Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (23 page)

The many oversize white leather ottomans that the
candidates had lolled upon in teen preening positions
were empty now, and resembled giant poisonous mushrooms sprouting from the exotic wood-inlay floor.

The vast room was so dim and deserted that Temple braced herself for spotting another doll-like corpse, however ersatz.

But she was the only girl in residence.

Though not quite the only resident.

A figure stood, rising from one of the huge paired wing
chairs near the see-through fireplace that served both the den and dining room.

It was tall, dark, and . . . familiar.

It leaned over to turn on a nearby torchère, casting
light upward that defused before it reached the twenty-
foot ceiling.

Cheese it, the cops!
Cop, singular. Very singular.
And not Molina.

In fact, the anti-Molina.

Rafi Nadir, attired in casual black, like Max, but much less expensively than Max, came toward her.

She stood paralyzed. He'd already seen through one half-hearted disguise of hers. Would he detect this much more thorough one just as fast?

He looked leaner and meaner than his usual bloated, discontented self. He looked serious.

“
What are you doing roaming around this place?" he asked.

Fight or flight? Rafi wasn't going to go away. Might as
well find out now whether she could fool him or not. If not, maybe she'd have an ally inside. But, for now, undercover was her best option.

Temple/Xoe snapped her gum, then mumbled around
it, "I'm a contestant. This is supposed to be . . . home.”

Luckily, his eyes were scanning the overall scene, only
half on her. "It's a TV set. And somebody is altering the
script. You belong in your room, little girl. Better get back
there."

“I suppose you can make me," Xoe challenged.

That girl never could keep her mouth shut when it mattered.

“Yes." He was two feet away now. He looked away
again. "But that's not my job. That's just some advice
from someone who knows when a situation is escalating into the weird and dangerous."

“I like the weird and dangerous.”

He looked her up and down. "You think you do. I'm private security. I can't tell you what to do. I just say you oughta get back to your room. Lock the door. Do your
nails. Wait for the producers to say the show must go on."

“
Private? Like a PI?"

“God, no.”

She knew that'd get his goat. Like all ex-cops, even
disgraced ex-cops, Rafi hated private detectives.
"I was thinking of hiring you, is all."

“
Yeah, right." He actually chuckled. "You Teen
Queens think you're Britney Spears when you're really Nancy Drew. I'm already spoken for."

“
Oh?" Temple tried to sound indifferent but Xoe
sounded interested. "By whom?"

“By Savannah Ashleigh, the judge, is whom."

“
She's no judge. She's just an actress, and a bad one.”

“I don't judge clients. But I think she's right in being worried. So why a punk little chick like you is boogying
around Hell House after all these unsettling incidents
beats me. Given all the black you're wearing, must be a death wish."

“I don't like being penned up."

“You might consider that's exactly what might happen
if there's another nasty prank and you're wandering
around unaccounted for. I'd skedaddle back to my safe
little room if I were you."

“It's not little.”

He suddenly lunged forward, his booted foot smacking the floor.

She jerked back, retreating. It had worked. Xoe Chloe had made him too mad to see past her cheesy, mouthy exterior.

“Listen,
little
lady." He caught her arms and pulled her close and spoke low. "My job is to guard the Ashleigh
broad but I'll give you some free expert advice. Some
body around here is this close to the edge. You don't want to end up spattered on the exercise machines, stay in your
room. Don't wander around alone; do as you're told."

“
And you're protecting Savannah Ashleigh by loung
ing around in the den?”

His grip tightened. A fist came up.

Temple dodged but she couldn't break free. Her "pal" Rafi wouldn't do this to her, but it was instructive to see what he'd do to some unknown young girl. How had she ever thought he might be a midge better than the sleaze-ball Molina had made him out to be?

She winced, expecting a blow.

Instead he waved a cat-whisker-thin black wire at her.

“This place is bugged. Surveilled. All for the camera crews. But someone, maybe anyone, must be using this setup to watch and hear whatever he wants to, anytime. I'm going to track his ass through the same wires he uses to terrorize you people. Get it? Now shut up, get back to your room, and save your own pierced little skin.”

When he let her go, she almost lost her balance. "Surveilled" was not a word but Temple decided this was not
the time to mention that. He stalked off without waiting
to see if she was taking his advice.

He was right, though. They were all experimental rats in a maze. Technology was their reason for being here, and their Achilles' heel.

Could Rafi himself be the creep who was stalking the show, relishing being called in to track himself?

What a mess. The cast and crew were too large, the
pool of victims too numerous, and the potential evil-doer too easily hidden.

It was just a matter of time, she knew—and Rafi had in
dicated that he knew too
     
before someone really got hurt.

And not even Lieutenant Molina could do a thing
about it.

Rafi was right about one thing: she belonged upstairs keeping an eye on Mariah, 24/7.

Chapter 26

Midnight
Attack

"So what'd you find out?”

Mariah was sitting cross-legged on one side of the gi
ant bed, painting her toenails atop the pink silk bed
spread.

“
Whoops!" Temple grabbed her notebook, opened it
flat, and poised Mariah's chubby little toes on top of it. "You might drip."

“I won't drip," she said, looking up.

Temple looked down just in time to watch a red glob of
nail enamel hit the notebook and pool there like a gobbet of designer-shade blood.

“So spake Dracula," Temple said. "Everybody drips
painting their toenails. It's a girly rule since the Garden
of Eden. Eve did it. Evita did it. Even the Dixie Chicks do
it. We don't want to trash the room. That'll give us black marks in the competition.”

Mariah said nothing but bit her lower lip in concentration as she painted her last big toenail.

“You're acting like one big drip," Mariah finally said. "You're like my mother. I can't do anything right."

“
You're doing everything fine, just not over the pink
silk bedspread with the scarlet nail polish, all right?”

Temple sat on the bed's end. "Is something wrong?"

“Just that this whole place is stupid, and everybody in
i
t.”

Temple pasted a cautionary finger to her lips.

“I don't care," Mariah said, even louder. "This place is
creepy, even without the shaving cream threats and the
just too gross rubber . . . thing on the exercise machine. I can't believe I'm saying this but I want to go home."

“What's wrong?”

Mariah starting picked at her cuticles where the polish had smeared, peeling off tiny flecks of dried enamel.

“I'm the only girl in my category who has to do two hours of workouts a day and live on Bugs Bunny leavings.”

Temple paused, not knowing what to say. Then Mariah
said it for her.

“I'm the only girl here who has to lose weight to win.
It's not fair! I've only got a week left, and now all I can
see when I do the treadmill is that stupid, bloody balloon
girl. Maybe she got spattered because she was too fat too."

“
You're not fat."

“You sound like my mom, and I don't believe her either."

“
It's baby pudge. You haven't hit your full height is all.
You'll be willowy like your mom in no time."

“Her? Willowy?"

“Well . . . maybe maple-y. She's a little solid for a willow; cops need to be. But she's not overweight."

“Oh, yeah? She's a member of Weight Watchers and she's always on me to join too."

“Weight Watchers." Temple felt numbed by surprise. She'd never pegged the terrible Lieutenant Molina as out of control in any area.

“She only has to go once in a while 'cuz she's a life member," Mariah added. "I'd have to get weighed every week and sit around with a bunch of fat old ladies.”

Molina a lifer in Weight Watchers. Okay, that did fit
with what Temple knew of the woman. Disciplined. Did
it once and it was over. The kind of person who could quit
smoking in one day. But once upon a time . . . Molina had
been pudgy too? Hard to imagine but very pleasant to contemplate nonetheless. Even though Temple was noticing her own weight creeping up since hitting year thirty.

“Listen," Temple told Mariah. "If you've got a few
pounds to lose, start now while it's easier. You already
look pinchier in the cheeks and waist, so that rabbit food and extreme exercise must be working. A lot of it's probably only water weight."

“That's another thing. I hate that! It's so gross. It hurts and it makes me look fatter."

“Listen, kiddo. Everything women do makes us look fatter, including appearing on camera. Maybe it isn't us
looking fatter but the world deciding how we should look.
You made the finals, just the way you are. They must really, really like you.”

Mariah frowned. "That last phrase sounded familiar."

“
Sally Field on winning an Oscar. Everyone thought
she was too kiddish and 'lightweight' to do that. But she did. Twice."

“Is that the little old lady who plays somebody's mother on some sitcom? She did? She won two Oscars?”

“Against all odds, and with the usual monthly bloat." Mariah set her nail polish bottle—the label read "Hot Hibiscus"—atop the nightstand beside her.

“I'll think about it," she allowed.

“Good. Can I turn the light out now?"

“I guess.”

Temple took that as the teenage equivalent of a yes.

She slipped out of her wig and into her nightshirt once the light was off, and then into the
aaahhhh-cool,
four hundred-count sheets right after that.

Molina a Weight Watcher? Nothing wrong about that. Admirable, really. Except Temple couldn't stop grinning. Molina with her shoes off, weighing in like a lamb? Counting calories instead of counts on a rap sheet? Worried about that universal female bugaboo, weight.

Ummm,
sweet dreams are made of these.

Temple awoke in the dark, suddenly disoriented. Strange room, strange bed, very strange sense of unease.

Had she just heard something? She listened. The hidden cameras didn't click, rattle, and roll, so the constant surveillance wasn't making her antsy.

Something was.

What?

A restless, hungry feeling. The menus at this place
were low-carb, low-sugar, and low-fat. That could get on one's nerves.