As Matt leaped over the four steps onto the dance floor, Temple levied Zoe Chloe to her feet in the greenroom. This dance celebrated killer moves. This dance contest was haunted by could-be lethal incidents.
Wandawoman, slathered in black lace that disguised her less-than-hourglass bulk, a black widow spider corseted in a lacy web, lifted her head to eye her partner.
Well, he sure wasn’t one bit blond, Temple thought.
A skull-clinging scarlet scarf covered his forehead above a wig of dangling black dreadlocks twisted with bits of gold chain and stiff quills reminiscent of the crown of lances on a bull’s high humped back. He had a black mustache and the requisite Hollywood fringe of beard along his jawline, emphasizing its strength. His eyes were contact-lens jet-black and surrounded by smoky liner, à la the sexy sheik of silent 1920s films, Rudolph Valentino, or that latter-day reincarnation and sterling metrosexual sex symbol, Captain Jack Sparrow, courtesy of Johnny Depp. Mediawise, it didn’t get much better than this. Olé to the costume and makeup folks.
His boot-cut trousers, tight as black molasses above the knee and flaring dramatically below, had side seams of gold coins that clicked like a rattler’s tail at every dramatic stomp of the Cuban-heeled boots.
The audience leaped to their feet, cheering just the transformation already.
Too Hot to Handle
Poor, poor Mr. Matt Devine.
I understand why my Miss Temple has a hard time concealing her anxiety for the end of this pasodoble episode of Dancing With the Celebs.
I have drawn midnight dance duty myself, and well remember having to deal with honeys in heat who outweighed me by a third. Females of my species can be quite a handful any day of the month. When they are in heat, they literally can be too hot to handle.
These celebrity human females have already demonstrated their flair for temperament in the tabloids. I would hate to have to lead them around the floor, gazing hotly into their eyes and bumping intimate body parts right and left.
But this does not matter. I am too short for the job anyway. The job I am not too short for is keeping an eagle eye on the dance floor. If the judges really wanted to know the scoop on fancy footwork, I could consult on this in a heart beat. In fact, my four-onthe-floor pick up the vibrations of a whole lot of stomping going on, particularly in this fiery Spanish dance with Cuban heels on the guys and the usual spike heels on the gals.
I almost do not recognize Mr. Matt. The wizards of the dressing rooms have even further darkened any of his skin that shows: face, hands, and the deep open-front V of his white, long-sleeved, clinging, semitransparent shirt. I do not understand the need or purpose of a semitransparent shirt. Apparently the females in the audience do, for they had become quite rowdy just on his entrance on stage.
The theme du dance here is Spanish gypsy. Mr. Matt’s golden hair is hidden by a gaudy scarf from forehead to nape of neck, where it is tied, and from which a brunet ponytail hangs. He now has black eyebrows and (ghastly vintage fashion!) long sideburns. He looks quite the different fellow.
Nor is Miss Wandawoman recognizable. Her dishwater blond hair is now a tangled mass of raven-black. I cannot fault this judgment call to multiply her locks: when it comes to hair color, black is beautiful. Miss Wandawoman wears much gold dangly jewelry. I much prefer the simple large hoop Mr. Matt sports in one ear.
Her gown is backless and hipless on one side, held up only by flesh-colored elastics my sharp eyes detect. A wide black satin ruffle runs from one shoulder across her body, back and front to the opposite hip. It would resemble the sashes that beauty queens wear, except there is almost no gown under hers, and the sash is ruffled, like her full skirts.
All and all, I must admit they look the parts.
When the music starts, they assume the taut upright poses, one arm flung high, heads haughtily erect, as if sniffing skunk.
Stomp! They are stalking across the floor eyeing each other like mortal enemies, he down on one knee to swirl her around him like a ruffled cape. He rises to seize her for a pair of matched close steps, then swings her aside, thrown away. She circles around to cling as their profiles nearly touch while they glare fiercely.
And so it goes. The audience is whistling and stomping and clapping and hooting, so I suppose this folderol is passing as pasodoble mastery. Much ado about nothing much, think I.
He twirls her tight to one side, spinning her away and then close again. She is leaning hard into him, and when he steps away to give her his back (this is not a polite dance), she slides slowly down his leg.
The audience is shrieking with delight. People here have very high auditory pain thresholds.
He reaches down, twirls her on the floor in a spectacular spin as she executes a full split, and then pulls her prone body through his wide-legged stance to slide halfway across the stage.
The audience is on its feet at this spectacular move, drowning out the sound of the music’s final flourish as Mr. Matt strikes a victorious pose beside his partner and then bends to mime one of those frozen passionate lip locks that end dances around here, despite seeming to be a serious contradiction in impulses. Passion is not usually a freezing and posing matter, I would think.
Her supposed-to-be-proud neck bobbles onto her shoulder. Her legs remain splayed and inert, not moving to assist gracefully in her own resurrection for a bow.
While everyone there on two legs freezes in position, possibly passionate, I am there like a bullwhip on a horsefly, sniffing at her mouth and nose. I smell scented lipstick, metal and sweat, and nothing telltale. I think I feel the slightest stir of breath.
And then I am near trampled as the tardy security detail surrounds Mr. Matt and his partner, who will be taking no bows and getting no judges’ ratings tonight.
Postmortem on
a Pasodoble
Temple raced from the greenroom to the stage, only to have Crawford slap the mike in her hand as she headed for the clot of security uniforms that surrounded Matt.
“We’re off-air for two minutes, ZC,” he said. “Get ready to bring on the kids waiting in the wings. I’m out of here. I’m going on my radio station live on the latest Dancing With the Celebs mishap. This has become the most suspenseful reality TV nightly gig in history. Audience numbers are skyrocketing. I’m off to do a national pickup on the ‘cursed celebrity hoofers’ story. See you tomorrow night. Ta-ta.”
Temple stopped on a dime, not willing to be Zoe Chloe to the rescue again.
Then she spotted Rafi directing his troops and Matt carting an unconscious Wandawoman offstage amid a circle of security uniforms. Not to mention Dirty Larry following them with a video camera in hand.
She was stuck announcing the final acts: Sou-Sou’s “special, secret” makeup solo dance and Patrisha and Brandon’s jive. It meant the world to these kids.
So she heard her amplified Zoe Chloe voice tap dancing through some nonsense patter. What caught her attention was Sou-Sou’s costume for her jazz ballet solo.
She came out as “Baby Phat” Barbie, all in hot pink with spandex thigh-high spike-heeled boots, skimpy miniskirt and halter top, with flowing hair and chunky earrings, slinging around a stuffed purse pooch on a leash as she pranced and posed.
Temple could only gape in horror. Sou-Sou’s “secret” routine was as a Barbie doll, with the possibility that the Barbie Doll Killer was in town?
The ninety-second routine seemed to take a year, as did the judges’ warm comments to the little girl.
Only the sight of Patrisha beaming hopefully from the wings with Brandon right behind her wound Zoe Chloe up again. She was beginning to feel like a Barbie doll herself and was relieved to see Molina waiting to pounce on Sou-Sou as soon as she left the stage, the girl’s mother in tow with Dirty Larry behind her. Temple would love to eavesdrop on that quartet, but couldn’t desert her post.
The judges looked dazed too, but Patrisha and her Hermanos brother gamely poured their energy into the lively jive dance, distracting the audience w
ith their show-must-go-on verve.
Lousy Crawford didn’t bother to show up again for the closing, as advertised, so Zoe Chloe winged that one, so torn between concern for Wandawoman, Matt, and Sou-Sou that the usual spirited ZC babble must have been incoherent.
As the cameras blinked off and drew back, people pounded her on the shoulders as if thinking she needed to start breathing again, saying what a “fab” job she’d done. One of them was Danny Dove, who extracted her from the judges and the scrambling tech people and guided her through the noise and lights to a relatively quiet hallway.
“Matt’s fine,” he said. “He handed Wandawoman over to security and the EMTs. She was breathing and en route to the hospital. They’re getting tape of the routine from all the covering media as soon as possible and want to go over it with Matt. Apparently the costume young Sou-Sou wore has really riled up the undercover police people. You okay?”
“Incoherence never killed anyone. Wandawoman?”
“The theory is drugs. Probably not voluntary. We’ve got two dance nights to go. We need to stop this dirty trick stuff, but the producer’s in love with the numbers and the police are even more gung ho about using the competition to nail the trickster and they’re particularly revved by Sou-Sou’s nauseously Barbie outfit.” Danny’s worry-wrinkled face softened. “The judges have decided to view their pasodoble again privately, if Wandawoman recovers, and rate it uninterrupted. It was killer, Temple. Matt was out-Joséing José.”
“I think winning this thing is the last of his worries.”
“Maybe. But he was in it to win it, and he still could. And he knows it.” Danny grinned at her. “I admit his paso knocked me out. I’m damn impressed. Heart is always the key to dance.”
“And everything.”
“And everything.” Danny hugged her. “I think that interesting two-person ‘posse’ of Zoe Chloe’s wants to see her ASAP.”
“Danny, they’re—”
“Enough already.” His voice went Humphrey Bogart. “I recognized the dame the minute I saw her.” He knew Carmina was Molina.
“I want to see Matt.”
“The security people are having him go over all the recordings of the routine. I’d save the best till last.”
A Perfect Barbie Doll
Molina watched the walking Barbie doll bounce offstage toward the wings, not at all subdued by the anxious ending to the final adult dance, the egocentric glee of youth personified. She needed to get back to deal with the major mishap situation, but knew Rafi would be on it, a surprisingly soothing idea.
Meanwhile, she had to find out how a living Barbie doll had ended up center stage at the kind of event that drew a stalker who was leaving a wide swath.
“That went over great,” Sou-Sou bubbled at her, jiggling with teen hyperactivity. “My makeup number and costume was even cooler than the first one. Did you see it? Did you?”
Molina nodded, not to Sou-Sou but to Dirty Larry, whose firm grip held Sou-Sou’s mother in check from the same theatrics as her daughter.
Scattered metal folding chairs for waiting performers caught Molina’s eye.
“Let’s all sit a bit and talk,” she suggested.
Dirty Larry started rounding up chairs and seating Smiths on them.
“You’re with Ms. Ozone’s manager,” Mrs. Smith realized. “Oh, my Sou-Sou is an up-and-coming client for you. That Ozone girl is getting too old.”
“I’m her manager’s assistant, but this is Officer Podesta of the Las Vegas police. I’m helping ask some questions. How did Sou-Sou happen to wear a Barbie doll getup?”
“Well,” Mrs. Smith seesawed her ample behind into place on the skimpy metal seat. “That was my idea. I act as her manager. Glad you liked it. Barbie is an icon, and that’s what I want Sou-Sou to become. I even had some Polaroids taken before her entrance, if you want to see them—” She reached into her garish yellow purse.
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Smith,” Larry said. “What I need to know is why you dressed Sou-Sou that way? Anything trigger the idea?”
“Nooo.” She set her purse on the floor. “I’m just creative. Maybe I saw something in the paper about Barbie dolls being found at shopping malls, but it doesn’t take much to stimulate my brain.”
“Those Barbie dolls found that way might be calling cards for a predatory killer of young girls, ma’am,” Larry said. “You couldn’t have done a better job than we would in setting your daughter up as a decoy.”
“Oh. Oh!”
Sou-Sou’s eyes were pie-plate round.
“Better get that outfit off of her pretty quick,” Molina told the mother. “These dirty tricks are no joke, and your daughter is already the victim of one.”
“You mean,” Mrs. Smith asked, “a killer could be loose?”
Before either Molina or Larry could answer, a strange metal trolling sound came into their midst.
Everyone glanced at the black-painted stage floor. A small metal canister with a red cap was wobbling among their circled feet. A large black cat had joined their circle, one paw still lifted like a golfer holding up his club while waiting to see his shot land on the distant green.
The cat was positioned next to an open scarlet purse that now lay on its side, the contents spilling out, Polaroid photos, lipstick tube, nail file.
Larry bent to bag the rolling tube. “Pepper spray, Mrs. Smith? From your purse? We think that was used to doctor Sou-Sou’s shoes the other night. Another creative idea?”
“Oh.”
“Moth-er!” her daughter accused with a screech. “That hurt!”
“Lots of women carry pepper spray,” Mrs. Smith insisted, bending to stuff the items back into her purse.” She held out an imperious hand to Larry, open. Her fingers were trembling and Sou-Sou was standing, pouting rebelliously.
Molina nodded.
He slapped it into her waiting hand. “That was child endangerment, ma’am. I’ve got bigger game to track here but you try anything further like this and your daughter will be blackballed on the dance circuit. Now get her out of that Barbie outfit and burn it.”
The pair scuttled away, sounds of shrill recrimination echoing from the hall outside.
Molina looked around for the cat. It was gone. Of course.
“I’ve got to get back to the main event,” she told Larry. “Looks like this Barbie connection was just a coincidence.”
He nodded.
“I’m not certain your being here is one, though.”
“You mean where? Near the stage?” She was silent. “In the hotel, on this case? Yeah, I sorta assigned myself. I’m not useful?”
“Yes, you make yourself useful. Too useful. I’m not sure why and I’m thinking you don’t want me to know why. “
“You really don’t think a man would simply be attracted to you? You have lost yourself in your job, Carmen.”
“And you haven’t, undercover man?”
“I’m on leave from that.”
“Don’t fool me and you won’t fool yourself. You’re still working undercover and you’re using me to do it. I’m seeing things a lot more clearly now. Sometimes friends look like enemies and enemies like friends. Which one are you?”
He stepped close, his voice low and intense. “I’m your friend. Really I am. You don’t know how much.”
Was it a promise, or a threat? She didn’t know but she would, eventually.
“You showed up on the scene of the local Barbie doll killing, and here you are still today, pushing your way into my investigations. What? You want to make me or to make detective? Or something else?”
“You are so wrong.”
“Again? Is that the unsaid ending? I have been wrong and I may be wrong again, but right now I have a choice of dumping you or watching you, and I prefer the latter.”
Madness in His
Method Dancing
Twenty minutes later, Temple returned to the empty greenroom and picked up her tote bag, digging out her cell phone and dialing. Where
was Louie, anyway? Not playing a purse pussy anymore, that’s for sure.
“Yes?” Molina barked into her ear.
“Ah, Zoe here.”
“If you’ve quieted the natives, get up here. Your M&Ms are missing you.”
Click. Gone.
She hefted the tote bag over her shoulder. It suddenly felt very heavy, even without Louie, and she headed, not for the high-roller suite, but into the deserted rehearsal areas. The backstage dressing and rehearsal rooms were eerily empty, but muffled voices had her heading for the men’s dressing room.
Sure enough, some light spilled into the dim hall and a group of men sat hovering around a camcorder, looking and listening.
She recognized Rafi Nadir and one of his uniformed security lieutenants, Hank Buck. Dirty Larry held the camcorder while Matt told him when to pause. A couple more security guys stood by, arms folded.
“She seemed fine here,” Matt was saying. “Only at the end did she falter, and then it was like she went out cold in two seconds. I was already holding her up for the leg slide, still trying to save the routine, not realizing anything more than a misstep was wrong.”
He’d swept off the head scarf and false black lovelocks. With his highlighted blond hair showing against the intensified spray tan, he now resembled a surfer dude instead of a matador. Not a bad look, either.
“Are they going to alert you on her condition soon?” Matt asked.
“Soon,” Rafi said, “but the EMTs reported from the ambulance that it looks like a common sedative OD. Could be something she took for nerves.”
“A pro wrestler at a dance contest?” Matt asked incredulously.
“Not likely,” Rafi admitted with a smile. “Police procedure avoids jumping to any conclusions. Given the other incidents on stage here, it’d be safe to guess it’s not voluntary. You all drink water?”
Cat in a Topaz Tango Page 24
