Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  Temple nodded as she worked. A fan could have killed Cheyenne, or any of these men. Someone like a Wardrobe Witch. Someone with outlandish fantasies? Someone spurned? It happened the other way all the time: much older men and young women who traded on their looks sometimes do-si-doed into messy situations where murder might out.

  "Places, people!" boomed the speaker. "Now!" Danny sounded like Patton in a snit.

  Temple took some last frantic stitches, triple-knotted the threat at ground zero, then patted the dressing-table top for the scissors. They weren't within reach.

  "Scissors?" she asked, curt as a surgeon.

  Lance twisted to look, nearly breaking the precious thread below the knot and undoing all Temple had redone, while she drew in an audibly appalled breath.

  "Uh, sorry." He had to toss a brunette tress over his shoulder when he turned back. "I can't find the scissors."

  Temple considered using her teeth, then decided that was above and beyond the call of wenchdom.

  "The dangling thread won't show against the black," she told him. "You'll have to have it repaired again on a machine anyway." She took off her glasses and threw them into the gaping duffel bag.

  Then she was up and running for the stairs, her skirts hiked almost as high as Quincey's. Lance thudded up the risers behind her, asking for little but reassurance.

  "Thanks. Um, do you think it will ... you know, hold up for the show?"

  She devoutly hoped that he was asking about her repair job.

  "Time will tell," she huffed back to him. "At least you only have to do your act once. I have to do mine eleven times."

  And she was supposed to be onstage before the first trio of hunks.

  Temple flew into the wings, Lance and his once-flapping fly forgotten. Lacey and Quincey were nowhere around, which meant that they already had melted onto the dimly lit set as directed.

  Temple raced until the moment she could be seen from the audience, then braked herself to a saunter. No audience awaited except Danny Dove and some hangers-on, but she had to pretend that there was a houseful of eager watchers.

  In the murky light, the glitter of Lacey's seven veils entwined a pillar. Temple's skirts swished soft as surf against the fake-stone riser of her Gothic corner as she stubbed an unprotected toe on it, then stifled a wail. Beyond her nook, Quincey leaned Lili Marlene-like against the barn set's ersatz lamppost.

  Temple swirled into place and settled against her own wall, gazing soul-fully out the arched windowslit, which offered an unwavering view of backstage curtain.

  At stage left, three hunks thumped from the wings. If Lance was assigned to her, after all they'd gone through together; wouldn't it be a ... stitch? At least she'd know to discourage any costume-straining positions.

  A Roman gladiator, oiled torso gleaming in his harness, hairy legs bristling, leather and brass slapping and ringing as he walked, headed for Lacey beyond Temple. She didn't like to imagine getting whacked by the gladiator's lethal costume during the pose-down.

  A second figure eased around the stone wall encompassing Temple, shadowy in a short cloak and tights. Beyond her, Lance, a curled bullwhip slung over one shoulder, headed for Quincey. How romantic.

  Temple, appropriately panting from her hundred-yard-dash upstairs, waited for the spotlights to illuminate the awful truth. Thank heaven she hadn't worn her glasses, which would be out of period anyway, but she knew the drill: three lady models, thirty-three remaining Incredible Hunks, eleven each.

  Entering male trios would move to the set appropriate for their garb and grab the proper girl for a minute or more of ersatz passion. The trick was to change positions and poses constantly, like cover models being photographed. Temple knew that Quincey and Lacey had huddled with their designated hunks to plan their routines. She had been busy with other matters, such as murder, and would have to wing it with whoever showed up on her doorstep.

  She could only hope that Danny had chosen wisely and well.

  And she only had to be pliant and malleable (the usual requirements for any medieval virgin-bride, she figured). Theatrical illusion would do the rest.

  Although Temple should be able to hear whoever was standing in for the announcer introduce the candidates, the microphone blurred his voice onstage. That meant that her partners would always be as much as a surprise as their improvised routine.

  The lighting slowly brightened as Temple's first hunk went to one knee before her, took her tenderly in his arms, then bent her back until her false hair pooled on the stage floor. If her hairpins didn't hold, her false hair would remain a blood-bright puddle on the stage floor.

  The lights came up full. Against the blurry blazing suns of the spotlights, Temple squinted to decode the visage above her. . . the fine Italian face of a Fontana brother in Romeo disguise!

  Piece of pasta! The hunk you know is always a better risk than the hunk you don't know.

  Rico or maybe Armando or even Eduardo bent over her until the feather in his velvet cap nearly put out her unshielded right eye.

  "Don't worry, kid. I will treat you like a sister."

  "Fontana brothers don't have any sisters," she hissed back.

  He shrugged, then began performing a cover tango while murmuring dolce far niente, or so the lyrics of some forgotten Broadway musical described sweet Italian nothings.

  Temple murmured sweetly back, "Rigatoni, Ziti Pitti, Uffizi. Oh, Linguini!"

  No one could hear them over the canned music that beat out Bolero-type rhythms suitable for seduction. She was finally deposited again on the window seat to simper pensively as her swain backed away, bowing.

  The lights dimmed. Temple squinted to see if the departing Lance was still intact, as far as trousers went, but she couldn't tell. Nor could she decide which of her ebbing attributes to check first: her false hair, or her authentically plunging neckline. She decided to semi-recline on the window seat for the next suitor.

  Her knight in shining armor clanked as he came. She barely registered the arrival of her neighbors'

  gentlemen callers, she was so busy wondering how she would cuddle up to an ambulatory Swiss army knife.

  With one hand he pushed back his metal visor, with the other he encompassed her waist. Then he picked her up and turned in a circle, nearly ramming Temple's foot into a mock-stone wall while her heavy false hair threatened to elope in the arms of centrifugal force.

  The grinning Fontana brother in the plumed helmet reassured her. "Fear not, fair lady, I will not drop you."

  She had nothing to fear but fear itself, so she caressed his chill silver-metal cheek and ran her hands up and down his chain-mail chest as he lowered her back to the floor, very slowly, because he really did not bend very well. How refreshing to have a male contestant compelled to "dip."

  She was definitely getting the hang of a pose-down, especially since it mostly involved hanging off the hunk until he could move her into one or another contorted position. Then they did pretend kissy-kissy until it came precariously close to real kissy-kissy, but by then she was kissing him offstage.

  She was also quickly getting exhausted from inventing something different that she was willing to do, and she did feel obligated to help her assigned hunks win. Besides, she knew that Quincey and Lacey were not holding back. To let two teenage Lolitas outdo a mature woman in her prime was unthinkable.

  So she posed down, and up, and sideways, sometimes half-climbing the wall or the hunk, sometimes swooning in lily like languor. All the hunks seemed alike after a while. Actually, they all seemed like Fontana brothers.

  And that they were, for Danny Dove had devised a fiendishly simple method to keep Temple on familiar ground. It was all in the Crystal Phoenix family, you see. A Fontana brother who hoped to be welcome again on the premises would never drop, French-kiss, or otherwise commit vulgar acts with their brother Nicky's employee.

  In fact, Temple felt so secure that she soon was lulled into a lazy rhythm, even losing track of how many Fontanas had passe
d by her window. The rhythmically dimming and brightening lights were hypnotic, she noted.

  How many more could there be? Temple watched the latest Fontana swagger offstage in doublet and boots, as lights and ladies were lowered again to their quiescent positions.

  Three more figures emerged from the wings, then separated as they moved to the sets. Temple wondered what the next Fontana would be wearing as he tripped up the single step to her lair. He actually did trip, in fact, in the dark, and fell across her hard enough to knock the breath out of her chest.

  Ufffth. She tried to speak, to breathe, but no words came.

  Temple pounded her fists on the man's broad, bare chest to alert him to her predicament. He took the gesture for mock resistance, for he remained pressed atop her breathless body. It was terrifying, being unable to scream or say a word while a big lummox lay across her like a sledge of lead, his stupid long hair tickling her neck and falling into her mouth, which needed air--

  She felt, maybe even saw, the lights coming up, but she didn't care how the audience would view the scene. She could not breathe. She. Could. Not. Breathe. Not draw air in, or push it out. She needed to breathe, but how could she with two hundred pounds of clumsy hunk sprawled all over her, even if he was a Fontana brother?

  But he wasn't a Fontana brother.

  The curtain of hair tenting their conjoined faces was blond. Had Danny finally run out of Fontanas? Of course, nine brothers to a set (too bad Nicky wouldn't moonlight), and eleven hunks on Temple's menu.

  Danny had been forced to fill in her pose-down program with a couple of odd hunks. Very odd, she thought. Why was this guy just lying on top of her like a weight, no wonder she couldn't breathe!

  " La Rossa," the impinging hunk whispered in a strange voice. Oh, no! Why had Danny let Fabrizio, of all hunks, into her safe cage of Fontana brothers?

  His features twisted with some extraordinary emotion. "I-- sorry."

  He dam well should be sorry, Temple thought in rising panic.

  His hands rested on her shoulders, thumbs pressing against her neck. One dug into her carotid artery until she could feel her pulse bucking under the fleshy pad.

  His mouth hung over hers, a smothering not-quite-kiss.

  But she still couldn't breathe! And he didn't know it. He could crush her to death with clumsy theatrics!

  Then his hands tightened around her neck, huge hands that had promised to pick her up and never drop her. Her back slid half-off the window seat. Still she was trapped in an airless silence, her rib cage crushed by the hot, heavy weight of Fabrizio's three-thousand-dollar chest.

  She felt her throat arching back in the long, flowing line so beloved of romance cover artists, the pose that always reminded Temple of a woman in extremis, not ecstasy.

  Now that she was in that exact position herself, she could ... not . . . breathe . .. ever again. And Fabrizio thought he was so sexy, his hammy hands on her throat, his hot breath panting into her mouth!

  He was killing her. He. Was. Killing. Her.

  The hands tightened, with palpable purpose. Fabrizio's too-close blue eyes squinted shut in a face his perpetual tan had deserted.

  Black spots danced before Temple's eyes. From staring up at the spotlights . . . no, she didn't see spotlights or any light at all, just black spots and a narrowing tunnel of vision, tunnel vision, with a bright light at the end, like so many near-death experiences. ... No!

  Temple twisted, fought to fall off the ledge that half-held her, to slither out from under the crushing weight, to escape the hands circling her throat. Fought to breathe! Fabrizio grunted in his own battle to seal off all breath forever, as if he were a Samson whose strength was ebbing. But she felt his long hair brush her shoulders. He was invincible. ...

  One gasping inhalation took ragged hold. Rushing air dried her oxygen-starved throat and lungs as it drew deep into her chest, then reversed itself and burst outward with a rapid whoosh.

  The shuddered breath, violent as a dry heave, jolted Fabrizio's hands loose. Temple inhaled again, another wrenching spasm of her entire torso, like giving birth. Giving breath. As she exhaled a turbulent hiccough, she twisted her body with all the life-fighting might in her.

  Fabrizio tumbled to the stage floor on his back. Temple pushed herself up on one arm. She hung gasping above him, the ends of her long false locks mixing with the corona of yellow hair around his surprised face. No matter the embarrassment, he deserved it.

  A few false crimson strands pooled on Fabrizio's smooth, golden chest. Some even curled around the knife hilt pressed tight against his washboard stomach.

  Now that Temple could scream, she didn't dare.

  The lights dimmed on cue.

  Luckily, someone had glimpsed something amiss. Someone with power.

  "Lights full up, dammit!" Danny yelled like an oncoming berserker.

  Feet clumped toward them from all directions, but Temple still couldn't talk yet, and Fabrizio--?

  Fabrizio wouldn't ever hear again.

  Chapter 31

  Murderous Suspicion

  "I suppose you'll claim self-defense," Lieutenant Molina suggested sweetly.

  Actually, Temple just pretended that Lieutenant Molina had spoken sweetly. Any other interpretation was too scary.

  "He tried to strangle me," she said hoarsely, in her turn.

  "So you killed him in self-defense, with a dagger you just happened to have in your garter."

  "I don't know where the garter--the dagger--came from, but I know it must have been in his chest when he got to me."

  "Then someone killed him before he could kill you."

  "I suppose that person or persons unknown could claim credit for saving my life."

  "Why would this"--Molina glanced at her notebook and sighed--"Fab-rizz-io want to kill you?"

  "Maybe because I mispronounced his name."

  "How is it said?"

  "Fabreezio, as in Breezy."

  "Why would this Fabreeezio want to kill you?"

  "I don't know, but I do know that he went out of his way to do it. He wasn't supposed to be in my area. Danny Dove would never have assigned him to me--" Temple broke off.

  "Because," Molina continued implacably, "according to witnesses, Fabrizio has picked on you since the conference started."

  "He picked me up; there's a difference."

  "You hated his attentions, though."

  "But not enough to skewer him like a prosciutto ham. Besides, when he first landed on me, he knocked my breath out. I was ... paralyzed. I couldn't do anything."

  "So you suspect that he was stabbed offstage, like Charlie Moon, then stumbled out in the dark, not fully aware of what had happened. Therefore, he could have arrived at your ... stand ... accidentally."

  Temple raised her eyebrows expressively. "Or he could have meant to kill me and, like Cheyenne, was so revved up while he waited to enter that he couldn't feel the killing blow."

  "Knife wounds can fool a victim," Molina admitted.

  "Besides, planning to kill someone onstage, with witnesses, would wind Fabrizio up beyond belief.

  That's why I think he meant to come to my area. He almost carried out his plan despite the fatal wound."

  "Maybe." Molina was not convinced. "I don't see a motive. Well, I see a motive, but I just don't believe anybody will kill someone for being annoying."

  Temple ignored the gratuitous put-down in the face of an inspiration. "Wait a minute! Who had Danny really assigned me for that time? Why didn't he show up as scheduled?"

  Molina examined her notes. "A Jake Gotshall."

  "Oh, no! Mr. Comedy Central. What happened to him?"

  "Someone had 'borrowed' the bottom half of his costume."

  "Or stolen it, so he'd be late. Ah, what was the bottom half of his costume? I need to know what I. . .

  missed."

  Molina's intimidating blue eyes stayed on her notebook pages. Temple had a feeling that she was trying very hard not to laugh. "Fur shorts."


  "Fur shorts? What was he dressing up as?"

  "Every woman's secret fantasy, he claims: Santa making a special Christmas Eve delivery to the lady of the house. He said he planned to wear nothing but white fur shorts and a white wig and beard. And some mistletoe in appropriate places."

  "Ooohh," said Temple. "He would have tickled!"

  "I've never heard of anyone being tickled to death. Yet," Molina added cautiously. "I'm sure you'll run across one of those someday. Anyway, Gotshall couldn't go on without the key part of his costume and was scrambling around the dressing rooms looking for a substitution. It was just a dress rehearsal, and he figured the fur shorts would show up."

  "So Fabrizio stole them to make Jake late." Temple put a hand to her neck.

  Talking hurt her throat, and Fabrizio's last manual contractions hadn't helped. It was hard to prove that he had meant to hurt her, instead of simply blundering over to her and lashing out in his death throes. He certainly knew who she was. Why else say he was sorry?

  Temple glanced at a coterie of supporters sitting in the theater's front row: Danny Dove, immobile for once, Electra and Kit huddled like fairy godmothers bereft of their magic wands and even Midnight Louie, lured away from his platinum ladylove by a roommate in distress. Word had gotten around fast.

  "Why would Fabreeezio attack you?" Molina asked again.

  Temple put a hand to her throat. It didn't help. "Maybe ... maybe he knew that I knew his costume included a glove."

  "Glove?" The glitter in Molina's eyes showed her instant grasp of its significance.

  "The only pageant competitor," Temple said, to make it plain, "who was wearing anything on any hand onstage during the cover costume segment."

  "A glove wasn't on the body."

  "Exactly. He never wore it onstage, not even in rehearsals, but it was part of his costume originally.

  His costume. There wasn't much to it--tight pants, wrestling championship-size belt, long hair and one black leather glove. He was planning to enter with a hawk on his wrist."

  "A live hawk?"