I would like to see Miss Savannah down on her knees doling out the tidbits to the pink canvas carrier, for the Divine Yvette when in a mood is as likely to snap as to snarf.
However, I am out in the hall with her shaded golden sister, and Midnight Louie is not one to overlook an opportunity of any color or stripe.
“Since we are clearly not needed during the present crisis, we can take a stroll on the grounds and perhaps figure something out.”
“The grounds?”
“Yeah. Out by the pool. All the freak show people are huddling in the den trying to think up security ploys. It seems the producers threw a hissy fit at the idea of bringing the police in. Might close the show down. Luckily, my Miss Temple is already in place.”
“She is? Where?”
I feel a rush of pride for my little doll and her success at the undercover arts. The stunning Solange did meet her when we were all in the Big Apple last Christmas auditioning for the big come-on of an A La Cat contract. Unfortunately, murder-most-Noel put the whole commercial deal on the back burner.
Also, an unwanted delicate condition sidelined the Divine Yvette’s performing career for a few months, causing the sponsor to invoke the morals clause in her contract. Miss Savannah Ashleigh in turn leveled a wrongful paternity suit at moi. It is no wonder the Divine One is a bit high-strung. We all came out of that incident worse for wear but at least Miss Temple went to The People’s Court to prove me innocent as a lamb. Still, I do my best to avoid the instep-arching spikes of Miss Savannah’s footwear, as she would still like to nail me for daring to befriend Yvette.
“Where?” Solange interrupts my reverie, reminding me that past embarrassments should not upstage the presence of a lovely and unescorted lady with jade-green eyes.
“I am not at liberty to say but am glad to know that she is safely disguised. This looks to be a rough crowd.”
“Oh, it is.” Solange amiably follows me down the hall to the back areas of the mansion. “These girls all have such long claws, and they chitter and coo every time they see Yvette or me and try to pick us up and pet us. All that nasty hand and cuticle cream lotion on our freshly powdered coats.” She shudders delicately. “Our mistress can be distressingly dense at times, but she always wears cotton gloves when handling us.”
This strikes me as more than somewhat fastidious. “My Miss Temple does like to run her nails and fingers through my hair, but she is always gentle and I believe that her natural oils add sheen and polish to my coat.”
We have by now eeled through the kitchen door, aided by our collaborative doorwoman, the cook, who has taken quite a fancy to Solange.
“My mistress has no natural oils but she has rows and rows of unnatural ones she applies to various portions,” Solange reveals as we step into the shadow of the portico, then into the unfiltered sunlight. “My! Your coat is indeed as sleek as black satin. You could go to the Oscars and be a star on the red carpet.”
“Alas, our commercial endeavors are over, and I doubt they would have garnered us a nomination. The members of the Academy have certain prejudices, you know.”
We settle in the shade of a rattan lounge chair by the pool. It is like retiring to an airy pergola. Small slivers of sunlight pierce our retreat, creating entrancing patterns on Solange’s golden back.
“First the pool area,” I muse. “Then the exercise room. Does that suggest a pattern?”
“The prankster is striking at various areas of the house where pageant activities are scheduled.”
“Scheduled. That is exactly it. Each day here is laid out from hour to hour on schedules all the entrants and participants are following. Pretty easy to get one jump ahead of them.”
“Yet the shaving cream used in the pool area was ‘borrowed’ from the freebies in the girls’ lockers. That sounds like an impulsive move.”
I regard Solange’s sweet, contented Persian face with surprise. I had always thought of her as Yvette’s larger darker plumper sister but maybe she is to her sister Yvette as Mycroft Holmes is to Sherlock, bigger and brighter. She shows some talent in the problem-solving department I have never spotted in my Divine One’s makeup.
“And,” she adds, licking a fluffy mitt and applying it to an airy eyebrow hair, “the bad-boy toy in the exercise room would need to have been imported, which implies premeditation.”
“Say, you are no slacker in the logic department.”
“I owe it to my mistress’s elevated TV-viewing tastes. She is hooked on CSI.”
I spit. It is all I can do not to hiss in the presence of a lady. “That bogus show elevates the humble evidence technician, when it is us detectives who really do the fancy footwork and ferret out the answers.”
“Ferret! Do not mention that miserable creature. I had an unfortunate encounter with one of that kind.”
“I am not fond of ferrets either. They are sly and sneaky.”
“Exactly. If one were on the premises, I would know whom to suspect.”
“Wait a minute! One is on the premises. A human ferret. And we must not overlook the possibility that a human male on the show personally imported the overblown lady … and someone else appropriated it as an object of fear and disgust.”
Solange slaps her mitt back to the pavement. “I do not like crime solving. It requires thinking and rethinking, and I really should be in my room having my beauty rest. Except that Yvette is getting all the attention with her usual spoiled behavior.”
This small temper tantrum on Solange’s part reminds me of the intense competition between the Teen Queen candidates. All the hoopla and dirty tricks might only be Mean Girls in action.
One can never underestimate the human propensity for malice, spite, and mayhem.
I escort Solange back to her quarters but we are forced to duck into a doorway when we spot a man’s big black boot emerging through Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s door.
I am sorry to say that I recognize the rest of the man when I am able to see as high as his face, and give a low thrum of recognition.
“Ay, carumba!’”
“What is it, Louie?”
“Well put. Not so much a ‘who’ but a ‘what.’ We are regarding Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s worst nightmare and a serious fly in the ointment my Miss Temple will be none too pleased to see here either.”
“He is tall, dark, and grim looking but what other kind of monster can this man be, and why is he leaving my mistress’s quarters? Are she and Yvette all right?”
“I cannot reveal matters that I am confidentially informed about but that are hidden from the rest of the world. Let us just say that Mr. Rafi Nadir is bad news to everyone I know.”
Chapter 25
Close Encounters of the Weird Kind
Temple decided that Xoe Chloe would not be one to cower in her room at the sight of a dead life-size blowup doll. Even if it was bigger than she was.
So she began a tour of the strangely deserted mansion. Apparently, the other candidates were the sort to cower in their rooms at the sight of a dead blowup doll, even if they were all bigger than it was.
It had taken all her persuasive PR powers to convince Mariah to remain safely in their room. Unauthorized explorations through the pageant house could very well get the younger girl disqualified. She didn’t want to risk that, did she?
“What if you get thrown out?” Mariah asked passionately. (Girls her age were always passionate.) They spoke, as usual, under the cover of the thundering shower water.
Both she and Temple were getting Irish-soft skin from all this steaming, and were winning spontaneous compliments from Team Teen Queen for their “glowing” complexions. Subterfuge does have its pluses.
“They won’t throw me out,” Temple said. “This show needs a Bad Girl like Buffy the Vampire Slayer needed evil slayer Faith.”
“You watched Buffy: The Vampire Slayer?” Mariah’s voice broadcast new respect.
“Still watching reruns. So. If you recall, sometimes little sister Dawn couldn’t
come along. This is one of those times. And think how mad your mother would be if I got you tossed off the show, after all the trouble she went to seeing you had a partner in crime here on-site.”
“I can’t believe she let me come, with those creepy show posters turning up.”
“I can’t believe she made me come.”
Mariah gaped at her for a moment, her soft features looking absurdly fifth-grade for a second. “My mother tells you what to do too?”
“Sometimes. She’s da cops, you know.”
“I know.” Said with discouragement.
“That’s okay. We’ve got an inside track on what’s really going on.”
“Why are you doing this?” Mariah’s face suddenly showed an adult expression, half worry, and half hope.
“Your mom offered me my heart’s desire.”
“She can do that?”
“In my case. And … after I saw that defaced poster, I agreed that you needed a partner inside.”
“Yeah. That was creepy. I can’t believe she showed that to me.”
“I think she wanted you to see that she could treat you like an adult.”
“Really?” The word had ended on an adolescent squeal.
“Sometimes. If it’s important. But you’ve got a ways to go before you earn the right to be treated that way full time.”
Mariah grinned and leaned back against the sweating bathroom tile. Niagara Falls roared away into the bathtub, making it into a hot tub. “A long way. Like lying around here under the hidden cameras in the bedroom reading my pink Teen Queen folder while you pussyfoot around and have all the fun.”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“Okay.”
Temple smiled as she fronted down the hall, always aware of the cameras. Some maturity was creeping into Mariah, making her a heartbreaking blend of reliability and impossible imaginings. Teenagers had hot flashes too, Temple decided. Easy for her to say, caught as she was in the great long slog between maturation and menopause.
Meanwhile, she could play thirteen-going-on-twenty again and act out.
What struck her first was how tortuously this house was designed. It was an assemblage of separate wings joined by modern breezeways, with Mondrian-like windows inset here and there.
What struck her second was how difficult it would be to do mischief here, given all the hidden cameras. That meant the perp was either part of the production crew or had access to the camera installations.
Like a major hotel casino, the house would need some sort of central spy chamber where the images from all the cameras unreeled. Where someone watched and recorded. Several someones. Most likely the technicians and producers but perhaps also someone with a more sinister purpose.
Temple was thinking about who this Sinister Someone could be so hard she turned the corner into the den area of the house and ran right into someone coming the other way: face-to-face and, ick, belly-to-belly, as in the oldie “Zombie Jamboree” song.
Double ick!! Rocketing Rollerblades! Where were Lexan bullet-proof shields when a girl needed them?
She had ended up cheek by jowl with the diminutive Crawford Buchanan!
Temple disengaged as fast as Xoe Chloe’s size fives could manage it.
“Hey, little lady!” He reached out to steady her from the impact.
He should be so lucky.
“Chill, dude.”
Temple skated away from him on the smooth marble floor despite having no Rollerblades beneath her feet at the moment. She could still move like a street skater. (In fact, her four older brothers had taught her to waltz on Minnesota concrete years ago. Without knee or elbow pads. You never knew what you would be grateful for, thanks to obnoxious older brothers, years later.)
“You’re quite the spunky little dark horse,” he said.
“Just send me a ticket to the Belmont Stakes,” she rejoined.
“All this ugly hullabaloo and here you are, out and about like a Dead End Kid.”
“A dead what?”
“Guess you’re way too young to remember that old film stuff. I’d like to do an interview with you. Crawford Buchanan, media personality. I’m embedded here for KREP-AM radio.”
“Embedded? Dude, that sounds sooo sleazy.”
What a ferrety little weasel! Or was that piling on animal comparisons? No doubt, Temple knew she’d like ferrets and weasels a lot better than Awful Crawford. What a phony, with his cultivated basso that rumbled like gang warfare and his salon-styled hair that reflected every trendy fashion. She couldn’t believe the new gold highlights in its already dramatic black-and-silver tones, courtesy of Mother Nature.
The highlights reminded her of Matt Devine, who was so much more worthy of bumping into than Crawford Buchanan. She wondered what he was doing in Chicago on his vacation. Would he ever believe … ? No, and he’d certainly never approve of doing such a wild and crazy thing, this dangerous masquerade, all for the sake of Max Kinsella.
Or was it?
“So, kiddo.” Crawford was waxing oily again. “The old place is pretty spooky now that someone’s leaving funny valentines all over it.”
He’d immediately snapped her attention back to the here and now.
“What did you call it?” she asked, struck by his phrase. “This harassment?”
“Funny valentines. You know, the fluffy cream on the hot pink yoga mats. The … strawberry syrup spray on the, uh, balloon lady in the workout room. It’s all a joke.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be here to rescue you and record it all for KREP.”
Hmmm. Another hanger-on, another motive. Maybe Crawford needed to bolster poor drive-time numbers. These flashy incidents could do it.
“I don’t listen to those middle-of-the-road stations, man,” Xoe sneered in answer.
“I’m not middle-of-the-road—” he replied, frowning.
“No, just road kill. Scram, old geek, or I’ll run my spikes right through you.”
Temple fanned out her claws and pushed past him into the empty den. She breathed out her relief when he didn’t follow her in. How odd to think of everyone hunkered down in their rooms for safety’s sake … when they were all being spied upon and recorded 24/7.
This whole setup was a voyeur’s dream, she realized. Not the vague, general voyeuristic public instinct that supported reality TV but an honest-to-God, freaky, perverted voyeur of the old school.
The den was eerily deserted. Three large plasma TVs were blank gray screens on the wood-paneled walls, looking like modern art frames someone had forgotten to put the pictures in.
The many oversize white leather ottomans that the candidates had lolled upon in teen preening positions were empty now, and resembled giant poisonous mushrooms sprouting from the exotic wood-inlay floor.
The vast room was so dim and deserted that Temple braced herself for spotting another doll-like corpse, however ersatz.
But she was the only girl in residence.
Though not quite the only resident.
A figure stood, rising from one of the huge paired wing chairs near the see-through fireplace that served both the den and dining room.
It was tall, dark, and … familiar.
It leaned over to turn on a nearby torchère, casting light upward that defused before it reached the twenty-foot ceiling.
Cheese it, the cops! Cop, singular. Very singular.
And not Molina.
In fact, the anti-Molina.
Rafi Nadir, attired in casual black, like Max, but much less expensively than Max, came toward her.
She stood paralyzed. He’d already seen through one half-hearted disguise of hers. Would he detect this much more thorough one just as fast?
He looked leaner and meaner than his usual bloated, discontented self. He looked serious.
“What are you doing roaming around this place?” he asked.
Fight or flight? Rafi wasn’t going to go away. Might as well find out now whether she could fool
him or not. If not, maybe she’d have an ally inside. But, for now, undercover was her best option.
Temple/Xoe snapped her gum, then mumbled around it, “I’m a contestant. This is supposed to be … home.”
Luckily, his eyes were scanning the overall scene, only half on her. “It’s a TV set. And somebody is altering the script. You belong in your room, little girl. Better get back there.”
“I suppose you can make me,” Xoe challenged.
That girl never could keep her mouth shut when it mattered.
“Yes.” He was two feet away now. He looked away again. “But that’s not my job. That’s just some advice from someone who knows when a situation is escalating into the weird and dangerous.”
“I like the weird and dangerous.”
He looked her up and down. “You think you do. I’m private security. I can’t tell you what to do. I just say you oughta get back to your room. Lock the door. Do your nails. Wait for the producers to say the show must go on.”
“Private? Like a PI?”
“God, no.”
She knew that’d get his goat. Like all ex-cops, even disgraced ex-cops, Rafi hated private detectives.
“I was thinking of hiring you, is all.”
“Yeah, right.” He actually chuckled. “You Teen Queens think you’re Britney Spears when you’re really Nancy Drew. I’m already spoken for.”
“Oh?” Temple tried to sound indifferent but Xoe sounded interested. “By whom?”
“By Savannah Ashleigh, the judge, is whom.”
“She’s no judge. She’s just an actress, and a bad one.”
“I don’t judge clients. But I think she’s right in being worried. So why a punk little chick like you is boogying around Hell House after all these unsettling incidents beats me. Given all the black you’re wearing, must be a death wish.”
“I don’t like being penned up.”
“You might consider that’s exactly what might happen if there’s another nasty prank and you’re wandering around unaccounted for. I’d skedaddle back to my safe little room if I were you.”
Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit Page 14
