Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

nobody else does.
    That’s how Temple felt when she tiptoed out of the bedroom, leaving it dim behind all the drawn miniblinds, with Mariah’s head still buried in the covers.
    She checked Xoe Chloe’s watch, a jingling band with a cheery collection of skulls and Harley Davidson charms mixed in with such girly icons as tiny spike heels she’d found at the mall.
    All Temple had to do now was ensure the perp was ensconced in the proper consulting room, then guide Alch there.
    He thought he was here as a mere delivery boy. She hoped he still carried. Maybe she should have speed-dialed the Fontana Brothers as backup. Her Aunt Kit would adore meeting them.
    She got down to the main floor, checked her watch, and hovered at the front entry hall. No Alch yet but it was only 8:25. Maybe she should pick up some muscle on the way.
    Time to skitter down the endless halls—where were Xoe’s Rollerblades when she needed them?
    Temple’s heart was pounding when she reached the right door, and not from the run. What if she was wrong? She knocked. After ten seconds’ silence, she pushed the door open.
    The office seemed empty. Strange. The 8:30 slot was booked. Someone should be here.
    Aware that her every move might be recorded, Temple played the curious arrivée, peering in, peeking around, moving around on silent little cat feet.
    No bogeymen jumped out from behind furniture, so before she knew it, she had advanced to the empty desk.
    Upon its admirably clear surface lay a note, scrawled in a hasty hand.
    Temple cocked her head to read it sideways: “See me first thing tomorrow.”
    Hmmm. Sounded like the tail wagged the dog, although this dog had always been in charge of the manger.
    Either way, she needed to hit another office fast. Her watch said Alch would be pushing open the Teen Queen Castle entry portcullis right about now....
    She dashed down another hall, around a corner, and into familiar territory.
    Another door, another knock, another long silence.
    Brash, bleached-blonde Xoe Chloe walked right in. Peered.
    The high-backed leather chair behind the desk was spun away from the door to face the windows overlooking the pool area.
    Temple had a very bad feeling. She should cut and ran, whatever that meant.
    She’d been here before. Empty office, sinister chair back. Cameras, anyone?
    Why had Dexter Manship left that imperious note just sitting on his desk? Had he figured out what she had? She’d trespassed on his empty office before, but then there had been nothing sinister to find after all.
    That was there and then. This was here and now.
    Had he too tumbled to the bizarre truth? Where was he now?
    Was she too late? Would Alch find yet another victim instead of a perp?
    She didn’t like Manship. Who did? Manship probably didn’t even like Manship. But... he was a human being, sharp and observant. Maybe too much of both.
    She approached the desk. Walked around it. Outside the Nevada sunshine was bouncing off the blazing white stone and blue water and basting bronzed blondes to French toast.
    Inside, the office was dim. Silent. Still as death.
    She grabbed the chair’s high back and spun it around with all her might.
    She needed all her might. The chair was heavy and only rotated forty-five degrees.
    Enough to reveal a passenger.
    An inert passenger.
    The wrong one.
    Xoe Chloe could have skated back down a quarter mile of hallway to the front door in about two minutes.
    Temple was less athletic and way more practical.
    She screamed. It was a wimpy thing to do but it would bring ‘em all in about sixty seconds flat.



Heartfelt
    and Red-Handed

    “They have you on tape,” kindly Detective Alch said. Threatened. “We have you on tape, since their tapes are now our tapes. Slinking around Manship’s empty office a few days ago.”
    “That wasn’t me,” Temple said. “That was Xoe Chloe. She’s much nervier.”
    Temple wasn’t nervy at all now, except in the wimpy meaning of the word. Her back was to the desk and Beth Marble’s very dead body, but the grotesque image was branded on the movie screen behind her eyes: Beth’s head tilted back, eyes open, the curled black hair slid back several inches... a wig like Xoe Chloe’s exaccessory, but the head beneath it... bald. It was bad enough the woman was dead; worse that the killer had scalped her in a sense. Temple wondered if gravity, or the murderer, had unmasked Beth after death.
    “You say you were going to spring the murderer’s name on me when I