Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

Their Nails

    Temple and Mariah had played possum until the blondes’ lightning raid on their bathroom was well over. Temple quickly found the added can of purported hairspray and tried it on a hand towel, which immediately turned as shiny and shellacked as a decoupage project.
    “Liquid plastic spray,” Temple diagnosed. “Those witches wanted my new blonde hair turned into an impossible mess. Too bad we have serious work to do tonight, or X. C. would sneak in and adhere a few sleepy blonde heads to their pillowcases. They’re all feather-heads anyway. But I have something else in mind tonight.”
    They darted like dragonflies down the stairs to the first-floor hall, knowing where the cameras were positioned and trying to dodge them like bullets.
    Mariah had insisted on coming along on this clue-fishing expedition and Temple, frankly, needed a lookout.
    Now they stood outside the door to Marjorie Klein’s former office and Mariah was facing the first challenge of her crime-solving life: crossing yellow crime scene tape.
    You’d have thought she was Matt Devine being asked to commit a little mortal sin.
    “I don’t know, Xoe. We’re not supposed to.”
    ‘“We’re not supposed to.’ Where would that have gotten Lewis and Clark? Lois and Clark for that matter. TV characters you’re probably too young to remember.”
    “Am not. Reruns. They were almost hot.”
    “Okay. ‘We’re not supposed to.’ Where would that have gotten—?”
    “Ah... um... Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde?”
    “ Right. Well, I’m legally blonde now, and I say we crash this party.”
    “Huh?”
    Temple ducked under the tape and donned the thin latex gloves that came with her hair-dye product. The pros had ignored them to use their own professional-quality pairs, so Temple had appropriated them against a future need. She pushed against and opened an unlocked door.
    Surprise! The cops were really lax. Or someone else had been here.
    Mariah followed her inside, acting like Dorothy in the haunted wood: scared. As if she thought Mama Molina had some crystal-gazing globe that could follow her every move. Probably did.
    Temple flicked on the mascara wand-size flashlight she always traveled with. A bright needle of light played over surfaces familiar to both her and Mariah.
    “Too much to revisit?” Temple asked.
    Mariah had insisted on accompanying her. Now the dark empty room made the reality of sudden death a more obvious deterrent than a thirteen-year-old might realize.
    “No. And yeah. I guess. That poor lady! She just wanted me to do well.”
    “We will do well. By her. She was the only consultant who imported her own file cabinets. I wondered why when I had my sessions with her. Let’s take a look.”
    First Temple scanned the room for hidden cameras and mikes. She was getting good at spotting them. They’d stockpiled cloth napkins at meals and now distributed them around the room like demented waitresses. Over the lamps, the power outlets, lighting fixtures.
    Besides, they kept the room’s lights off. Even if any cameras picked up intruders, they would be shadow puppets on a highly manipulated stage.
    The file cabinets had always struck Temple because they were the Steel Case sort: heavy metal, with locks. This office’s decor was more wicker basket style. They were the two-drawer variety on wheels that’s easily overlooked as mobile work surfaces. There were three of them, all lockable.
    That was the problem. Temple tried each one. Surprise. These drawers were locked.
    “We need the keys,” she whispered to Mariah. “And they’ll probably be hidden.”
    Twenty minutes later, Temple had explored every drawer and Mariah had finished her more imaginative search, usually up above or under something.
    No keys.
    “Why didn’t the police try the files?” Mariah wondered.
    “Probably thought they came with the office and had nothing to do with Marjorie. But we’ve seen all the other offices and no one else has these industrial-strength things.”
    “Still, missing them is shabby police work.”
    “Maybe the police checked them out and relocked them, then.”
    “If my mom had been on the scene, they’d have been shaken upside down. Why hasn’t she shown up?”
    “Probably to keep from ruining your big chance, remember? You made it pretty plain she wasn’t to interfere.”
    “Yeah.”
    This kept Mariah silent for a whole minute. “Mrs. Klein was a food freak,” she said suddenly. “Maybe it was for