Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  The Dagger nudged his powerful steed toward the coach

  What the hell does a coach have, a door? Door will have to do.

  door. The fair Airiania . . . Araniana

  What the hell was that stupid name?

  Araniana shook her long, coal-black hair as she pushed her head through the window in the door of the coach.

  "Who are you?" she quavered, her eyes glistening in the moonlight as she gazed up at the tall, dark figure on the huge black horse with the long, flowing golden mane.

  "You will never know my name," he spat in the dark. "But you will come to know me well. Where are the jewels?"

  Yeah, where are they?

  Chapter 16

  Bugged Out

  "Thanks for humoring me," Temple said as she and Kit headed for the checkout counter. "Now comes reason number two for being here. You pay the bill and distract the cashier while I do my undercover work."

  Kit rolled her eyes, but accepted the two twenty-dollar bills

  Temple had pushed upon her and buried them in her handbag.

  By the time they reached the exit, she was digging for them again, apparently to no avail.

  "Oh, dear." She slapped her purse atop the cashier's glass case and began rummaging frantically. "Do I have my glasses on?" she asked the fiftyish blonde behind the counter. "Maybe I'm blind and don't know it. I could swear I'd taken the bills out and--"

  While Kit distracted the cashier with her blithering idiot act, Temple did the unthinkable and edged over to the helpless puppets. Both Miss Piggy and Madame were much bigger than they looked on TV, virtually life-size. Temple eased up Madame's ostrich-feather hem, and then peered into the darkened tent within. No feet, ergo no hidden Austrian crystal-covered shoes.

  Casting a glance around the restaurant, Temple ignored Kit's exasperated huffings and puffings behind her--her aunt was now systematically emptying the considerable contents of her purse on the countertop, managing to leave the money hidden inside. Madame was positioned higher than Miss Piggy, so Temple had to bend down to peer up the glamorous pig's skirt. Some might take her curiosity for evidence of a perverted act, but faint heart never won fair shoes.

  "Wonderful, aren't they?" a woman's voice boomed behind her.

  It wasn't Kit's or the cashier's.

  Temple straightened in double time, quashing a shriek. "Yes, fabulous. And so. . . big. I was just wondering if they had.. . feet."

  The restaurant hostess nodded. "Miss Piggy does. You can look if you like."

  Well, thank you! Temple liked and did so. She unveiled pale, shapeless stuffed-cotton stumps, incapable of holding any article as exquisitely shaped as a Weitzman Austrian crystal slipper.

  The hostess misinterpreted her disappointed sigh. "How sad that both of the men who created these wonderful characters died so young. That's why this hotel is also a show business museum, to keep the costumes and artifacts of these entertainment milestones alive. Have you seen the museum presentation yet?"

  "No." Behind her, Temple heard the sound of twenty-dollar bills being rung up. The charade was over. "What's it like?"

  "Wonderful! A multimedia experience in the theater section, with a tour of an adjacent costume display area. And, of course, other costumes are on display throughout the hotel."

  Kit was jamming her goods back into her purse when Temple caught up to her in the hall.

  "Hear that? We have to see the museum."

  "Why?"

  "Well, the shoes might be secreted in the show somehow."

  "Honestly, Temple. You have a finder's fixation. If it isn't murderers, it's migrating shoes."

  "It'll just take another half hour or so. Please!"

  "Yes, dear child. But ever-practical auntie suggests we eyeball the free exhibits before we pop for the price of two tickets."

  "You should love this, too. Costumes used to be your business."

  "No, they used to be my props. What have we here?"

  "Oh, lordy ,I'm in love."

  "Now, Temple, you know that shoes are your thing."

  "My addiction has just expanded to black velvet evening capes covered in star-shaped rhinestones."

  "Julie Andrews." Kit smiled nostalgically at the well-dressed mannequin in a glass case decorated with floating silver stars. "I saw her in Camelot when I first came to New York. Not Burton, though. He had already left the show and was off in Rome making headlines with Elizabeth Taylor during the Cleopatra filming."

  "That was eons ago. I wasn't even born yet."

  "I know. Now look at you. A woman grown and engaged in a madcap scavenger hunt for some Cinderella shoes."

  Temple shrugged off her aunt's point. "At least I'm seeing parts of Vegas I might have missed otherwise. That's always good for business. Oh, look. Yummy red velvet."

  Another mannequin, another era, another vintage film under glass.

  "Betty Grable. She was old even before my time," Kit said pointedly.

  "That's some long-barreled pistol in her hand. The MGM Grand pirates could have used it."

  "And that's some holster on her hip. Kind of clashes with the thigh-high slit in her skirt."

  "And here!" Temple had found an entire tableau under glass further down the hallway, and another spectacular red velvet gown. Mannequins of Debbie Reynolds and leading man Harve Presnell from The Unsinkable Molly Brown occupied a Victorian setting, backed by a portrait of them in their roles of Molly and her silver-striking husband.

  In the upper reaches of the glass, the theater at the end of the tunnel cast reflections of its twinkling marquee lights, as it had all along the hallway.

  "The Star Theater." Temple turned to read the illuminated sign, staring into a Milky Way of tiny lights. The entrance was a mini-Broadway theater front with all of its lights and action. "'The Debbie Reynolds Show.' Smart to buy your own hotel/casino and perform there."

  Kit, who had seen plenty of Broadway in the flesh and flash, was already heading back down the hall's other side. "Here's another classic."

  "She was thin," Temple marveled as she examined the street-length, copper-colored jacket-dress light and glittery enough to tap dance like a dream. "Eleanor Powell, Broadway Melody of 1940. Look at the military-style cap."

  "War already."

  Another forties-era tap dancing outfit, this one long-sleeved and short-skirted, clothed the next solo mannequin. Then came a full vignette of Tudor costumes, appropriately modeled by headless mannequins, since that was the time of Henry the Eighth, although the setting for this film had been France

  "Diane," Kit read from the placard. "Must be Diane de Poitiers, a famous mistress of a French king.

  Don't remember the movie."

  "No wonder you write historical romances! You certainly know the odd historic fact. These costumes are gorgeous. Imagine sewing on all those tiny pearls on velvet."

  "Imagine gluing on all those tiny Austrian crystals on your mythical shoes."

  "They're not mythical. That reminds me. We passed the Movie Museum marquee. Want to see? I'll treat."

  They came out blinking, like all people who spend time in the dark looking at magical things. That was the underlying purpose behind the stupefying magic shows and chorus lines, behind the entire circus of magicians and the high-wire acts and the big cats. Las Vegas liked its visitors to come out blinking . . .

  and reel right into the oh-so-near gaming area, still believing in whatever magic they have seen. Call it Las Vegas Architectural Principles 101. No one can reach a hotel theater without walking through a gaming area. Beyond the Hollywood Hall of Fame, only fifty feet away, waiting slot machines were wailing their metallic song. Temple and Kit paused in the hallway, getting their bearings.

  "Wonderful stuff," Kit said. "It's even more wonderful to know we were seeing the real thing, that these artifacts are being preserved as well as presented. What did you think of the ruby slippers? They make the pussycat shoes pale by comparison."

  "They're fabulous, but I never wanted to g
o home, like Dorothy did. I want to stay in Oz, thank you, and the pussycat shoes fit the territory better."

  "That's a nice operation," Kit said in a theater insider's tone. "Not massive, but classy, the gray flannel surroundings and then lights up on the exhibits. High tech."

  "High tech for what some might call old dreck."

  "Not for long. People today realize that the labor that went into those long-ago costumes and props would be priceless now."

  They were passing the restaurant area when Temple suddenly stopped and pointed to a glass case they had missed.

  "Oh! It's the Santa suit from Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street. Wine-red velvet and white fur. I had no idea Edmund Gwenn was so small! I mean, this costume really isn't big enough for a traditionally fat, jolly Santa."

  "The camera probably did the rest of the costuming job for him. They all add twenty pounds."

  "Is that really true?"

  "Swear to Santa."

  "Look!" Temple crouched at the foot of the glass case. "The carpeting is that white cotton Christmas batting that's sprinkled with silver glitter."

  "Nice touch."

  "No, don't you get it? It's all lumpy and rumpled. Suspiciously so. This would be a perfect place to hide the shoes! Could it be more apropos? Right at Santa's feet, get it? Merry Christmas."

  "It's not anywhere near Christmas yet, Temple."

  "Heck, department-store Christmas decorations go up after Halloween nowadays, and the ghosts and goblins are just around the corner. How can I get in that case?"

  "This is one time you're stymied. You can't get through solid glass."

  Temple pressed her lips together. "There's got to be a way." Suddenly she stood up and screamed.

  Kit clutched her chest in the area of her heart, her eyes widening behind her glasses. Riveted passersby stopped to stare. And the nice cashier from the restaurant across the hall came racing over.

  "Oh, my god," Temple was saying in a shaky voice.

  "Are you okay?" the cashier asked.

  Temple moved to support herself against the wall. Kit and the cashier crowded around, faces concerned.

  "I don't want the . . . customers to hear," Temple told the cashier in hushed tones. "Is there any way to get in that Santa case?"

  "Well, yes ... but it's locked."

  "You've got to get in there. I was looking at that wonderful costume and right there on the white stuff at the bottom was this horrible, huge cockroach. Crawling. Waving its feelers. They must have been two inches long." Temple shuddered. "It... crawled back under the batting, but it's going to give some other unlucky tourist a heart attack. Anyone older than I is in severe jeopardy." Given that Hollywood memorabilia attracted an older clientele, this was serious news.

  "Cockroach?" The cashier glanced over her shoulder at the nearby restaurant. "I can't imagine . . .

  we've never had anything like that. I'll call the office immediately and they'll send someone to take care of it."

  "I'll wait," Temple said in a tone of self-sacrificing heroism. "My conscience won't rest until I know that hideous bug is gone. Besides, I need to sit down and compose myself." The women followed her like Mary's little lambs to a hall bench. "Maybe you should make sure whoever comes doesn't kill it," she whispered to the cashier on second thought. "Someone sponsors a 'World's Largest Cockroach' contest, you know, and the hotel might win big if it entered that one."

  The cashier grew even paler. The moment Temple and a solicitous Kit had been seated, she raced to the phone at her stand.

  "Temple, that was outrageous," Kit said as soon as they were alone. "There was no cockroach."

  "What will it hurt?"

  "You really are amoral when it comes to a pair of shoes. Perhaps you need a twelve-step program."

  "The only twelve steps I need are the ones I take in those shoes."

  The cashier was back, leaning over Temple with a glass of lemonade.

  "Thank you so much. Will it be . . . long?"

  "No, no. They're sending a security guard to take care of it."

  "Good thinking, given its size," Temple said, nodding somberly. She shuddered again, taking care not to spill any lemonade.

  Not long after a new clink came from the slot machine area, toward them. It was accompanied by squeaking leather and the jingle of keys. The security guard, in medium blue uniform pants and shirt, billed cap and a utility belt hung with a beeper, walkie-talkie and a holstered gun, walked up to them.

  "You the ladies who saw the ... er, insect?" she asked.

  Temple nodded, while Kit committed truth by doing and saying nothing.

  "Don't you worry now. I'll get rid of it."

  "You're not. .. squeamish?"

  "Heavens to Betsy, no." The tall, solid, sandy-haired woman looked as if she could have driven a cab or even handled twenty-six three-year-olds on an outing.

  She singled out a key tiny enough to open a suitcase from the riches on her crowded ring and bent down. The case unlocked at the rear of its base.

  Temple edged over to watch.

  The guard hesitated. "Now you won't faint, ma'am, if we find it?"

  "Oh, no. I want to see that bug gone! It was right there, near that big lump of cotton." Temple crouched down, reached into the case and depressed the lump. It flattened instantly.

  "Careful, ma'am! Better leave this to me."

  Rising, Temple wobbled on her high heels, fell against the case and grabbed the bottom edge for support. In doing so, she managed to flatten the rest of the rumpled cotton batting, until it couldn't even conceal a toothpick.

  "Here now." The guard took Temple's arm and firmly steered her away from the case. "I'll handle this."

  Madame Security Guard then proceeded to shake, rattle and roll the abused fabric until a needle couldn't hide in its folds.

  No shoes. Boo hoo.

  "I can't understand it! The roach was right there." Temple pointed, now so entranced by her story that she almost believed it herself.

  "Those big bugs are sneaky," the guard said. "They can slip in and out of places we'd never even notice. I'll spray the case." She viewed the deflated cotton batting, which looked more like stomped-on cotton candy than fluffy fake snow. "I suppose the exhibition director will be right irritated with my housekeeping talents."

  She poked and prodded the batting back into place, managing to make it look like oatmeal.

  "Anything else I can do, ma'am?" she inquired in a tone that implied additional pointless tasks were not welcome.

  "Nothing at all." Temple's thanks were profusely enthusiastic. "Thanks ever so much for trying to nail that horrible bug!"

  Kit, who had observed the entire scene from the bench, clapped slowly as Temple returned. "Brava.

  Even I was beginning to believe in that bug. You could probably develop a profitable sideline winning nuisance suits by claiming to see roaches in the radiccio."

  "I don't want ill-gotten gains. I just want those fabulous shoes, darn it! At least we've ruled this place out."

  "Oh, we're not swinging up on the balcony like Tarzan to check out the Duke's footwear? After all, you can't see his feet from here--whoa, never mind, Temple! I was just kidding."

  "I'm not." Temple looked ready to storm the upper level, now that Kit had drawn her attention to it.

  "What the plate of petunias is Eightball O'Rourke doing up there?"

  "That old guy next to Liza Minnelli? It's not Jimmy Durante? It's alive?"

  "Not for long." Temple was pushing her sleeves up. "Maybe he's some maintenance person."

  "Liza Minnelli's feet! That would be so perfect, since her mother wore the ruby slippers! Let's go."

  Temple charged the stairs near the ladies' room, almost knocking the Ann Miller cardboard cutout into an unpremeditated tap-dance down the steps.

  The second floor was a maze. Finding the entrance to the balcony meant opening many false doors: one to a room where a maid was cleaning; one to a closet where the maid that was cleaning the room
got her cleaning supplies; one to a service stair that brought the cleaning supplies to the closet where the maid got them before going to the room that she was cleaning ...

  "Sorry." "Oops." "Wrong door." Temple sang out the appropriate formula for whatever false lead she followed, until she opened a fourth door.

  "Aha!"

  "Temple!" Kit warned her from the hallway. "Everybody can see you. It's like being in a department store window."

  Temple peered over the balcony wall. "Luckily, nobody is curious enough to look up, like me. Drat. I'm in the wrong balcony section, and there's a solid wall. Is there another likely door in the hall?"

  "Dozens," her aunt sang back. "And I'm not going to barge into a damn one of them."

  "Then I'll just have to--" Temple brushed by Sammy Davis, Jr. to peer around the narrow wall separating her from the next balcony compartment. "Eightball!" she whispered hoarsely.

  His startled face (Temple would have described it as a "guilty mug") peered around John Wayne's broad shoulder.

  "What are you doing to Liza?" she demanded.

  "Nothing."

  "Then why are you up here?"

  "Uh ... for the view." He leaned over the balcony wall, spotted a security guard who seemed about to look up and ducked behind John Wayne.

  Temple did likewise with OY Blue Eyes. Then she scraped her back along the wall until she was at the hallway door, and slipped through it.

  Kit, and Eightball, were waiting for her.

  "What's Liza got on those famous feet?" she asked him Eightball's well-seamed features screwed into chagrin. "Nothin'. Guess they figure no one sees them from below."

  "You were looking for shoes, weren't you?" Temple said.

  He shuffled, drawing attention to the battered penny loafers on his feet, which boasted shiny new dimes.

  "Can't say," he answered. His faded straw fedora turned in his hands like an anoretic Frisbee.

  "Why not? It's transparent as Plexiglas! You're hunting the Stuart Weitzman prize shoes. Why?"

  "Goddakleyent," he mumbled.

  "Once more, with articulation," she demanded.

  "Gotta client."