Day hate note, eh? That sounds more promising. No nice and neat signature, like ‘Your Killer,’ I suppose?”

Temple didn’t bother answering that bit of sarcasm. “What were you doing in the woman’s office anyway? That’s still a crime scene.”

“I am, therefore, I snoop. I thought that’s what I was here for.”

“You’re here to keep an eye on Mariah. Where was she while you were on this law-breaking expedition?”

“Urn, in our room, studying some papers and snacking on carrot sticks.”

“Carrot sticks! Commendable if out of character. I suppose your prints are all over that office now.”

“No. I used a pair of latex gloves, just like the pros.”

“Where’d you get—” _

“They dyed my hair as part of the makeover but had their own gloves. And I never throw anything away, so …”

“They dyed your hair? All of it?”

“This is a makeover show.”

“What have they done to Mariah?”

“Nothing. Yet. Except make her work out and eat veggies.”

“Don’t let them dye her hair.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“So you wore hair-dye gloves to search the office. Unbelievable.”

“And the paper scrap is in a plastic baggie fresh from Mrs. Klein’s office refrigerator. I had to throw out some guck to get an empty baggie.”

“That’s all right. Our crime scene people have already taken samples of everything in there for analysis.”

“So how do we exchange the evidence.”

“‘We’ do not. I’ll send Alch over in the morning. You know him, Mariah knows him, and one of you two should be able to pass him a baggie without undue attention.”

“We’ve got a window of opportunity between 8:15 and 8:30.”

“That early? I’ll have to call Morrie tonight yet.”

“This is beauty boot camp, you know. No laggards here.”

“Except the dead.”

Speaking of which, the line went dead.

Temple was slow in folding away her cell phone. Molina had sounded really growly when she’d first answered the phone, before she even knew it was Temple. Suspicious and growly. And something else. Temple called upon her theatrical background to conjure just the right word to describe the other note in the lieutenant’s usual gruff and businesslike tone. Anxious, maybe? No. Scared.

Temple shut off the water and pulled down the washcloths. She was hanging so many napkins and towels around suspected camera sites she felt like a laundress.

In the bedroom, all the lights were blazing but Mariah had tunneled completely under the covers and was lost in sudden, absolute adolescent sleep, her rear end humped up to make an island in the pink silk sea of coverlet.

Temple went over to the table to inspect the papers that had put Mariah to sleep. The only sexy one was the torn scrap of threat. And something about that bothered Temple.

She sat down at Mariah’s abandoned chair and read theterse words. “Murderous bitch” was pretty damning. And “incompetent.” But the last words were strange … “on national TV.” Thing is, Kit hadn’t been selected for the show until a month ago. Reality TV shows moved fast. They had very little budget, just a quick casting call to the public at large, assembling a panel of experts, scouting a ready-made site.

From what Kit had said, why would Marjory Klein have known about the show over three months ago? Because the note-writer was taunting her about appearing on it, was maybe stirred up by it. Was trying to scare her. And who took the folder out that had contained that letter? Someone who knew Marjory and her anal-retentive ways.

Someone who was announcing that he or she was aware of Marjory’s every move scarily soon. A stalker. Maybe that’s why Marjory brought the lawsuit papers with her. She didn’t trust them left at home. Or she wanted to leave a clue in case anything had happened. Like the threatening note. Only the killer had taken the note. Or most of it. So the note had to be incriminating.

Temple read it again. Looked over the suit document. The case had been filed in Salt Lake City. In the wrongful death of the late Chastity Cummings. The name seemed familiar, but Temple had heard so many new names here at the Teen Queen Castle. Including her own pseudonym.

She pulled out the large white papers Mariah had been reading like a fractured fairytale. Newspaper clippings never presented the cleanest timeline. News reporting was staccato, it hit the highlights of action, not thought. Arrested. Makes bond. Autopsy results announced. Vanished. Anniversary of murder story. Wacky detective takes up case eight years later. Vanishes like the suspect, Arthur Dickson. House on the market. Doesn’t sell. Becomes private casino. Another anniversary story speculating on who actually did it. Noting how long the dead have been that way.

Finally, it’s a twenty-year anniversary. MURDER STILL PUZZLES OFFICIALS. Arthur Dickson is still at large and missing. His bimbo ex-wife can’t be found. Her younger ex-boyfriend is a Hollywood stuntman who worked on Waterworld before his career sank. The wounded daughter? Died in an Oregon nursing home years before.

Temple paged through the copies of the twenty-year-old photos.

It was like a Greek tragedy: rich, older man; young wife with young daughter. Wedding. Spending. Publicity. That was the public part. The private? Drinking. Fighting. Divorcing. Money. Rage. Murder going ballistic one night. A mysterious masked intruder with a gun. Innocents wounded. The wife wounded but alive. The husband with an alibi just possible enough to ensure reasonable doubt. Still, he breaks bail and runs. Never to be found again. Everybody else left behind to start new lives or cope with what remained of the old.

Temple stared at the old photos under the weak overhead lights they put in every bedroom, except maybe in expensive whorehouses.

What if the house was not a reality show set because it was grand and vacant and notorious? What if the chicken came before the egg?

She studied the photos again. Hey, this ploy had worked for Xoe Chloe, the undercover Teen Queen candidate with an agenda. Why wouldn’t it have worked for someone else? A murderer?

Her forefinger speared one face in one photo, subtracting the negative, accentuating the positive past connection. Yes. Clever and chilling.

She quickly grabbed a hot pink folder, either hers or Mariah’s, and doublechecked the morning schedule.

If she worked it right, she should be able to hand Marjory Klein’s killer over to Detective Alch along with the borrowed baggie Molina had openly discounted.

How sweet it is …

Chapter 49

Conscentual Adults

Miss Midnight Louise and I rendezvous in the kitchen at twelve o’clock high, a very appropriate time.

Miss Louise is rude enough to suggest that the kitchen has become our favored rendezvous point because I have an eating disorder.