Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (22 page)

What riveted her gaze was instantly obvious.

A blood-spattered figure in a hot pink leotard lay
slumped over an elliptical walker machine . . . the very kind of machine that Savannah had been putting through
its paces, or vice versa, just moments before in her private
office.

Mariah gasped, and Silver screamed until her hair
should have turned white had she not bleached it that
shade long ago.

Temple gradually realized that the figure on the walker
had
pointed
hands and feet. And then she saw that its
bubble-gum-pink flesh, spattered with a measles of blood
drops, was rather . . . rubbery.

Footsteps were pounding into the room behind them
and stopping.

“She looks like a Barbie doll," Mariah's clear young voice said.

Temple nodded. She'd heard of defaced and mutilated
Barbie doll images showing up around town from
Mariah's mother.

But this was worse. This figure was life-size.

“It's not a real person, it's a blow-up doll," Temple murmured.

“
What's that?" Mariah's dark eyes demanded an hon
est answer.

“Later," Temple hissed under her breath. "Cameras.”

By now the kitschy security forces were pushing their
way into the room . . . and coming up mortified at the
scene they confronted.

No way bronzed Greek god he-men were going to deal with butchered sex toys.

Beth Marble had finally arrived. Her voice could be heard urging the girls to leave immediately.

Temple went over to take Silver's arm. "Easy. It's just a
doll. You can't kill Barbie. She's forever. Come on.”

Silver moved in tiny baby steps like an old, old
woman. Amazing how shocking unreality could be.

Yet Temple couldn't underestimate the sick mentality
at work, or how bold it was. Someone knew the setup and
was exploiting it.

Someone? Anyone. The crew was an assemblage of workers from here and anywhere. The contestants were selected from anyone who chose to enter. Temple knew for a fact that being a finalist could be manipulated. This could be about more than a single demented prankstercum-killer. It could be a conspiracy.

The producers could have arranged it. Maybe this had always been more horror show than beauty/makeover pageant.
American Idol-cum-Fear Factor

“
I'm calling the police," Beth announced from the hall when the room had been cleared and the double doors firmly shut on the bloodied doll.

The bloodied life-size actual doll. The faux victims
were getting bigger, and the "attacks" closer together and bolder. More personal.

Temple was interested to see three nervous men she'd never spotted before, overdressed for members of the camera crew. Must be the "suits" from the producers' office. They had to be lurking around here somewhere, clean-shaven bland-looking men whose ages were in the
indeterminate twilight zone of forty to sixty. Two of them
immediately nixed calling the police.

Beth shook off their opposing voices. "Everyone go to your rooms and stay there until further notice.”

Everyone but the suits was forced to drift away, whispering to one another despite the ever-eavesdropping cameras and mikes.

“
Scream Queen," someone whispered before they all dispersed to their separate cells . . . rooms. "Silver should get a lot of screen time for this.”

"So what got everyone unglued about that doll, besides
the blood?" Mariah asked in the shower-steamed bath
room, while water pattered into the tub 4nd down the
drain. Xoe and Mariah watched from the center of the room. They would shortly be regarded as the cleanest candidates in the competition. "Sure it was gross, Xoe Chloe, but it was just a dead balloon. I mean, talk about airheads—”

And what, Temple wondered, would Mama Molina think of Xoe Chloe (Mariah obviously loved the comic book name) enlightening her sheltered daughter about sleazy ads in the back of men's magazines?

But she explained, as delicately as she could. She'd al
ways heard that parents should be honest about sex educa
tion. Even dragooned
in loco parentis
types like herself.

Mariah reared back. "Gross! Guys are so pathetic. And now gruesome too. Whoever is doing this is major sick."

“
Some guys. And the red may not have been real blood.
And the perp may be sick, or just pretending to be."

“What do you mean?”

Temple mopped at her sweat-dewed brow. The wig was
looking very natural thanks to all these steam baths. It
was relaxing, growing just like real hair. Maybe someday
soon she would become a real Xoe Chloe, like Pinocchio became a real boy.

“
These are flashy incidents," Temple said, "designed to
upset people and just begging to bring in the authorities.
Maybe someone has it in for the show's producers.
There's a point when too much freaky publicity hurts
rather than helps a project. I'm Miss Public Relations.
Trust me on this."

“
So someone's trying to ruin the show." Mariah nod
ded. "Could be."

“Or it's an elaborate setup."

“Or it's a real sicko."

“Those are the options."

“
Do you think my mom will get involved in this?”

“Like a Kevlar vest on a SWAT team."

“
Oh . . . shoot. She'll ruin everything. Can't she ever
just let me do anything by myself?"

“Hey! She okayed this whole deal, despite your never
telling her in advance, but it's going way beyond any of
us being Teen or 'Tween Queens. It's starting to look like Junior Miss
Fear Factor"

“
If we solve this thing, we can get this show back on
the road."

“To me, that is not a good thing, Mariah."

“
Oh, no. You're cool. You've got a real shot at this.”

“
You think so?"

“Absolutely. Nobody here needs a do-over more than you."

“Thanks."

“
I mean, it's brilliant. You are just awesomely wrong. I wish
I
coulda had that much to start with.”

Chapter 24

Great Big

Beautiful Doll

It seems the Divine Yvette has taken it into her pretty
little head that since the little doll named Silver found
the big doll named Balloon, a shaded
silver
Persian is
likely to be the next victim of random spattering.

“
She is very superstitious," sister Solange explains to
me in the hall when I am denied access to the suite ac
corded to Miss Savannah Ashleigh and dependents.
"She will not leave her carrier or take food. Other than
caviar and sirloin tips, of course, which our mistress
must hand-feed to her.”

I would like to see Miss Savannah down on her
knees doling out the tidbits to the pink canvas carrier,
for the Divine Yvette when in a mood is as likely to
snap as to snarf.

However, I am out in the hall with her shaded golden sister, and Midnight Louie is not one to overlook an opportunity of any color or stripe.

“
Since we are clearly not needed during the present
crisis, we can take a stroll on the grounds and perhaps figure something out."

“The grounds?"

“Yeah. Out by the pool. All the freak show people are
huddling in the den trying to think up security ploys. It
seems the producers threw a hissy fit at the idea of
bringing the police in. Might close the show down.
Luckily, my Miss Temple is already in place."

“She is? Where?”

I feel a rush of pride for my little doll and her success
at the undercover arts. The stunning Solange did meet
her when we were all in the Big Apple last Christmas
auditioning for the big come-on of an A La Cat con
tract. Unfortunately, murder-most-Noel put the whole commercial deal on the back burner.

Also, an unwanted delicate condition sidelined the
Divine Yvette's performing career for a few months,
causing the sponsor to invoke the morals clause in her
contract. Miss Savannah Ashleigh in turn leveled a
wrongful paternity suit at moi. It is no wonder the Di
vine One is a bit high-strung. We all came out of that
incident worse for wear but at least Miss Temple went
to
The People's Court
to prove me innocent as a lamb. Still, I do my best to avoid the instep-arching spikes of
Miss Savannah's footwear, as she would still like to nail
me for daring to befriend Yvette.

“
Where?" Solange interrupts my reverie, reminding
me that past embarrassments should not upstage the
presence of a lovely and unescorted lady with jade-
green eyes.

“
I am not at liberty to say but am glad to know that
she is safely disguised. This looks to be a rough
crowd."

“
Oh, it is." Solange amiably follows me down the hall
to the back areas of the mansion. "These girls all have
such long claws, and they chitter and coo every time
they see Yvette or me and try to pick us up and pet us.
All that nasty hand and cuticle cream lotion on our
freshly powdered coats." She shudders delicately. "Our
mistress can be distressingly dense at times, but she
always wears cotton gloves when handling us.”

This strikes me as more than somewhat fastidious.
"My Miss Temple does like to run her nails and fingers
through my hair, but she is always gentle and I believe
that her natural oils add sheen and polish to my coat.”

We have by now eeled through the kitchen door,
aided by our collaborative doorwoman, the cook, who
has taken quite a fancy to Solange.

“
My mistress has no natural oils but she has rows
and rows of unnatural ones she applies to various por
tions," Solange reveals as we step into the shadow of
the portico, then into the unfiltered sunlight. "My! Your
coat is indeed as sleek as black satin. You could go to
the Oscars and be a star on the red carpet."

“
Alas, our commercial endeavors are over, and I
doubt they would have garnered us a nomination. The members of the Academy have certain prejudices, you know.”

We settle in the shade of a rattan lounge chair by the pool. It is like retiring to an airy pergola. Small slivers of
sunlight pierce our retreat, creating entrancing pat
terns on Solange's golden back.

“
First the pool area," I muse. "Then the exercise
room. Does that suggest a pattern?"

“
The prankster is striking at various areas of the
house where pageant activities are scheduled."

“
Scheduled. That is exactly it. Each day here is laid
out from hour to hour on schedules all the entrants and
participants are following. Pretty easy to get one jump
ahead of them."

“
Yet the shaving cream used in the pool area was
'borrowed' from the freebies in the girls' lockers. That
sounds like an impulsive move.”

I regard Solange's sweet, contented Persian face
with surprise. I had always thought of her as Yvette's
larger darker plumper sister but maybe she is to her
sister Yvette as Mycroft Holmes is to Sherlock, bigger
and brighter. She shows some talent in the problem-
solving department I have never spotted in my Divine
One's makeup.

“
And," she adds, licking a fluffy mitt and applying it to
an airy eyebrow hair, "the bad-boy toy in the exercise
room would need to have been imported, which im
plies premeditation."

“Say, you are no slacker in the logic department."

“I owe it to my mistress's elevated TV-viewing tastes. She is hooked on CS/.”

I spit. It is all I can do not to hiss in the presence of a lady. "That bogus show elevates the humble evidence
technician, when it is us detectives who really do the
fancy footwork and ferret out the answers."

“
Ferret! Do not mention that miserable creature. I
had an unfortunate encounter with one of that kind."

“
I am not fond of ferrets either. They are sly and
sneaky."

“Exactly.
If
one were on the premises, I would know whom to suspect."

“
Wait a minute! One is on the premises. A human
ferret. And we must not overlook the possibility that a
human male on the show personally imported the
overblown lady . . . and someone else appropriated it
as an object of fear and disgust.”

Solange slaps her mitt back to the pavement. "I do
not like crime solving. It requires thinking and rethink
ing, and I really should be in my room having my
beauty rest. Except that Yvette is getting all the atten
tion with her usual spoiled behavior.”

This small temper tantrum on Solange's part re
minds me of the intense competition between the Teen
Queen candidates. All the hoopla and dirty tricks might
only be Mean Girls in action.

One can never underestimate the human propensity
for malice, spite, and mayhem.

I escort Solange back to her quarters but we are
forced to duck into a doorway when we spot a man's big black boot emerging through Miss Savannah Ash
leigh's door.

I am sorry to say that I recognize the rest of the man
when I am able to see as high as his face, and give a
low thrum of recognition.

“Ay, carumbar!"

“What is it, Louie?"

“Well put. Not so much a 'who' but a 'what' We are
regarding Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina's worst night
mare and a serious fly in the ointment my Miss Temple
will be none too pleased to see here either."

“
He is tall, dark, and grim looking but what other kind
of monster can this man be, and why is he leaving my mistress's quarters? Are she and Yvette all right?"

“
I cannot reveal matters that I am confidentially in
formed about but that are hidden from the rest of the
world. Let us just say that Mr. Rafi Nadir is bad news to everyone I know.”

Chapter 25

Close Encounters of the

Weird Kind

Temple decided that Xoe Chloe would not be one to
cower in her room at the sight of a dead life-size blowup doll. Even if it was bigger than she was.

So she began a tour of the strangely deserted mansion.
Apparently, the other candidates were the sort to cower in
their rooms at the sight of a dead blowup doll, even if
they were all bigger than it was.

It had taken all her persuasive PR powers to convince Mariah to remain safely in their room. Unauthorized explorations through the pageant house could very well get the younger girl disqualified. She didn't want to risk that, did she?

“What if you get thrown out?" Mariah asked passion
ately. (Girls her age were always passionate.) They spoke,
as usual, under the cover of the thundering shower water.

Both she and Temple were getting Irish-soft skin from all this steaming, and were winning spontaneous compliments from Team Teen Queen for their "glowing" complexions. Subterfuge does have its pluses.

“They won't throw me out," Temple said. "This show needs a Bad Girl like Buffy the Vampire Slayer needed evil slayer Faith."

“
You watched
Buffy: The Vampire Slayer?"
Mariah's
voice broadcast new respect.

“Still watching reruns. So. If you recall, sometimes little sister Dawn couldn't come along. This is one of those times. And think how mad your mother would be if I got you tossed off the show, after all the trouble she went to seeing you had a partner in crime here on-site."

“
I can't believe she let me come, with those creepy
show posters turning up."

“I can't believe she
made me
come.”

Mariah gaped at her for a moment, her soft features
looking absurdly fifth-grade for a second. "My mother
tells you what to do too?"

“Sometimes. She's da cops, you know."

“I know." Said with discouragement.

“
That's okay. We've got an inside track on what's re
ally going on."

“Why are you doing this?" Mariah's face suddenly
showed an adult expression, half worry, and half hope.
"Your mom offered me my heart's desire."

“She can do that?"

“In my case. And . . . after I saw that defaced poster, I agreed that you needed a partner inside."

“
Yeah. That was creepy. I can't believe she showed
that to me."

“I think she wanted you to see that she could treat you like an adult."

“
Really?" The word had ended on an adolescent squeal.
"Sometimes. If it's important. But you've got a ways to go before you earn the right to be treated that way full time.”

Mariah grinned and leaned back against the sweating
bathroom tile. Niagara Falls roared away into the bath
tub, making it into a hot tub. "A long way. Like lying around here under the hidden cameras in the bedroom reading my pink Teen Queen folder while you pussyfoot around and have all the fun."

“Yeah. Like that."

“
Okay.”

Temple smiled as she fronted down the hall, always
aware of the cameras. Some maturity was creeping into Mariah, making her a heartbreaking blend of reliability
and impossible imaginings. Teenagers had hot flashes
too, Temple decided. Easy for her to say, caught as she was in the great long slog between maturation and menopause.

Meanwhile, she could play thirteen-going-on-twenty again and act out.

What struck her first was how tortuously this house
was designed. It was an assemblage of separate wings joined by modern breezeways, with Mondrian-like windows inset here and there.

What struck her second was how difficult it would be
to do mischief here, given all the hidden cameras. That meant the perp was either part of the production crew or had access to the camera installations.

Like a major hotel casino, the house would need some
sort of central spy chamber where the images from all the
cameras unreeled. Where someone watched and
recorded. Several someones. Most likely the technicians and producers but perhaps also someone with a more sinister purpose.

Temple was thinking about who this Sinister Someone
could be so hard she turned the corner into the den area
of the house and ran right into someone coming the otherway: face-to-face and, ick, belly-to-belly, as in the oldie "Zombie Jamboree" song.

Double ick!! Rocketing Rollerblades! Where were
Lexan bullet-proof shields when a girl needed them?

She had ended up cheek by jowl with the diminutive Crawford Buchanan!

Temple disengaged as fast as Xoe Chloe's size fives could manage it.

“
Hey, little lady!" He reached out to steady her from
the impact.

He should be so lucky.

“Chill, dude.”

Temple skated away from him on the smooth marble floor despite having no Rollerblades beneath her feet at the moment. She could still move like a street skater. (In fact, her four older brothers had taught her to waltz on
Minnesota concrete years ago. Without knee or elbow
pads. You never knew what you would be grateful for, thanks to obnoxious older brothers, years later.)

“You're quite the spunky little dark horse," he said.

“Just send me a ticket to the Belmont Stakes," she rejoined.

“
All this ugly hullabaloo and here you are, out and
about like a Dead End Kid."

“A dead what?"

“
Guess you're way too young to remember that old
film stuff. I'd like to do an interview with you. Crawford Buchanan, media personality. I'm embedded here for KREP-AM radio."

“Embedded? Dude, that sounds s000 sleazy.”

What a ferrety little weasel! Or was that piling on animal comparisons? No doubt, Temple knew she'd like fer
rets and weasels a lot better than Awful Crawford. What a
phony, with his cultivated basso that rumbled like gang
warfare and his salon-styled hair that reflected every
trendy fashion. She couldn't believe the new gold high- lights in its already dramatic black-and-silver tones, courtesy of Mother Nature.

The highlights reminded her of Matt Devine, who was so much more worthy of bumping into than Crawford Buchanan. She wondered what he was doing in Chicago
on his vacation. Would he ever believe . . . ? No, and he'd
certainly never approve of doing such a wild and crazy
thing, this dangerous masquerade, all for the sake of Max
Kinsella.

Or was it?

“
So, kiddo." Crawford was waxing oily again. "The
old place is pretty spooky now that someone's leaving funny valentines all over it.”

He'd immediately snapped her attention back to the
here and now.

“
What did you call it?" she asked, struck by his phrase.
"This harassment?"

“Funny valentines. You know, the fluffy cream on the
hot pink yoga mats. The . . . strawberry syrup spray on
the, uh, balloon lady in the workout room. It's all a joke."

“And if it isn't?"

“
Don't worry, babe. I'll be here to rescue you and
record it all for KREP.”

Hmmm.
Another hanger-on, another motive. Maybe Crawford needed to bolster poor drive-time numbers. These flashy incidents could do it.

“
I don't listen to those middle-of-the-road stations,
man," Xoe sneered in answer.

“
I'm not middle-of-the-road—" he replied, frowning.
"No, just road kill. Scram, old geek, or I'll run my
spikes right through you.”

Temple fanned out her claws and pushed past him into the empty den. She breathed out her relief when he didn't follow her in. How odd to think of everyone hunkered down in their rooms for safety's sake . . . when they were all being spied upon and recorded 24/7.

This whole setup was a voyeur's dream, she realized. Not the vague, general voyeuristic public instinct that supported reality TV but an honest-to-God, freaky, perverted voyeur of the old school.

The den was eerily deserted. Three large plasma TVs
were blank gray screens on the wood-paneled walls,
looking like modern art frames someone had forgotten to put the pictures in.