Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (31 page)

“You don't look like a chick who'd go down a dark hidden passage anymore.”

Temple was annoyed to discover herself insulted.

Chapter 33

Upping the Auntie

Temple knocked on the door of room number two with
her knuckles, almost hoping no one was home.

“Come in.”

Drat. Watch out for what you claim you want; you
might get it.

Kit Carlson sat at a French desk, clickety-clacking
away on a large-screen laptop computer, lips moving silently and eyes fixed on the text in front of her.

After a minute, Temple said in a little girl voice quite
unlike her natural husky rasp, "I hope I'm not interrupt
ing anything?”

Kit's head finally turned, slowly, from the screen to recognize her presence.

“Just the climax of my latest book."

“I thought you wrote romances.”

Kit's eyes looked over the plastic rims of her glasses. "Exactly."

“
Oh, that kind of climax. It's happening . . . right
here?"

“You don't suppose I compose in the bathtub?"

“I wouldn't doubt it. I don't know if my jet-black mascara goes with my blindingly blonde hair. You have a lighter kind of mascara?”

Kit pushed her glasses up on her nose. She was a small
woman with chin-length hair that insisted on assuming large loose strawberry-gray curls. She seemed better cast
as some well-aged French chanteuse in a small nightclub,
gargling throaty world-weary songs sans mike, a glass of poison-green absinthe sitting on the piano beside her.

“Of course. Dead-black mascara on me makes me look
like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. I have a nice warm
brown shade that should compliment your new
Goldilocks locks. Come into my parlor for a moment.”

Once they'd hied into the privy, Temple asked her most
burning question.

“
Do I still pass as undercover agent after being
forcibly stripped of my wig?"

“A dreadful thing for a double agent, to lose the cover
of darkness. But I must say Ken Adair did a terrific job of
making the real you look utterly unlike yourself."

“So my new look isn't a dead giveaway?"

“Oh, no, dear. It's a spectacular success."

“So you're saying I look too good to be mistaken for myself?"

“
Except by a relative. Or an intimate. Any more of
those here?"

“Only an enemy or two."

“Oh, you'd fool an enemy. They tend to fixate on specifics. As long as your trademark hair is history and
your eyes are an astonishing shade of green, your secret is
safe."

“So what do you think of all the scary things that have been happening?"

“Scripted," Kit said promptly. "The producers are bent on stirring things up. Stripping the contestants to their barest emotions."

“
With this crew of exhibitionist blondes, that's not
hard."

“Now, dear, don't be brutal to blondes. They have so much to overcome nowadays, like Jessica Simpson and Paris Hilton."

“So you think we're all lab rats being teased by the producers? No lurking evil-doer in sight?"

“Oh, evil-doers are always lurking. I often use them in
my books. Is that why you're here, pretending to be
young and difficult? Who would be so dreadful as to
force you back into revisiting your teen years? That dishy
boyfriend I met in New York? Max . . . something... yum-yum?"

“Max isn't aware of this. I'm here on unofficial police business. Well, unofficial official police business."

“Surely no one is taking this circus of hokey threats seriously?”

Temple didn't feel she could mention the mutilated
poster and Molina's concern for her daughter's safety. For once she agreed with her enemy. Something nasty
was going on here. But what?

“Maybe not." Temple rose from her seat upon the commode, reassured. "I hope you didn't lose any major inspiration."

“
No. Guido was about to do something interesting with
a box of Lady Godiva chocolates. Deep dark bitter chocolates, do you think, dear, or perhaps white ones?"

“Never touch 'em," Temple said, retreating toward the main room. "I'd better get back on observation. For some reason, the Teen Queen team gets nervous if they don't know where I am every minute."

“You're a perfect little delinquent, Xoe Chloe Ozone! That's why. My straitlaced sister would be . . . appalled.""You won't ever tell Mom?"

“
Not if you don't tell her about my quandary with
Guido and the gourmet candies. Karen was always so . . . Midwest."

“
If you stay in town long enough after this is over, Aunt,
remind me to introduce you to the Fontana brothers.”

“
Mobsters? I can always do research."

“
Yum-yum young mobsters. Definitely the white chocolate type."

“Really?" Kit rose from her seat upon the tub surround to show Temple out, like Lady Macbeth rising from trying out the throne of Scotland. "Plural, you say. Very intriguing."

“
Thanks for the use of the biffy," Temple/Xoe said
once they were within mike and camera range again in
the main office room. "I've got eighty million little tiny hairs to rinse off from that salon job they gave me. You'd think that
Adair
guy was a mini–Bucky Beaver."

“
You look smashing. A death of a thousand hair snips
is worth the agony for the result. Take lots of long show
ers to rinse off the little pricklers, and keep your self-
esteem up. You show great potential, Xoe, if you don't get
stubborn and blow it."

“
Thank you, ma'am," Temple returned, emphasizing
the "ma'am" as Kit grimaced in distaste. "I'll do my best
to be a candidate you all can be proud of.”

Then she left, without gagging, miraculously.

Chapter 34

Two-Faced

while my Miss Temple is doing the beauty bit, I
spend my time prowling from boudoir to kitchen. My two favorite chambers, it is true, but at least Miss Midnight Louise is not around this time to point out my failings.

I have been accepted as a walking mascot, always
good for the occasional camera shot. So have the Per
sian girls. I hear the camera operators slavering over
our natural grace and good looks. We have no bad an
gles, they say. Unlike other objects of their lenses, apparently.

Of course, a full head . . . and shoulders . . . and
legs . . . and tail of hair does wonders to hide any conformation flaws. And our eyes are naturally green without benefit of artificial enhancement. And the Ashleigh girls
are the reigning hair color, silver and golden blonde. I
must admit that my Miss Temple looks alarmingly unlike herself even with the dead-skunk hairdo now history.

Things are proceeding apace here at the Teen Queen Castle, and I am getting more nervous by the moment.

Perhaps this atmosphere of female pheromones has lulled the male factor into a stupor. Even Rafi Nadir, a
man meant to notice danger if not bring it into play himself, is strangely mellow. He is demonstrating a certain
gallantry to these mostly underage ladies, especially
the younger set.

Of course, being employed by Miss Savannah Ash
leigh would immediately encourage any nearby male
to elude her obvious toils and focus on the more re
freshing and innocent of her gender.

I cannot help thinking, though, that they all have
been lulled into the calm before the storm. That the ju
venile dirty tricks going on are camouflaging some se
rious mischief that is brewing.

So I prowl the perimeter, looking for signs of any
thing amiss. I suffer camera close-ups, and attempted
molestations by the herd of blondes. I poke my nose into odd nooks and crannies, and follow any more of
those sinister hidden passages I can find.

I begin to find secrets to follow, such as Crawford
Buchanan's odd special entrée to ringmistress Beth
Marble's office.

I whisk right in with him, knowing that the ladies al
ways have a welcome mat out for a suave and conti
nental guy like me. They are suckers for a kiss on the
hand and I am a past master at that art, having spent
years studying Tantric grooming, so I am as versatile
with my tongue as Mr. Mick Jagger or Mr. Gene Sim
mons of KISS. And you know what those dudes are. International rock stars.

Life is so unfair! I could have given them both a run
for their groupies and their millions if only I had been born a lot taller, with access to a semi-thorough body-
wax job.

But I ankle over to Miss Beth Marble and make with
the ankle rub, which soon has her purring.

“
What a disgusting alley cat," my pal Crawford com
ments.

A mlstake. When push comes to shove, many a lady
would take a cat over a mere man anytlme. And why
not? We are genteel but sheer steel under our satin
topcoats. We are discreet. We can keep a secret, or
dozens of them. Mum's the word. We will never grow
mustaches suddenly. We have all the attributes of a fur
coat without the angst of politically incorrectly offing
other creatures, plus a nice baritone purr much like cer
tain sensual aids advertised for big money in the back
of
Cosmopolitan
magazine. Our company and affection are free. We keep their feet warm. We do not ask for
custody of the children, or the car. We are invariably neat. We never miss the toilet unless we have a seri
ous point to make. We are always willing to eat out.

What is not to love?

I feel the tendons in Miss Marble's heels tighten at
Buchanan's slur.

“He is harmless," she says.

Erroneously. That is what I love about little dolls.
They are so sure they know what is what. So what would they do without me knowing better?

“
Anyway," the Crawf goes on, sitting so carelessly in the chair opposite her desk that even I hear something
on his person scratch leather.

I cringe in tune with Miss Marble's entire frame. It is not her leather chair, merely a loaner for the length of
the show, but she takes responsibility for all that occurs
at the Teen Queen Castle. Boy, is she in trouble!

I murmur sympathy under her desk and resume
massaging her ankles. Let the Crawf do his worst (and he has plenty of that). No one does ankles better than
Midnight Louie!"Anyway, what?" she asks.

I stiffen. She is starting to rebel. Any fool or feline
could see that. Not the Crawf.

“
I have kept the unsettling events here off the air," he
whines on. "That gives me access to the tape record
ings, as we agreed."

“
We agreed that you would not release them before
the end of the show."

“
Right. But . . . things have changed. I need some
thing lively to keep my exclusive coverage syndicated.
Gossip. Cat fights. Dirty tricks. I want the last batch."