"A dead one wouldn't sit up straight."
"Which hand?"
Temple shook her head. She didn't know; besides, weren't the police supposed to find those things out?
"You'll have to come down to headquarters," Molina said, standing.
Temple remained sitting on the black velvet cushion she had once considered a scene of the crimes of the heart, not of homicide.
"Why?" she asked.
"We'll need your fingerprints. At least. Got someone to drive you?
Oh, Lordy, she was a wanted woman. Temple stared toward Electra, Danny and Kit. She almost jumped out of her skin, or, rather, her decolletage. Matt Devine had materialized next o Electra. Was he starting to develop traits like the Mystifying Max's? She glanced back at Lieutenant Molina, who was noting Matt's presence with interest.
"Drive me? You mean I might be . . . edgy. I suppose so--"
"I'd expect some prints on the hilt, after the way you were flailing around, according to witnesses. I want to make sure I know whose prints are whose. You didn't know what you were doing, did you?"
Temple couldn't claim that she did, so she said nothing. She had a right to keep silent. She had a right to an attorney. She had a right to run for her life, but she wouldn't.
She begin to understand how Max might have felt if he'd found the body in the Goliath ceiling first.
What's to say about being found hand-in-glove with a corpse? Better to skedaddle first and answer questions later, or never.
"Am I under arrest?"
"You just get right down to fingerprinting and let me worry about technicalities. I'll tell 'em you're coming."
"Thanks," Temple said faintly, rising and walking across the stage as if it were covered in seashells.
Fabrizio's body still lay faceup, worthy of a bestselling cover. Temple remembered the line from The Duchess of Malfi: "Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle. She died young."
She averted her eyes and went to the runway's end. Nicky Fontana and Van von Rhine had joined the charmed circle, so a spate of human friends waited to help her down the stairs.
"Anybody got a Black Mariah?" she joked in a shaky croak from the runway. "I need a ride to headquarters."
Matt insisted on driving Temple. After all, he had said, ending the friends' debate, he wasn't involved in whatever this convention was, and could spare the time. Danny had to stay at the theater to insure that the investigation did not disrupt more than it had to. With the pageant scheduled for the next evening, the situation was critical. Nicky Fontana grudgingly agreed to Matt's acting as Temple's chauffeur; Temple knew he was aching to hot-rod to police headquarters in his traffic-cop-spurning silver Corvette.
Temple insisted on her own imperatives. First she went to the dressing room. Quincey was there, smoking a cigarette she had borrowed from someone. She tamped it out hastily in a makeup tin cover.
"Gosh, are you all right?" she asked, jumping up, big-eyed.
"Sort of," Temple said hoarsely. "Can you help me out of this rig? I've got to go to police headquarters."
"Oh, God!" Quincey's fingers were ice-cube cold on Temple's back, shaking as she undid hooks and pulled open underlying corset lacings. "That creep Lacey was telling that scary woman lieutenant all sorts of stuff about you and Fabrizio, about how he tried to force you into posing with him until Danny Dove stopped him. Rotten snitch!"
"It's okay. The lieutenant knows me. She wouldn't believe I stabbed him."
"You didn't, then?"
Temple turned to regard her emergency undresser. "No! If I were going to kill someone, it would be for more serious crimes than attempted sweeping off the feet."
"I don't know--" Quincey's hands grew still on the lacings. "Some men keep making slimy remarks and treat the women they're with like dirt while ogling every other woman around . . . or girl. You could kill them."
Temple turned, jerking the laces from Quincey's nerveless fingers. "No," she said very definitely. "Not just for being creeps, or sexists. I wouldn't do it, and you wouldn't."
"I-I guess not. But... oh, what a groady mess this Incredible Hunk thing is! I thought doing this would be cool, glamorous, something, but I just feel... yucky."
Temple grinned. "It's not easy to be a femme fatale --oops! I didn't mean that literally. Everything will be okay. Only one more day until the pageant, and then this show is over forever." Temple slapped her bra to her newly useful chest (for holding up gowns) while her ebbing costume sank around her feet to a lavender cloud on the floor.
She stepped out of it as if avoiding dog doo-doo. "I hope I never have to wear this dopey costume again."
Quincey's pale smile looked automatic. She was scrounging the dressing room for a match to relight her crushed cigarette butt by the time Temple was dressed and ready to leave.
Matt was waiting upstairs, alone, a gilt vision in yellow sports shirt and buff slacks.
"Everybody did as you said and went about their business," he told her.
"Even Louie?" she wondered with a smile.
"He dashed off the minute you left us. Maybe he had urgent business downstairs, too."
"Yvette," Temple diagnosed as they walked through the casino to the parking garage exit. "Not a person," she said quickly. "A cat. Female. Persian. Savannah Ashleigh's pampered purebred darling.
Louie crashed a cat-food commercial shooting to pay court, and Ms. Ashleigh, a one-time film star by her own lights, stopped me in the hall this morning to rake me over the Kitty Litter for not controlling my beast."
"She sounds like the uncontrolled beast." Matt handed her something. "I got you some throat lozenges."
"Thanks." Temple picked a roll open and took one. "I'm not good at keeping my mouth shut."
When he opened a glass exit door (the Crystal Phoenix had rising phoenix-shaped Plexiglas handles), the outside warmth and daylight struck her like molten honey.
"Aaah." She stopped to soak it up.
"Are you sure you're all right? Lieutenant Molina has no right to order you downtown for fingerprinting right after such an awful attack."
"She has the right. And I don't mind. I don't remember touching a knife-hilt, so I'm sure my prints aren't on it. I doubt anybody's will be, except maybe Fabrizio's."
As they walked to the parking ramp, Temple dutifully sucked the lozenge.
"What kind of convention is this, anyway?" Matt asked.
"Too complicated to explain and still save my voice. Romance novels and everybody who's involved in reading, writing and producing them."
"And your aunt is one of them?"
"An author. We hadn't seen each other since I was a kid."
Matt nodded, opening the door to the ramp. While they waited before the elevator for the doors to open, Temple husbanded her saliva so she could talk without rasping.
"You probably don't understand why I was wearing that lurid dress, letting strange men make pretend-love to me onstage."
"Well--"
"I was undercover. Yes, I know it's ridiculous; normally one doesn't have to undress to go undercover, except maybe female cops on the vice squad. But Molina encouraged me to snoop, believe it or not.
Besides, I felt obligated to help find out why the first pageant competitor was killed."
"So that's what Molina meant." Matt's incredulity echoed in the small, stainless steel-lined elevator as they soundlessly headed for the third floor.
She nodded. "A guy from that striptease contest I did PR for a few months ago. He wanted to talk to me the night before he was killed. Kit and Electra were teasing me about being asked out by a hunk, and I felt so stupid that I said no. Now I think he wanted to talk to me about whatever led to his death."
"Temple!" Matt's tan face had darkened as they walked to her Storm, eight cars down the shadowy row. "What about what you owe to your friends? You leave the Circle Ritz without any word, then turn up at the Crystal Phoenix, taking insane risks. Think about your friends, if not yourself."
"Electra's here. A
nd my aunt," she added. "And I'm not a bad detective. Fabrizio only tried to kill me because I knew too much."
"Great. We can put that on your tombstone: SHE KNEW TOO MUCH."
"Most cemeteries don't allow tombstones anymore. Takes all the fun out of graveyards."
Temple rummaged in her duffel bag, then handed Matt the key ring. He took it, but wouldn't look up at her.
"How can I make you see what it was like," he said slowly, "watching security people storm through the casino? Then a Fontana brother races by in some ... ridiculous Halloween costume telling Nicky and Van about a 'new murder' and mentioning your name over and over. I thought--"
Temple put her hands on his wrists. "Thanks."
Matt looked up and the moment teetered on the brink of something more that neither was ready for.
"Maybe--" Temple gazed up at the uninspiring ramp ceiling, a coffered pattern of gray concrete beams. "It was supposed to be a murder-suicide! If Fabrizio killed Cheyenne and knew that I suspected him, he may have stabbed himself and then come out to kill the only witness who suspected he had committed the first murder!"
Matt's eyes narrowed with disbelief. Temple had meant to reassure him; in a way, she had succeeded beyond her expectations. He finally laughed and unlocked the Storm passenger door.
"You do have a uniquely creative mind for crime," he said, letting himself into the driver's seat.
"Lieutenant Molina should be examining your brain, not your fingertips."
"I'd have to be dead first, and, fortunately, I'm not."
She pulled down the lozenge wrapper and offered Matt one. He shook his head, so she took another, letting it click against her teeth as the honey-herbal flavor coated her throat.
After the dark of the ramp, the shock of daylight had her clawing for the prescription sunglasses in her duffel bag.
Matt donned the drugstore pair in his shirt pocket. "You'll have to tell me where the police station is."
"Simple. Down the Strip, right on East Stewart for a few blocks. Big pale building with a soaring, curved section in front that's accessorized with an ersatz neon pattern, along with a colorful array of lounging transients."
"You sound like a veteran visitor, all right."
She shrugged and leaned her head against the seat. She felt as if she'd wrestled alligators, and perhaps she had. But now that she'd apologized for leaving home and having not-too-excellent adventures, Temple was inclined to resume her favorite role: offhand inquisitor.
"By the way." Her head turned toward Matt without lifting from the headrest. "Why were you in the Crystal Phoenix casino?"
"Ah ..." He pretended to occupy himself with driving, ostentatiously peering in the rearview mirror, looking over his shoulder, frowning at the instrument panel.
Before he could lie, Temple decided to let him off the hook by throwing out another, deeper one.
"And why were you and Max there together the other evening?"
Fingerprinting was not the kiddie-direct process Temple had imagined: stick your fingers in some wet gunk like fingerpaints, then slap them down on a sheet of paper.
Like all rituals, this had its protocol. The most distasteful part, besides the ink's chemical reek, was that the technician took control of each of her fingers, rolling the tip from side to side on the card. The process felt like automatic writing, as if she were a ghost of herself. It also pinched, and made her feel like a puppet.
Molina had sent a message ahead of her: wait.
So Temple did. Kit and Electra had taken a cab downtown to join them, despite protests, so Matt took himself off. He had never quite answered Temple's question about his association with Max.
"That policewoman can't think you did it," Kit said as they huddled over lukewarm coffee in paper cups in the small waiting area, which was furnished with a visibly used leather sofa and chairs.
"No, but she would love an excuse to," Temple said, glad that Molina's assumption that Fabrizio had killed Cheyenne freed Kit from any suspicion.
"Why?" Kit demanded.
"We don't get along."
"Temple, you're my niece. My relatives don't have feuds with homicide detectives."
"It's not a feud, just... a personality conflict. And I happen to have suspicious associates."
"Us?" Kit asked in horror.
Temple shook her head and glanced at Electra, who looked as troubled as Temple had ever seen her.
"Electra, why don't you go back to the Phoenix? Who knows how long the inquisition will take, and you've got your contest submission to finish."
"Not now." Electra smiled for the first time that day. "It's done."
"You finished it? That's great."
"I suppose so, kiddo, but it would be better if you weren't in Dutch with that lieutenant."
"Oh, she just does these things to scare me into 'fessing up about Max."
"What's to 'fess up?" Kit asked.
"Nothing. That's the problem."
"More coffee?" Electra had risen and was looking toward the machine down the hall.
"Why not?" Temple said.
Molina came within the hour, a brown paper bag in each hand; her partner held two more.
"Maybe they brought us a snack," Temple whispered to her coconspirators.
Moments later Molina materialized behind the counter and nodded Temple in.
Her office was long and narrow, just wide enough for a desk and a path to edge by it. Molina sat behind the desk, her partner on a battered office chair near the wall.
Temple took one of the two chairs placed to face the desk.
"You think of anything more?" Molina asked.
Temple shook her head.
"No prints on the knife hilt."
"Then you didn't need mine--"
"No glove," Molina added sternly, as if that were Temple's fault.
"You didn't find a glove?"
Molina shook her head.
"What about the bird?"
"The hawk was backstage, on its perch, hooded. A woman named Cindy Blyer confirmed that Fabrizio had planned to use the bird in his act."
"But he didn't."
"Blyer claims that he decided at the last minute that it would be too awkward."
"The last minute?"
"About fifteen minutes before he was to go on for the dress rehearsal. She hadn't seen the glove, ever, but she had to be there to tend the bird. Nice job, personal PR specialist."
Molina suddenly leaned forward to regard Temple through eyes narrowed gunfighter-tight. "You're getting some beauties?"
"What?"
"Neck bruises," she explained, sitting back. "We'll want photos when they're fully developed.
Tomorrow."
"I have to come downtown again? At least I can go now--?"
"Go!" Molina ordered, as if dismissing an evil spirit.
Temple stood up. "And there was no glove in his dressing room?"
"Nothing but pretty-boy paraphernalia." Molina gestured at the paper bags. "Makeup and mousse; leather britches and shirts with sleeves the size of sails; big, trashy biker belts and boots."
Temple turned, then spun back. "Boots?"
Molina nodded. "You don't think he put a boot on one hand to keep his prints off the arrow?"
"No, but. . . what kind of boots?"
"That is odd." Molina leaned forward to flip through her notebook. "We found one like these in Moon's dressing room, too. Need to check if they're identical. Could be a freebie for all the contestants, or part of some costume they all have to wear."
Temple waited. Molina obliged by pulling something from one of the brown bags.
It was a galoot boot, size fourteen or fifteen, brand-new, with a pinkish tan sole and a silver-leather overlay. The rhinestones on its toe and heel glittered like dew on diamonds.
Chapter 32
Interview with the Executioner
Any first-rate crime follower nowadays knows what it takes to solve a murder that has no witnesses: hard evidence. (Actually, find
ing all evidence is hard.)
Since Miss Temple Barr has put herself into deeper danger with every step of her investigation into the late Cheyenne's death, I feel obligated to put my paw into the pudding. I am also well aware that my romantic complications have kept me from guarding Miss Temple with the regularity and concentration I am noted for when on the hunt.
So, since I have not been able to help her find the stunning shoes in my likeness as yet, I can at least find an article of apparel that has become famous in legal circles, the black leather hawking gauntlet that Fabrizio so conveniently mislaid before his death.
While shoes have a certain leather scent that I find compelling, I am hoping that the missing glove carries an aroma that I am particularly equipped to sniff out: the victim's blood. I admit that, because of my nature and the opportunity, I often had Miss Temple's television remote control tuned to the jurisprudence channel in 1995.1 can always use more prudence. It is obvious that, in this case, some scientific confirmation of everybody's suspicions is needed.
So off I go, on the trail of The Bloody Glove.
First, I need a witness, or the closest thing to one. So I hie to the Peacock Theater's backstage, where I find--besides dozens of humans readying for tonight's big show--one much overlooked individual.
Nobody has thought to question my secret witness. Even if anyone had, this tough customer would never talk. But Midnight Louie has his ways of communicating with the incorrigibly mute.
I leap atop a flat stored on its side, balance impeccably and warily inspect the suspect's vicinity. This is an individual so dangerous that it is kept caged. Even the cage is kept under wraps, so my first job is to drag off the cover. I accomplish it with a powerful swipe of my mitt and the assistance of my trusty built-in switchblades.
The canvas lies crumpled on the floor and I view my intimidating quarry.
This is a bird. Not the black bird of song and story, but a brown bird. A brown bird with long, curled claws that put my switchblades to shame. Those wicked talons can exert two thousand pounds of pressure when gripped around the prey's neck. My dear mama never exerted that kind of control when I was a kit and required toting from place to place.
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