Unknown - Cat_In_A_Midnight_Choir-spaces_ru

“White is the most practical color in this climate; reflects sunlight, keeps the interior cooler. And its high visibility makes it the safest color to drive. You’re less likely to blend into anything and get hit.”

“Oh, don’t sound like a spokesman for the automotive council. I know all that, but a car isn’t just a safety cradle. It should be fun.”

“I have the Hesketh Vampire for that,” Matt said.

“Which you hardly use. If it weren’t for my Elvismobile and that new red Miata I’ve spotted in the parking lot just recently, the Circle Ritz would have to be renamed the Circle Ho-hum.”

“The Miata is Temple’s,” Matt said, happy to divert Electra’s wide-ranging curiosity from his choice of vehicle color, which was a defensive move, not an option.

“Well, at least you know what she’s up to these days. Where on earth is Max?”

Matt was tempted to answer, “Out at Area fifty-one,” but refrained from paraphrasing Bob Dylan’s early landmark line “out on Highway 61.” Temple had assured him Highway 61 actually had been a major Minnesota highway to Dylan’s Iron Range hometown of Hibbing back in the ’60s. Like a lot of major fabled highways, including the iconic Highway 66, 61 was mostly history now.

And now was Matt’s turn to pump Electra. “You mean you haven’t seen Max around here? I’ve been so busy working nights and giving out-of-town talks that I didn’t realize he was doing another disappearing act.”

“I worry about Temple. She waited around months for him to show up once, and now she’s waiting around again.”

“Oh, Temple’s pretty resilient. I wouldn’t worry about her.”

Electra patted her short white hair, which was au naturelle today instead of being sprayed to match her floral-print muumuu. “Maybe you wouldn’t, but I would. It’s no fun waiting to see when a significant other is going to bow back into your life. That’s why I had to lose number three.”

“Husband number three?”

“Well, I’m not talking about gerbils.”

Matt blinked, because just then he had seen paired pinpoints of red flashing between Electra’s well-planted ankles. Did she have…rodents in the place?

“Do you keep gerbils?” he asked.

“No! And I didn’t keep husband number three either. Those kids were such a happy couple when they moved in here. I just hate to see that go the way of all relationships.”

“If all relationships deteriorate, Electra, it was just a matter of time.”

“Maybe, but I marry ’em in the Love Knot chapel downstairs and I like to think some of them do better than I did. You aren’t going to be in the market for a JP anytime soon, are you?”

“Me? No. I don’t exactly have a social life with my work hours.”

“Then get a different job.”

“I don’t see myself doing this radio shrink work forever, but —”

Electra leaned forward, hands fisted on her flowered knees, pewter eyes sharper than honed steel. “You never know, Matt. You never know when something will take life away just like that. Like a bolt of lightning. You don’t want to be so absorbed in making a living that you don’t live.”

Between her slightly swollen ankles, the baleful red eyes regarded him as intently as she did.

“What makes you think I’m in danger of losing anything?”

“We always do, as life goes on. And I hate to see you young people so absorbed in running to this obligation here and galloping to that event there. You’re just rushing your lives away.”

Matt relaxed into the canvas sling. Electra was only bemoaning the up-tempo pace of modern cell-phone, belt-beeper, jet-speed, overbooked life. She didn’t have any special insight into any of their lives, only that they seemed more isolated than her generation had.

And of course she had no idea of the secret waltz they were all doing to survive the fixed attention of one elusive psychopath.

He was glad that Electra was safe, then wondered if she was.

“I’ve still got time to worry about dating later,” he said, hoping that Kitty had bugged the penthouse too, and her jealous spleen had heard his landlady bemoaning his lack of social life.

Maybe it was Kitty’s eyes glowing ember-red beneath the sofa. Like a rat, she could probably gnaw her way in anywhere.

He excused himself, fought his way out of the chair, and left with one last glance at the innocuous cardboard tube in Electra’s entry hall.

He hoped Molina could get further with that sketch than they had.

Max called Temple at four in the afternoon, when her shoes were off, her bare feet were tucked under her on the office chair, and her computer screen was blank because she had run out of words. Or thoughts. Or energy.

“What’s up?” she asked, trying to sound upbeat.

“Short notice.”

“Is that some kind of sneaky personal slur?”

“Never. I was hoping you could dine with me tonight at the Crystal Phoenix.”

“The Phoenix, why?”

“Because all your grand remodeling plans are now open to the public.”

“How nice of you to remember.”

“It wasn’t hard. They made all the papers.”

“Well, six.”

“Including USA Today and the Washington Post.”

“They both happened to be planning a Vegas update travel story. The timing was right. How did you know about the Post?”

“Web search. ‘Crystal Phoenix. Fabulous show. Brilliant PR woman.’ Just type in the right key words and the Web will take you anywhere.”

“Just murmur the right words and I’ll go anywhere. How dressy?”

“Very.”

“Hmmm. We must be going to Nicky’s place at the top.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“It always is when you feel you can afford to appear in public.”

“Apparently my star has faded. I’m not in the world-wide demand I used to be.”

“That would be wonderful!”

“Wouldn’t it? Seven P.M. I’ll meet you in the lobby. Please don’t mistake a Fontana brother for me.”

“Max, I never thought of the resemblance before, but darned if you don’t make a natural — what would it be, thirteenth?”

“Unlucky number for dinner, so forget that.”

Temple did as she got ready for her evening out, trying to forget the depression that had dogged her since a certain lieutenant had slapped a certain plastic evidence bag onto her desktop.

She took a long, neck-high bubble bath.

She did her nails.

She threw shoes around on her closet floor, finally sitting down and trying them on one by one.

The new Crystal Phoenix attractions were a rousing success. She thought, What next? She had a kicky new car. She thought, Why care? Matt Devine had gotten both too close and too far in the last forty-eight hours. She thought, Who cares? A ring that had once been lost, now was found. She thought, What next? Why care?

“This girl has a depression,” she told a pair of purple leather high heels she had rejected and tossed back into the closet. Her whole life was like dressing for dinner: she didn’t know what she wanted, what would make her happy, or if anything would.

Once just knowing that Max dared to take her someplace public was a triumph. Once glimpsing that Matt wanted her was a thrill. Once worrying about where she lived, what she could afford to drive, who would pay her for freelance work was a concern, a worry, a set of circumstances to overcome.

Now she thought, Is that all there is? And could hear Peggy Lee’s world-weary voice sighing the same question to music.

Missing Link

After a nice long nap preceded by a concerted pedicure, I wake up with all my ruffled edges soothed, particularly my journey-roughened cuticles.

The place reeks with that absolute quiet that means you are the only living thing on the premises (except for assorted illegal aliens of the vermin variety).