Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “You mean it was karma that she’s shown herself to me.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s also her name. Karma. She’s a supersensitive cat, a Birman. They were sacred to the dalai lamas.”

  “Much was.” Max rose, very slowly.

  The cat remained in place, staring at him.

  “This is so unusual. Karma doesn’t take to strangers.”

  “I’m not a complete stranger.”

  “Not until the last few months. If Temple calls, is there someplace I can reach you?”

  He jotted his cell phone number on a blank card from his pocket.

  Electra rose to see him to the door. “It’s good to see you Max. I’ll walk out with you.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “No, but I want to see what you’re driving these days. I’ve never seen anyone with such a habit of changing cars.”

  “Leases allow me to change cars as often as you change hair colors.”

  “Touché.” She took his arm once they were back in the foyer and waiting for the elevator. “I’m upset that Temple didn’t tell me about her father. You’ll keep me informed if you find out anything, won’t you?”

  “I don’t have her mother’s phone number. I wasn’t exactly a Barr family favorite.”

  “Why ever not, Max? I’d want you in my family album any day.”

  He shrugged as they rode down in the elevator. “Temple was the youngest child and the only girl. They didn’t want her running off to Las Vegas with an itinerant magician.”

  “But you were headlining at the Goliath!”

  “I’m not anymore. Maybe they were right. And families are funny.” He couldn’t help thinking of his own very unfunny family situation.

  By then they were in the lobby. Electra took a firm matemal grip on his arm. “You’re part of the Circle Ritz family, dear Max, whether you’re in residence or not. So feel free to come visit me and Karma anytime.”

  Max smiled at her innate warmth. He’d been pretty insulated from family feeling most of his life. Surprising how good her encouragement felt.

  On the back step, Electra halted them. “Wait. Let me guess which one is yours.”

  “Not much of a challenge. There are only seven vehicles out here.”

  “You are always a challenge, Max. Hmmm. The black Toyota SUV.”

  “Not the silver Crossfire?”

  “Maybe, except I know who drives that.”

  Something guarded in her tone made Max ask, “And who is that?”

  “Matt. Just got it.”

  “Devine? What happened to churchly frugality?”

  Electra shrugged, her arm still linked through his. “Maybe it was time he broke out a little.”

  “You were letting him ride the Hesketh Vampire.” Max referred to his vintage Brit classic motorcycle, also silver, which he’d given Electra way back when as a down payment on the Circle Ritz condo. For Temple and him.

  “Right. Then he bought my old Probe.”

  “Now that he has the Crossfire, I don’t suppose he gives the Vampire much exercise these days then?”

  “Not much. I could ride it. Still have my Speed Queen helmet, but I haven’t for some reason.”

  Matt stared at the low sleek silver car and the small red convertible and his own high-riding SUV, which looked ultra-conservative and dull alongside those two.

  “I feel like taking a nostalgic spin on the Vampire. Did you know that there are only three left, outside museums? Come on; I’ll give you a ride that will curl your blonde hair even more.”

  “I don’t know, Max. You sound pretty reckless right now.”

  “Speed Queen isn’t up for that?”

  “Dam wrong!” She reached into her muumuu pocket. “Just let me unlock the shed and we’ll be ready to rock and roll.”

  In minutes, Max had grabbed the no-name black helmet Matt had used. Electra had mounted behind him, her chubby hands locked around his waist. They cruised out of the parking lot through a few city blocks before hitting Highway 15 paralleling the Strip, then veering onto 93, heading north into nowhere.

  He let the Vampire have its head, like a horse. After all, it was named for the unearthly scream its engine produced as it reached higher speeds.

  Far past the city, he let the motorcycle run as straight as a banshee scream, due north. Electra whooped behind him and held on tighter. Wind lashed them both into a mute, moving altered state of speed and nerve and nirvana.

  And finally, miles down Highway 93 en route to Ash Springs, the Vampire’s triumphant screech drowned out the ugly, unwelcome questions in Max Kinsella’s head.

  Chapter 39

  Awful Unlawful

  The atmosphere around the Teen Queen Castle was rapidly turning into English country house boredom.

  All the frenetic activity ground to a halt. Each faction clung to their “wings,” lolling about the common rooms watching CNN (the coaches and judges), MTV and E.T. (the ‘Tween Queen candidates), Ambush Makeovers and Home Shopping Network and QVC (the Teen Queen lions’ mane den), and ESPN (the technical crew).

  Xoe Chloe, the nonconformist, found reason to ricochet between all of them, as if on invisible Rollerblades.

  And, of course, she kept bouncing off Alch and Su as they made their rounds interviewing the entire cast and crew.

  There were two other people on board as unattached as Xoe Chloe, both unanchored and both unsavory. Temple wondered what that meant.

  “Hey there!” The words were banal; the deep baritone that intoned them sent hacksaw blades up Temple’s back.

  She turned to find Crawford Buchanan attired in a banana-yellow jogging suit (which made him look like a tropical fruit with a shaggy, rotting end, i.e., his always too-trendy coiffure), trying to catch up with her in the artsy breezeway between the coaches’ and candidates’ areas.

  “Yeah?” She turned and stopped only because it occurred to her he might be worth pumping.

  “You sure do get around.”

  “Beach Boys. 1964. ‘I Get Around.”’

  “An MTV girl. If I were a judge you’d make my cut.”

  “You’re a real Nowhere Man. Beatles. 1966.”

  “Okay. Cute. I’d still like to interview you.”

  “With no mike, Spike?”

  He tapped his forehead. “I still have this. And maybe some paper somewhere.”

  While he patted his jogging suit pockets for the absent notebook, Temple snatched an InStyle magazine abandoned by a passing blonde on a nearby table.

  “Write on this.”

  “Well, I guess I can. In the white spaces.”

  “You always been a radio guy?” she asked.

  “Off and on. Used to have my own show. They called me the Provo, Utah, Kid.”

  “Real catchy.”

  He bought it. “What do you think about this murder thing?”

  “I think it’s ruining the reality TV show world. I mean, jawing with maggots, eating live lizards, winning a million for snagging some dork on live TV … or not, singing so bad you’re an un-American Idol, that’s all righteous stuff. Cool. But murder. Way too intense. Bad form. You know what I mean?”

  “Uh, yeah. So … why’d you do this?”

  “Thought it’d be a kick. Why’d you do this?”

  “I have a chance to get syndicated and you could be part of it, Xoe. It’s the pits that we’re off camera. I need a telegenic personality like you. When we’re recording again, I’d get you Rollerblading all through the house. You’d be our guide to the whole show, see? Great exposure. A shower scene maybe. Then jogging around the pool. Show ’em all sweating and primping. The public will love it.”

  “Whoa! Crawford, you devil, you. That’s all visual material.”

  “Right. Radio sucks. I’m being recorded here too. I wanna go TV.”

  “Sure. You’ve got the chops for it. Say, if you solved this murder thing—”

  He blinked, flashing his long, ladylike lashes. A super-model would kill for those thing
s.

  “I’ve been thinking this police stuff is a hitch,” he said.

  “No, dude. It’s an opportunity. CSI Central. Who d’you think done it? You’ve been all over this place. Unless … it’s you-uuu.”

  He spat out a yeesh sound. “Right. I want to ruin a chance to change media. No way. But you’re right, if I could find a way to capitalize on this murder …”

  “So, what’d yah think of this Klein babe?”

  “Nothing. I mean, she wasn’t good-looking or even interesting.”

  “Interesting enough for someone to murder.”

  “That’s true.” The Crawf frowned, lost in the implications. “I interviewed her on tape. Had to. She was a coach. All she did was spout stuff about how girls eat bad just to look good but end up looking worse. I mean, I don’t care how they get there, as long as they get there, and you got there, if you know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” Temple restrained herself from rolling up her InStyle magazine and stuffing it down his throat.

  Then she took her own mental temperature. She felt, right now, just like the murderer must have felt confronting Marjory Klein. Only Crawford was a disgusting toad who deserved to eat his own words.

  What could, would Marjory Klein have deserved? Mariah saw her as a diet Nazi, a nag, but Klein had just wanted young women to be healthy, hadn’t she? Since when was that a sin?

  Temple owed the Crawf big time for stirring an emotion in her that gave her a few seconds’ insight into the murderer.

  Crassford Buchanan ought to be a de rigueur fixture on every crime scene to inspire the detective to think like someone in a murderous rage.

  The killing may have been sheer rage at the end but at the beginning, during the setup, it had to have been pure cold calculation. That gave her an interesting insight into the killer.

  Temple wandered out to the pool area, still trying to put the pieces together. Whoever did it had to know something about Marjory. Her philosophy and habits. What she was allergic to. That meant the roots of the murder lay far away from this Teen Queen Castle on the Mojave. And therefore the motives were harder to find.

  How could Temple contribute anything? She didn’t have the access the police did to the victim’s past. Or maybe she did. Molina.

  The pool was deserted right now except for one lounge chair on which lay a bronzed body in a lime green bikini.

  A big black cat lay under the lounger, basking in the shade of that B-movie body.

  Louie blinked at Temple, his eyes the same lime green shade as Savannah Ashleigh’s latest thong.

  Savannah wore a silver foil collar around her neck like a high-tech Elizabethan collar. It focused the sun’s lethal tanning rays at her neck and under her chin. No ugly untanned white streaks allowed just where they might make her look a trifle old and crepe-skinned.

  Temple stopped to stare at this flagrant example of self-abuse. Even Hollywood George Hamilton had used self-tanning lotions for years.

  “Reminds me of bacon,” a voice behind Temple noted.

  She turned to find Rafi Nadir standing at attention in the shade of the portico, sunglasses as dark as those on any South American dictator hiding his eyes. Nothing disguised the contempt in his voice as he regarded the object of his protection.

  Savannah was courting melanoma while paying to avoid an unlikely personal physical attack.

  “Yo,” Xoe Chloe said.

  “Yo, yourself, whoever you think you are. I know you,” he added.

  “Me?”

  “You … now that the KISS wig is history. First, you’re a thong-girl at a strip club, then you’re a PR flack at a furniture store, and now you’re a juvenile delinquent Valley Goth Girl.”

  “You made me! How?”

  “Once that lame wig was gone.”

  “I didn’t have much time to get an act together.”

  “So, now you’re gonna tell me what you really are, a PI.”

  It was as good a secondary cover as anything.

  “Maybe,” Temple said, “and now the murder to go with me has happened at last.”

  “So. You want something.”

  “Not much.”

  “They always say that.” He nodded at Savannah.

  “I really don’t want much.”

  “I must admit that you get around.”

  “You too.”

  “Yeah, well, I gotta take these freelance gigs.”

  “I’d think guarding a dedicated babe like Savannah would be a cushy job.”

  “She hasn’t even got the integrity of a stripper,” he said. “Look at that old alley cat sitting under her shadow. He knows what she’s good for. Occupying space in this world, and not much else.”

  “She may have struggles we don’t know anything about.”

  “Most people do. It still doesn’t entitle them. So. What is a PR girl doing here playing a Bad Barbie PI?”

  “I’m someone’s bodyguard too. One of the ’Tween Queen candidates. Her mother hired me.”

  He nodded. “Her mother had the right idea, it turns out, now that murder’s been done. Hey! You’re rooming with the poor kid who found the body. What’s her name? Mamie?”

  “Mariah.” Temple felt weirder than she could say introducing Rafi Nadir to the name of his unsuspected daughter.

  “Mariah. Odd name. Mama musta been a big fan of Mariah Carey. The pop diva, you know.”

  “I do know. Actually, the name reminds me of the song.”

  “Song?”

  “From Paint Your Wagon.”

  Rafi’s body language remained as blank as his sunglasses. “Paint your what?”

  “A musical comedy about the California Gold Rush. The name of the western wind is Mariah. In the song.”

  “Well, this is the West.” Rafi shrugged. “As if Las Vegas was anywhere real.”

  “What keeps you here?”

  “I don’t know. L.A. was a bust. I drifted. There are lots of temporary jobs here for a guy like me. If I don’t get competition from know-it-all PR gals. You’re quite a chameleon, you know that?”

  “I don’t want to be. I just keep getting drawn into these situations.”

  “So how’s the kid?”

  “Mariah?”

  “Yeah. I’ve worked the death scene and interviewed citizens who found the corpse, but a kid? And this one was rough. You handle it okay?”

  “Yeah. Except the victim was so harmless.”

  “Those are the worst. She seemed like a nice lady.” Temple eyed Savannah, who wiggled on the lounge chair, forcing Louie to move to keep his shady spot. Rafi was oddly unaffected by Savannah’s vampish moves. Maybe he wasn’t as knee-jerk a jerk as she—and Molina—thought. Was that possible?

  “What a spotlight hog,” Rafi said. “A little talent would help a lot.”

  “Maybe not. Look at this competition.”

  “Looks like a murder competition.”

  “You expect more?”

  “There are so many more deserving victims.” His blocked gaze clearly focused on Savannah.

  “Don’t worry. Louie is on the case.”

  “Louie?”

  “The cat. My cat.”

  This kept him silent for a few seconds. “You and the cat are a team? I spotted him around Maylords.”

  “A girl can always count on a cat.”

  “Does this Mariah girl have a cat?”

  “Two. Striped. And Louie by proxy.”

  Rafi’s continually scanning sunglasses lowered to regard Louie, then lifted to Savannah with her foil collar, ear-plugging radio and the bikini a lime dressing on an oiled, silicone-stuffed breast of turkey prime.

  “These cops on the scene,” he said. “They haven’t a clue. But I think you do. Keep me in the loop.”

  “Mr. Nadir, if it’s loopy you want, it’s loopy you’ll get.”

  “Right. I liked the expression on that homicide lieutenant’s face when you had me snag the Maylords killer. That do-able again?”
/>   “Maybe. But I don’t get your issues.” Of course she knew more than he could guess.

  “Nobody could.”

  Then Savannah called for a misting with distilled water and a green apple martini, and Rafi moved to oblige her.

  Was that a motive for murder? Oh, yeah.

  Chapter 40

  American Idle

  There is not much to be learned underneath the dripping shower of tanning creams.

  Granted, my Miss Temple has made excellent use of the shower option in the bathroom for consultations and speculations. However, Miss Savannah Ashleigh proves to be a disappointment in this area, and I am sorry I am too far away to eavesdrop on my esteemed associate’s parley with Mr. Rafi Nadir.

  He keeps turning up in this town like the proverbial bad penny, but any human dude who can remain unimpressed by the too obvious attributes of Miss Savannah Ashleigh gets a free grade C in my book.

  So, once Miss Temple, aka Xoe Chloe, leaves the scene to Mr. Nadir and his charge, I ankle across the hot concrete at a sprightly pace and head for the far door to the kitchens, which is often an open and shut case of folks coming and going.

  And who do I end up nose-to-nose with but my own not-so-darling daughter. So-called.

  “Louise! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “No doubt from all those hours lolling with bimbos on the back forty,” she retorts.

  (Louise does not converse so much as retort. And riposte. And countercharge. And other annoying communication habits.)

  “Information gathering,” I report. (If she can retort, I can report.) “As you can see, my Miss Temple is on an important undercover assignment.”

  “She is a PR flack! How important can this assignment be? If you ask me, she is in her second teen-hood. That is what happens to humans who have odd ideas about relationships with the opposite sex. She is bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by the choices available to the modern female. She should chill out and sample the buffet before she commits herself to ‘until death do them part,’ whoever ‘them’ may be. Or just get fixed and forget it.”

  “Easy enough for you to say.”

  “I am proudly neuter. Look at all the angst and time it saves. I would save even more time if my decidedly not-neuter Dad deigned to tell me what case he was working on.”