Temple contemplated the static, yet somehow anticipatory peace of a shoe store. All those smooth, unsullied soles waiting to glide over the plush carpet like magical skates. All those unscuffed toes and heels primed to pose before the floor-level mirrors. All those clever bows and straps and decorative heels. All that evening glitz and glitter waiting to accompany all the little girls from Kansas and the cinder-choked hearth to battle and to balls.
Unlike skirts and dresses and belts, shoes do not allow their owners to outgrow them. Carefully kept, they do not wear out, like socks and hose and human knees and friendships. Age cannot wither, nor custom stale their infinite variety of color, cut and style.
Temple moved slowly, softly in the large room, a connoisseur in an art gallery. No longer would she have to haunt Saks and Neiman Marcus sales at the Strip's Fashion Show Mall for unsold size fives. Oz had come to her. The Wizard had landed, gently, on the Yellow Brick Road and she needed more than ruby red slippers for the journey. Suddenly last summer, this stand-alone shop of shoes designed by Stuart Weitzman had miraculously appeared in her own back yard. SW shoes by the yard awaited her.
She sighed. It was meant to be. All she had to do now was afford them.
Temple edged along the store's perimeter, dazzled by the glimpse of one exquisite shoe after another. Even the vanilla-colored casual shoes had their own subtle glamour, although, when it came to shoes, Temple liked them high, narrow and handsome. Temple found herself catching a ghostly reflection of herself, and stumbled back in amazement.
A Plexiglas-box-topped pedestal had served as her imperfect mirror. Beyond the translucent outline beckoned even greater wonders: a wall of dancing shoes with solid rhinestone-covered heels, each glittering like a size-five rainbow, some diamond-bright, others gleaming with sapphires and rubies and emeralds.
"Those are Pave Collection models custom-designed by Mr. Weitzman," a gentle voice noted beside her.
"I know." Temple could not take her eyes off the treasure trove of shoes. "I've heard of them. They're fabulous."
"They can be designed to match a particular gown or any theme of the customer's choosing."
Temple nodded in a dream. "How much--?"
The saleswoman told her, in an even gentler voice with not a hint of condescension.
Temple nodded. She wasn't surprised. She also was not about to ever become the owner of a pair of Pave Collection shoes. At least she would have visiting privileges.
"Thank you." Temple tried to sound as if she needed time to decide which several styles she wished to purchase.
The saleswoman drifted away diplomatically, leaving Temple to contemplate the cruelties of budget.
Temple remained transfixed. To her this was Stonehenge, Avalon, Nirvana. The cares of the day, as Stephen Foster or someone equally antique would put it, faded away. Some women found such surcease of sorrow in chocolate. Temple always found it in an exquisite pair of high heels. At least her addiction was not fattening (especially not to the wallet).
Which one of the black satin pumps would she pick? The one covered in winking red ladybugs, with matching bag? The Deco-inspired one of a woman (on the heel) walking a Scottie (on the toe) with a long glittering leash (along the instep) ? The golden glitz of a sun/moon/stars motif?
Visions of Austrian crystals dancing in her head, Temple finally focussed on the contents of the Plexiglas plinth standing like a prow, a figurehead before the wall of Pave Collection shoes. Behind the clear Plexiglas floated a pair of diamond-white shoes, Cinderella shoes paved in crystal. A card explained the Pave Collection philosophy: up to 14,000 hand-set Austrian crystals encrusting each and every pair.
Temple edged around the pedestal, careful not to touch it, to jar the precious cargo inside. And then .
. . and then . . .
Holy cats!
She was nose-to-nose with Midnight Louie. Well, a black, Austrian-crystal cat, anyway, with great personal presence, climbed the back of each glittering heel, a single emerald stone winking at his eye.
Solely cats!
A second card was propped on a delicate easel on the pedestal's other side. Halloween's coming, it announced in elegant script . Find a pair of these "Jinx" black-cat, hidden somewhere in Las Vegas, by October 31 and claim a pair in your size as the prize.
Yes! Temple clasped her hands. The answer to a lovesick maiden's prayer. Not men whose first names began with M, but shoes whose name began with "Midnight" as in Louie. What more could a modern-day Cinderella wish for? Stuff the vacillating prince; get it on with the cool shoes!
Obviously, she was destined to find and win these shoes. Ob-viously, this was a heaven-sent distraction from her current personal conundrum. Obviously, Las Vegas's prime crime-solving amateur could beat out every other candidate in the Streak for the Shoes.
Temple marched up to a person that she assumed was the saleswoman who had addressed her earlier; she had been too dazzled to notice much but the shoes.
"Do I need an entry blank?"
The woman's face, which was about her age, looked politely inquiring. Surely she too had only one thing on her mind? How could she work here and not?
"For the Midnight Louie shoes ... I mean, the Halloween Jinx shoes."
"Oh. Just spot them by October thirty-first, then drop by and fill out a card with your name and address."
"Piece of chocolate cheesecake," Temple said, as satisfied as if she had eaten the whole, metaphorical thing.
She left the store, hardly noticing the crowd, and wended her way back through the crowded casino, not even glancing into the Appian Way at David with his sling and no G-string as she passed.
For some reason, she felt ravenous.
Chapter 6
Little Cat Feet
It has been a busy day, and I am in no mood for late-night disturbances in routine.
In my own living room, I have had to defend my turf against the invasion of the seven-foot-tall man.
On my own personal sofa, I have had to share my cushions with a stranger, while gazing upon a shirt the color of lizard leavings.
In the privacy of my bedchamber, I have been forced to endure more tossing and turning from Miss Temple Barr than a crepe suzette could expect to encounter in an omelet pan.
When the lady of the house returns, I am not prepared for the general air of celebration. Those of my kind do not celebrate, except internally.
This does not stop Miss Temple Barr from thrusting me into the midst of her excitement.
"Louie!" she cries even before she has entered our bedroom to see if I am still there.
"Louie!" She stands in the doorway, dropping her totebag to the floor and extending her arms wide.
She is obviously prepared for a swoop. If there is anything I loathe more than a swoop, I would be hard-pressed to name it.
Before I can shift my weight to my pins and escape, she is on me like a tomato-red tornado. You would think that she would have learned by now that it is impossible to hug a dude of my persuasion, not to mention dimensions. But she does so anyway, resting her rusty curls on my velvet-tailored shoulders. I just hope that she does not shed.
"Oh, Louie," she sighs. "You should see your shoes."
I should indeed see my shoes; that would be some news worth getting on the Internet. What, pray tell, are they? Two-tone wingtips? High-heeled sneakers, now that they make such a thing? Perhaps they are fuzzy-wuzzy slippers. As if I would trade my hardy, super-sensitive foot-leather for such clumsy accoutrements!
The emotional stress caused by the sudden return of the gentleman known as Max has tipped poor Miss Temple over the edge. Naturally, her delusion would be in the area of fancy footwear, since she was a teensy bit nuts on the subject even when she was sane.
But she need not try to involve a plain-and-simple shoeless schmoe from Idaho in her mental breakdown. Pretty soon she will be buying me little red sweaters and rubber galoshes for my tootsy-wootsies. No thank you! I have always been a free soul, and spurn clothes
of any kind, including collars and ties.
My aloof reaction to her less-than-joyous news has not penetrated the euphoric fog that Miss Temple Barr's illness has wrapped around her.
She insists on confiding more mania to my twitching ears.
"Oh, Louie, they are sooo gorgeous. Entirely covered in teeny, tiny Austrian crystals, and white like diamonds, except when the rainbow reflections are dancing off them. And, then, on the back of the heel, on each shoe, a darling figure of a black cat, reaching up, who knows for what? Maybe for Free-to-be-Feline, do you think?
I think, all right, and I do not like what I am thinking one itsy bit. Darling? Teeny, tiny? I have not heard Miss Temple resort to such nauseating descriptives in the entire time we have shared more than a roof. What has come over her?
"They're called 'Halloween Jinx' and I can win a pair free!"
Win a pair free. Normally, Miss Temple eschews redundancy. I am truly concerned for her well-being, not to mention my own.
"All I have to do is find a shoe like these hidden somewhere in semi-plain sight in Las Vegas. And, then ... Mama's gonna get a brand-new pair of shoes, Louie, oh, yes!
Mama? Spare me! I remember my maternal parent well, and she in no way resembled Miss Temple Barr by any stretch of my imagination or Miss Temple's.
"Hey, don't squirm away!" she pleads, crawling along on her knees beside the bed to keep me pinned to the coverlet. You would think I was a dude named Max, or Matt. "You're my lucky charm, Louie.
Those shoes don't know it yet, but they have your name on them, and they are going to end up on my feet. It was meant to be."
I do not want my name bandied about on any pair of shoes, no matter how luxurious. However, I flop over on my side and allow her to massage my back and shoulders. When they get these little fits upon them, there is no containing them. At least they can apply that manic energy for my betterment.
Mmmmm, not bad. Miss Temple is an A-one masseuse when she puts her mind to it, and those long, red nails ... well, I am mollified after the previous hysterics.
"Oh, Louie," she says again. I am beginning to think that I am Irish. "Oh, Louie. Why is life always so complicated?"
I can tell by her tone that we are no longer discussing prize shoes, but deep matters of philosophy.
She sighs again. I do not know why humans are given such puny means of expressing themselves. If they could release their tensions, fears and pleasures with a long, deep purring session, they would not need psychiatrists and such.
But they are deficient in this area as well, and I am forced to do Miss Temple's purring for her.
She leans her head on my broad stomach, ear down, all the better to hear my masculine roaring and rumbling. I was not born to be a pillow, but there are times when I serve as such.
"I am not going to think about anything for the next five days, except finding those shoes. Do not tell anyone that I am going with Electra to a romance convention, though. That could ruin my reputation.
Here I am, with two men in my life, and no life, except getting away from it all at a romance-novel convention full of cover hunks!"
Hey, I am a coverlet hunk.
She must have grasped the picture, because she leans closer to whisper a tender something in my ear. What she murmurs is the hush-hush retail price of the prize shoes.
I pause in mid-purr. That is no small patch of cabbage that she is talking about. Of course, any shoes bearing my always-elegant image would be worth a pretty penny.
I conclude that Miss Temple should lose the lukewarm dudes and go after the cool cat shoes.
Chapter 7
Boys Town
"What are you going to wear to the ball, dear?"
The words were sweetly intoned, yet Electra Lark looked like a fairy godmother who'd been kidnapped by MTV and forced to work in music videos.
Temple eyed Electra's puce/chartreuse muumuu and post-punk snare-do. "Nothing pumpkin-colored, though it may be appropriate to the season. It clashes with my hair. What ball?"
"The Midsummer Night's Dream Dance. Every G.R.O.W.L. convention has a big costume ball one evening. I thought you'd want to avoid looking out of place."
"Costumes! Can't I just wear my usual rags, Godmother? With, of course, a stunning pair of crystal shoes. In fact, I might have exactly the pair in a couple of weeks."
"Two weeks is too late. And, sure, some people wear ordinary evening clothes." Electra sniffed, as if black tie were too, to tawdry. "I guess you could, too."
Temple threw up her hands, then the hairbrush she was packing. It landed among her lingerie on the bed.
"And what, Godmother dear, does one wear to a Midsummer Night's Dream ball in mid-October?"
"I'm going as Puck's grandmother," Electra said, "floaty silver lame and gray chiffon, with genuine woodland camouflage in iridescent glue-on glitter. And trifocals."
"You don't wear trifocals yet."
"No, but Puck's grandmother would be awfully old by now. Haven't you got something kicky, dear?"
"You've seen my shoe collection."
"Oh, my yes." Electra turned to the gaping closet doors. "Awesome. But I've never seen a long gown in your closet, come to think of it."
"Come to think of it, I haven't got one. The hems always have to be taken up for me, so I don't bother. Plus long skirts obscure the important stuff, like my shoes."
"And your svelte little ankles and dimpled knees. Very wise. But nothing formal and floor-sweeping. A pity." Electra looked vaguely disappointed, as if she might burst into a tearful "bibbity bobbity boo-hoo."
"Oh, for heaven sakes, Electra! I do have a Lucretia Borgia getup I bought at a Guthrie Theatre costume sale years ago, thinking it might be useful for a Renaissance Fair sometime. It came with these knee-length, beribboned tresses of red hair that matched mine, so I couldn't resist. Real human hair, too."
"Rapunzel. Perfect! Now, you'll need a welcome wagon outfit, something vaguely Western would work nicely; a dressy man-eating ensemble for the cover hunk pageant; and an awards banquet outfit--
that beaded number you wore to the Gridiron is fine for that, and you won't be trotting up to the microphone for any awards . . . you're not planning to enter the romance-writing contest, are you?"
"Why should I write romantic fiction when I can't get any traction in the romantic /action part of my life at the moment? Besides, didn't the entrants have to submit their work weeks ago?"
"No, that's the fun of this contest! We all get the rules in our convention packets, so we have four days to whip up three chapters and an outline. The winner will be announced at the awards banquet Sunday night after all the real writers' awards are given."
"You're actually going to enter this contest?"
"Absolutely. I've read enough romances to have the drill down pat. Say, could you bring along that cute little laptop of yours?"
"Oho, so that's why I need to escape my emotional Waterloo at the Circle Ritz for a few days! You need my megabytes."
"It's still a nice getaway. Now, where's that costume?"
"Oh, I don't know, somewhere in the lower depths of my closet in a big polyethelene dry-cleaner bag."
Temple sighed, grunted and then dove into a space where none but dust bunnies had gone since she had moved into the Circle Ritz almost a year earlier.
"Yeoww!" she complained, jumping back. "Something stuck me."
"You don't suppose it could be a scorpion?" Electra, the ever-consciencious landlady, shoved several of Temple's best outfits aside for a clearer view.
But the culprit did not possess a stinger in its tail, although a tail was standard-issue for its kind.
Midnight Louie lay curled up on a floor-trailing plastic bag. He greeted his unmasking with a lion-size yawn, and an additional, contented flex of his claws.
"So that's where he goes when I can't find him anywhere," Temple said.
"He's just having a Midsummer Night's nap in a peaceful place. Cats like that sort of retreat."
&nbs
p; "How do you know?" Temple asked. "I thought you were allergic to cats?"
"That doesn't mean I don't know their habits. In fact, that may be why I'm so allergic to them. Don't worry about the costume. If Louie's wrinkled it, I can take it upstairs and use my industrial steamer on it."
"Industrial steamer! I'm impressed."
"No, but your gown will be," Electra said. "I intend to get you packed and over to the Phoenix within six hours."
"What about Louie?" Temple wondered as Electra dove into the closet to yank the heaped plastic out from under him.
"He can go as Puss in Boots, but he'll have to get his own wardrobe mistress."
Within five hours Temple, Electra and more garment bags than two unescorted ladies should carry were camped out in the Crystal Phoenix's bustling lobby behind a long, broad line of similar souls.
Midnight Louie had been left lounging on the clothing-strewn wreck that was Temple's bedspread at the moment.
"Shouldn't we have told someone we were coming here?" Temple wondered queasily.
"Why?" Electra sounded indignant. "That is the advantage of being single; no one is owed an explanation. If they want to know so bad, they'll find out, believe me. Besides, who did you plan to notify? The maintenance man, or gentlemen boarders named Max and Matt?"
"I didn't have anyone specifically in mind," Temple began in a wishy-washy manner she much despised.
"Besides, they'd just laugh at us."
"Why?" Temple didn't ask who "they" were.
"Obviously, you haven't been a romance reader, or you'd know. To the nonromance-reading public, we're silly, love-starved women with so little going on in our lives we have to read these laughable tales of sex and seduction."
Temple hoped she didn't look as appalled as she felt. "I was thinking of this as just another convention. It didn't occur to me I'd be taken for a romance junkie merely by being here."
Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle Page 5
