Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (43 page)

“
Brilliant thinking," Temple said. "Where would a
food freak hide something but under fake fruit.”

Temple grabbed the flimsy keys and tried them in se
quence until all three file cabinets were unlocked. The
open drawers revealed colored hanging file folders
stuffed with a variety of colored file folders, each bearing
a clear crystal tab indicating its contents.

“Reading rainbow," Mariah commented.

“Seriously neat freak.”

Every food group, vitamin, study, and food additive
had a file folder. So did every Teen Queen candidate.

Temple collapsed on the floor to read about her alter
ego, Xoe Chloe, line by flashlit line. This wasn't just a
food plan (more fruit and fiber, less empty calories like soda pop), it was a psych sketch.

“
Am I glad I'm not really me!" she told Mariah. "I
show 'clear antisocial tendencies magnified to chronic instability.' Hey. I'm better at being bad than I thought.”

Mariah snatched the flashlight to study her file. "I'm
the 'typical only child' who's 'hidden behind baby fat.'
I'm 'desperately seeking a father figure!' Coulda fooled me."

“Listen, if Marjory Klein was so off about a fake personality like Xoe, she's certainly off about a real personlike you. Makes you wonder how off she was about everybody."

“She did have a beans and legumes fixation."

“To the point of mania. No wonder someone crammed some down her throat."

“Look! Golly. Here under 'Miscellaneous' are some court orders."

“About what?"

“Kids ordered into therapy with her."

“
Sad but true. Take a lesson from this, Mariah. You act
like Xoe Chloe once too often and you're sentenced to psychobabble."

“I like Xoe. She's way more fun than you are."

“So are a lot of things that are bad for you." Temple sighed. "Working with the dysfunctional stirs up ugly emotions, especially if you're inept. I can see someone
having a motive for murdering this woman now, I just
don't see who or exactly why.”

Temple ran her flashlight over another merry rainbow of folders. The light paused on a subject tab labeled "Indigestible.”

It was a weird category, so naturally she pulled it.
"Mariah! Look at this."

“
Do I have to? It's on that long legal-size paper that's
so boring."

“Right. Boring but important. This is a lawsuit." Tem
ple flipped back the pale blue pasteboard cover to skim
the legalese inside. "Wrongful death. Someone sued her
for malpractice! For . . . failing to prevent a fatal eat
ing disorder, for creating it, actually. This is serious
stuff."

“You mean, someone hated her enough to bring a suit against her?"

“Exactly. Someone's child died under her care."

“
We hear about anorexia and bulimia and stuff at
school. It's gross, and also nuts."

“And a heartbreaking, relentless condition. If someone
thought Marjory Klein had contributed to his or her
child's death by starvation, they might just stuff a bunch of food down her throat until she choked on it."

“I thought an allergy killed her."

“
Her own food peculiarities must have been known. Or
the killer mixed some poison in. We won't know the
cause of death unless your mother shares it with us, and I can't see why she would. You'd think this suit was still ongoing, or she wouldn't have brought it along. But look at the date."

“Nineteen ninety-one. I wasn't born yet."

“This doesn't make sense." Temple ran her thin line of light over endless legal phrases, then paged back to the beginning. "The dead girl's name has got to be in here somewhere. Maybe it'll mean something.”

Mariah hung over her shoulder, reading along with her.
"There!"

“Where?"

“Two lines below where you're reading. 'Chastity Cummings.' Man, I'd like to die if my first name was
Chastity! That's worse than Mariah. I mean, think what
the other kids would say the minute you got out of kinder
garten."

“Kids are teasing kids over words like 'chastity' in the early grades?"

“In Catholic schools they are. The thing about going to
a religious school is you get all those nasty words like
`lust' and 'adultery' and `O-Nanism' and stuff early. It's
all in the Bible."

“Right. Being reared a Unitarian, I was .cheated of all that early lurid class content. Rats."

“What's a Unitarian?"

“
Unitarian Universalist. We see God and the world as inclusive and tolerant.""You mean you wouldn't stone or smite anybody?”

“Right. Ours not to judge."

“Somebody has to, or my mom wouldn't have a job.”

“That's civil law. That's different. Anyway, I don't get why this old suit is still in her active files.”

Mariah had pushed herself up to her knees to root in
the file drawer again.

“
Look! Here's a sheet of paper that caught in the fold-over part of the hanging file.”

Piece was right. Just a torn-off triangle from one corner of a plain sheet of white paper. Not typed, written on. Just
a date and a few scrawled words, the ends of three lines.

Maybe somebody had removed a folder in a hurry and a page had caught in the cardboard seam and pulled off. Recently, or ages ago.

Oops. Very recently.

“Ah." Temple sat back on her heels while her moving flashlight told a fascinating if somewhat staccato story. The date read February 14, 2005.

This scrap was as timely as today. Only months old. Valentine's Day. A favorite one for expression of sentiments sweet, and perhaps bittersweet, maybe even sour. Maybe even poisonous.

“Is it a valentine?" Mariah sounded hopeful. "Lots of people keep them. We do valentines at school but everybody's chicken and girls send friendship ones to girls and that's all. Boys would rather die than send a valentine."

“Just wait." Temple advised her. She frowned at the penmanship. Maybe her fake green contacts were coloring the ink, making it harder to read. She deciphered the few words ending each line:

I'll never forget . . . murderous bitch like you . . . incompetent on national TV.

“
That's it," Temple said after murmuring the words to Mariah. "That's the motive. We better get this to your mother.”

Temple held up the scrap by her plastic gloves. "Thank God neither of our fingerprints are on it. Can you find the
equivalent of a plastic baggie in this office . . . without leaving fingerprints?"

“Easy." Mariah hopped up. "Mrs. Klein handed out `healthful snacks' in plastic baggies from the little fridge
behind her desk. Sliced rutabaga, can you imagine? It is
to gag.”

Mariah was soon back with a baggie of sliced . . .
Temple peered at the browning contents. Looked like shredded turnip greens and sliced medulla oblongata, or possibly liver. She dumped the mess into Mariah's palms as she dried the inside of the baggie on her T-shirt hem and placed the paper remnant inside.

“My mom's going to wonder if you're passing on evidence of a threatening note or a salad."

“B oth.”

Mariah dumped her sticky handful into a second plas
tic bag of unknown nibblies. "We'd better throw this
mess out upstairs."

“Right. Now let's hope we can make it back to headquarters without attracting any unwelcome attention.”

Mariah giggled. "You're so funny. The way you talk. I
don't get why my mom considers you such an awful
pest."

“
I haven't a clue, Mariah. Sometimes moms are like
that. Behind the times. Let's blow this joint.”

First, they collected all their napkins. Then Temple
used the flashlight beam to lead their way out. She shut it off before she edged the door open. Silence greeted the
motion. She pushed the door open farther and heard
nothing. Prodding Mariah out, she followed and slowly,
slowly shut the door, turning to duck under the crime
scene tape . . .

. . . and spied a black cat sitting right there in the hall, like a welcoming committee of one, feet primly paired, ears perked, eyes inscrutable.

For once it was not Louie. This cat was smaller, longer of coat, and gold of eye, not green.

But its face wore the same superior smirk!
I see you. "Oh."
Mariah reached out to pet the lovely thing but it darted away like a feral.

“Forget the cat," Temple whispered. "We need to get home without anyone noticing us.”

In a house full of cameras this was always a problem. Which was why they headed first for the kitchen, then up to the room.

If any camera did capture some part of their wanderings, they could always claim a raid on the refrigerator.

Chapter 48

Recipe
for Murder

Temple called Mama Bear as soon as they returned to
their room.

The cell phone didn't produce the strongest signal in
the world in the bathroom with the water running, but secret agents had to get used to adverse conditions.

Mariah was in the outer room, reading the paper fragment through the plastic baggie and munching on a stash
of julienned raw carrots she was allowed as snacks. Yum.

The hour was late and Temple felt some unkindly satis
faction at getting Mariah's mother up.

“Yes." The voice was so sudden and stern that Temple
momentarily couldn't decide how to begin. She wasn't
used to being barked at.

While she hesitated, Molina's voice came back on the line even more demanding. "Who is this?"

“Ah, Xoe."

“Xoe?" Apparently, her alter ego hadn't made an im
pression on Molina. So much for a chance with the judges.

“
Right. I've found some fascinating papers in the dead dietitian's office. You should have them right away."

“
You." Molina actually sounded glad about that. "What
papers?"

“A lawsuit involving Mrs. Klein several years ago."

“We know about that. My detectives did a background check and it came up. So you woke me up for that?"

“
And a scrap of paper dated last February fourteenth. It
sounds threatening. It apparently was torn off the con
tents of a folder as it was being taken out. Someone didn't
notice."

“Valentine's Day hate note, eh? That sounds more promising. No nice and neat signature, like 'Your Killer,' I suppose?”

Temple didn't bother answering that bit of sarcasm. "What were you doing in the woman's office anyway? That's still a crime scene."

“I am, therefore, I snoop. I thought that's what I was here for."

“
You're here to keep an eye on Mariah. Where was she
while you were on this law-breaking expedition?"

“Urn, in our room, studying some papers and snacking on carrot sticks."

“Carrot sticks! Commendable if out of character. I suppose your prints are all over that office now."

“No. I used a pair of latex gloves, just like the pros.”

“Where'd you get—" _

“They dyed my hair as part of the makeover but had
their own gloves. And I never throw anything away, so . . .”

“
They dyed your hair? All of it?"

“This is a makeover show."

“What have they done to Mariah?"

“Nothing. Yet. Except make her work out and eat veggies."

“Don't let them dye her hair."

“
I'll do what I can."

“
So you wore hair-dye gloves to search the office. Unbelievable."

“And the paper scrap is in a plastic baggie fresh from Mrs. Klein's office refrigerator. I had to throw out some guck to get an empty baggie."

“
That's all right. Our crime scene people have already
taken samples of everything in there for analysis.”

“
So how do we exchange the evidence."

“
'We' do not. I'll send Alch over in the morning. You
know him, Mariah knows him, and one of you two should
be able to pass him a baggie without undue attention."

“We've got a window of opportunity between 8:15 and 8:30."

“
That early? I'll have to call Morrie tonight yet.”

“
This is beauty boot camp, you know. No laggards here.”

“
Except the dead.”

Speaking of which, the line went dead.

Temple was slow in folding away her cell phone. Molina
had sounded really growly when she'd first answered the phone, before she even knew it was Temple. Suspicious and growly. And something else. Temple called upon her theatrical background to conjure just the right word to describe the other note in the lieutenant's usual gruff and businesslike tone. Anxious, maybe? No. Scared.

Temple shut off the water and pulled down the washcloths. She was hanging so many napkins and towels around suspected camera sites she felt like a laundress.

In the bedroom, all the lights were blazing but Mariah had tunneled completely under the covers and was lost in
sudden, absolute adolescent sleep, her rear end humped
up to make an island in the pink silk sea of coverlet.

Temple went over to the table to inspect the papers that
had put Mariah to sleep. The only sexy one was the torn
scrap of threat. And something about that bothered Temple.

She sat down at Mariah's abandoned chair and read theterse words. "Murderous bitch" was pretty damning. And
"incompetent." But the last words were strange . . . "on na
tional TV." Thing is, Kit hadn't been selected for the show
until a month ago. Reality TV shows moved fast. They had
very little budget, just a quick casting call to the public at large, assembling a panel of experts, scouting a ready-made site.

From what Kit had said, why would Marjory Klein
have known about the show over three months ago? Be
cause the note-writer was taunting her about appearing on
it, was maybe stirred up by it. Was trying to scare her. And
who took the folder out that had contained that letter?
Someone who knew Marjory and her anal-retentive ways.

Someone who was announcing that he or she was
aware of Marjory's every move scarily soon. A stalker.
Maybe that's why Marjory brought the lawsuit papers
with her. She didn't trust them left at home. Or she
wanted to leave a clue in case anything had happened. Like the threatening note. Only the killer had taken the note. Or most of it. So the note had to be incriminating.