Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

boiling point mounting.
    Odd. The blue lagoon waters now reminded her of something less pleasant than tropical nights: Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s sharp, ever-watchful laser-blue eyes.
    But no one they knew was here. Now. Temple let the water roll her over as she turned to watch Max’s back disappear into his house on his way out.
    Magicians did that. Disappeared. For a living.
    Sometimes lovers did that too.
    Bitter disappointment made Temple rain two teardrops into the sizzling spa water. They instantly eddied away, lost in the sea of foaming warmth. Temple knew better than to feel rejected, but she did, dammit.
    Selfish Temple! She knew how hard Max worked at both of his professions. Now, at last, he was reclaiming the public persona of magician instead of being consumed by the invisible cloak of spy. Times were more perilous worldwide than they’d ever been and Max had been out there, was still out there, trying to prevent disaster.
    A game little woman would stand behind her man, even when he wasn’t there. Especially when he wasn’t there.
    Still... Her hand slapped the water. This time droplets jumped up at her eyes, stinging them into blinking.
    Blink. And Max had been gone without explanation. Blink. Lieutenant Molina had come asking brutal questions, painting the missing Max as a likely murderer. Blink. Enter Matt Devine, ex-priest, new neighbor, always there to help or tempt through no fault of his own.
    Love and fidelity were great... when a couple actually spent time together now and then. But Temple was no longer feeling loved, even if she was, and Matt—God, Max! Wake up and smell the latte!—was finally outgrowing all those years of celibacy and coming on to her with Intent to Commit Relationship.
    Temple laid her chin on her hands on the spa’s hard-shelled rim and let the swirling eddies float her body up, up, and away.
    Men! They were maddening. Eve must have wanted to strangle Adam when he’d blamed the Apple Incident on her! Temple bet Eve had missed becoming humankind’s first killer by... this much! Justifiable homicide, in her opinion.
    Like the song says: a total eclipse of the heart.



Bling-Bling Babies

    Molina sat, sober as a judge, on her comfy old living room sofa, reading for the fourth time the entry form that Mariah had filled out.
    She’d reached the fiction part now, Mama Molina’s own creation: Julio Sanchez, heroic off-duty cop killed helping a citizen change a flat tire on the side of the notorious Los Angeles freeway system.
    Would the TV-show staff research the contestants’ family histories? Or take them at face value?
    “You’re still not mad at me,” Mariah said hopefully from the armchair, where she lounged on her tailbone, petting Caterina.
    “Not mad. Disappointed.”
    Silence. Mariah was still new enough to teenhood to cringe a little at that word. Disappointment.
    Molina tossed the entry form aside, making a mental note to fax a copy to Temple Barr. Had to give the kid credit; she’d beat out a lot of candidates to get a chance at the reality show slot.
    Molina sighed and checked her watch. Mariah surreptitiously checked her mother’s face.
    Standing up, Molina stuffed her bare feet into moccasins. “Come on. The mail’s open until six. A Teen Queen wannabe will need some new duds for her stay at the Teen Queen Castle. In fact—” Inspiration hit. It was a galling inspiration, but then the whole situation was galling from the get-go.
    She drew her cell phone and hit a preprogrammed number. To this she had sunk.
    Mariah watched, blinking.
    “Yeah,” Molina told the phone when the ringing stopped. “Mariah and I are hitting the mall for some drop-dead Teen Queen garb. Maybe you’d better come along. Yes, it’s ‘kinda an order.’ Half an hour. Right. We’ll meet you at—?” Molina lifted interrogative eyebrows at her daughter.
    “Junior department at Dillard’s.”
    “Junior department at Dillard’s.” Molina flipped the phone shut and grabbed her buckskin hobo bag.
    “Who was that?”
    “Image consultant,” she said.
    “Who’d you know that I’d want having anything to say about my clothes?”
    “You’d be surprised.” Molina shot a smile Mariah’s way as she snatched the car keys from the kitchen countertop. “You go to all the trouble of being on a national TV show, no matter how tawdry, you ought to get a little help.”
    Molina felt naked as she followed Mariah into the dark garage. She wasn’t carrying tonight, for