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Molina started shuffling papers on her desk like a madwoman.

Finally, she pulled one out and leaned back in her chair. “Tiffany Cummings.”

“No, that wasn’t the daughter’s name. The articles said she was called Chastity.”

“Tiffany Cummings was the name of the seventeenyear-old who was accosted in the mall parking lot during the Teen Queen tryouts and stabbed to death with a screwdriver.”

“Ouch.” Temple was stunned into silence. She kept quiet to think. For once, she and Molina were in perfect sync.

The notion of two young girls with their lives ruined and cut short so violently was appalling. Had Chastity survived just long enough to bear a daughter? Maybe postpartum depression had pushed her into anorexia. And maybe Tiffany was Crystal Cummings’s granddaughter. A far fresher motive for a killing.

“We haven’t traced any relatives to the parking lot vic. If she wasn’t a runaway, she lived a gypsy life.”

Finally Temple spoke. “If Tiffany Cummings was the first victim, Marjory Klein was the second victim, and Crystal Cummings masquerading as Beth Marble was the third—?” She fell silent. “I’ve got a headache.”

“It’s probably an allergic reaction to bleach. That dye job of yours is unreal.”

“That was the idea, wasn’t it? Just like the reality show was supposed to be unreal. Only it had ended up being a shadow of the Dickson house murders twenty years ago. If Crystal, aka ‘Beth,’ killed Marjory, who killed her? And why?”

“That’s a very far-out theory of yours. We’ll have to do a lot of checking to prove the entwined threads in this tangled web. Meanwhile—” Molina stood, towering like the Palms hotel. “You can go back.”

“I’m disgraced. I was taken away by the police.”

“That should only burnish Xoe Chloe’s sorry reputation. Look. I don’t want Mariah alone in that mess, and you do seem to have some sort of whacked-out handle on things. Finish out the assignment and Max Kinsella is all yours, off my usual suspects list forever.”

“He already is all mine.”

“Maybe.” Molina’s electric blue glance met and held Temple’s a trifle too long.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that nothing’s certain in this world but death and taxes. Taxes I leave to accountants. Death is my beat. Magicians are one step behind the Grim Reaper when it comes to surprise appearances. I wouldn’t count on them. Not a one of ‘em. Especially that one. Deceiving the public can become an addiction that leaks over into a private life. That’s all.”

“Cops can’t always be counted on either,” Temple said.

Whether Molina got the reference to her ex, Rafi Nadir, or not, Temple left the office feeling she’d gotten a little of her own back.

But not nearly enough.

Chapter 52

Dress for Success

Temple finally understood Fonzie’s appeal when she returned to the Teen Queen Castle.

The Fonz was the black-leather-jacketed “hood” on the Happy Days sitcom hit set in the fifties. The Bad Boy.

Xoe Chloe Ozone returned free and triumphant to the Castle.

Being taken away by the police, and released to return, made her a model of Teflon charisma.

Eyebrows may have raised but they’d been lifted by botox or Dr. Perricone formulations anyway. Xoe Chloe was cool. Nobody could tie her down.

Except maybe makeover madness.

“Where have you been?” Vanetta, who’d obviously had her head in her makeup case all day, asked frantically when Xoe appeared. “We’re pulling wardrobe for the makeover debut and talent review. All the good stuff could be gone by now.”

“That’s all right. I’ll take the bad stuff that’s left over.”

Temple could not believe that with two rooms taped off as crime scenes, the show would go on. But apparently it was good to go, for reasons best known to Molina and Co.

Somebody shrieked at seeing her. A fireball rushed down the corridor and embraced her like an upright lobster.

“Mariah?” Temple had to detangle from the hyper teen to see her.

Whoa! The makeover team had been busy during Temple’s unhappy interview with the maternal unit.

Mariah’s shiny brunette bob with bangs (so reminiscent of her mother’s unfussy do) had been … well, further bobbed. And cut. And streaked. With—what else?—blonde.

It was still mostly brunette, though styled into one of those raggedly cheerful upflips so popular now. Oddly enough, the waifish cut emphasized Mariah’s blackberry-dark eyes and even some surfacing cheekbones, thanks to a diet of beans and veggies.

“You look very cool,” Temple told her.

Then she was yanked away into the adjoining library, which was filled with racks of clothing.

Kit Carlson came rushing to greet her, looking relieved. “I’ve saved some outfits for you.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Temple began. But when she glimpsed the goulash of lime green ostrich feathers, sixties Op Art prints, and leopard skin draping Kit’s arm, Temple knew Xoe Chloe had found her fashion muse.

Kit leaned close to whisper, “I wasn’t wardrobe mistress for my high school production of Hair for nothing.”

While Temple tried on various combinations of hip-huggers and chunky jewelry that would have made rock-star chicks look as staid as Laura Bush, Kit brought her up to date on the mood inside the Teen Queen Castle.

“The police are on us all like a cheap suit—that Detective Alch is sure kind of Columbo-cute—and the camera crew is eating it up. Our show has morphed into a combo of Cops and Survivor

“Everyone said you were a murderer when the police took you away, so the producers have been madly assembling clips of every inch of footage on you for a special Xoe Chloe memorial montage. You are a star, kiddo! Clay Aiken has nothing on you.

“The Clairol horde were thrilled at your exit and are so terminally pissed at your triumphal return that I notice they’re shedding brittle hairs like a miffed alpaca. Negative emotions are so bad for one’s looks.

“Mariah is feeling supergirly about her transformation but she missed showing off for you, Big Sis.

“Savannah Ashleigh’s glowery bodyguard, that Heathcliffy Rafi-guy, has been patrolling the halls and snooping around like a cop on the beat, way beyond his blonde bimbo duties.

“So has that black alley cat mascot that showed up. He looks a lot like your Louie, but surely he’s safe at home and I suppose all black cats look alike. Does that old gigolo have a harem, or what? There are these white and yellow Persians with him.”

Temple finally got a word in edgewise. “That is indeed Louie. He’s doing some investigative legwork for me. And we say ‘silver’ and ‘golden’ in the Persian game.”

“Well, la-di-dah. The fluffy black one must be an `ebony,’ then.”

“She’s not a Persian, just a long-haired American domestic. They call her Louise now, but I don’t think she’s Louie’s girlfriend; she’s way too independent.”

“Well, call me a short-haired American domestic.

Does madame find favor with her wardrobe selections?”

“They rock, Kit! And so do you. Thanks a gadzillion!”

“Only if I make it on The Apprentice with Donald ‘Mr.

Comb-over’ Trump next. With my luck, I’d have ended up on The Benefactor with that cheapo Mark Cuban sports nut.”

“May the Force be with you.” They slapped palms, then Temple gathered up her garish armful and fled.

Mariah ambushed her again in the hall. “I need you to check out my performance outfit.”

“In the bathroom, no doubt.”

“Where else?”

They returned to the room, and Temple found she’d been oddly homesick for it.

Steam heat was less welcome. Bleached blonde hair had a tendency to frizz, but Ken Adair had handed her an arsenal of moisturizers, softeners, and conditioners for its upkeep. Being a blonde was hard work, but Xoe Chloe remade (and still reasonably disguised) was worth it.