Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

the first time in a long time. It would have been too awkward. Mama needed a new pair of shoes, and then some too. She just hoped to heck that tonight was not the one some gang member decided to go postal in the mall’s Hallmark Card Shop.

    Temple Barr appeared to know the junior department as well as Mariah.
    In fact, Mariah had about three inches on the woman. Molina hoped she’d stop growing soon. But maybe too tall was no longer a female liability.
    Molina stood uneasily in the main aisle, eyeing rows of skirts the width of cummerbunds and see-through mesh tops skimpier than sports bras. The color and glitter were showgirl seductive, but there were so many clothes, and so little of them.
    For the first time she felt like her own mother.
    Red head and espresso-brown head bowed together over the racks, pulling out selections and tossing them over arms or thrusting them back onto the chrome poles, rather like blasé strippers.
    “Cool color.”
    “Oh, too rad.”
    “To die for.”
    The murmurs were both vapid and excited. Molina smiled, maternally, as she observed Temple and her daughter together. Temple acted like an older sister, caught up in the same girly ritual but far more sophisticated than Mariah with her cherubic halo of baby fat still intact, thank God.
    Good pick, Molina told herself. Temple Barr was exactly what she herself always had lamented not ever be-ing—petite and pretty enough to pass as a teenager.
    Temple looked up as if Molina’s speculation about her was tangible and she’d felt it. Good instincts for an amateur. “Mama have a budget for this extended prom party?”
    “Whatever you think she needs.”
    Temple’s eyebrows raised, borrowing that tic from Molina. She consulted the two stapled sheets advising “contenders” on “what to bring.”
    “We are in plastic heaven, kiddo,” she told Mariah.
    “Let’s rock.”
    Two hours later they emerged from the dressing room, giggling like classmates on a spree. Temple’s arm held almost as many draped items as Mariah’s. That’s what Molina had hoped for: Mariah’s taste would clue in Temple on current hot teen items, and Temple’s PR influence would guide Mariah to what worked on TV.
    If Molina had cherished any reason but bodily safety to encourage a relationship between the two, she might even have found their bonding... sweet.
    If they made the show, Mariah would have to know that Temple was there as a stooge before the charade began. No way would she be fooled. Hey, the kid would probably get off on being part of an “undercover” team.
    How had a smart homicide dick like her ended up in such a mess? Daughter dearest and her mad, hopeful, predictable, determined desire to be somebody five years older than herself.
    Molina played her prime parental role: she laid plastic on a checkout counter and watched the LED numbers hit the mid four figures. Yikes.
    Temple Barr, she was pleased to note, had done as well. Molina supposed she should reimburse Temple but let that be a surprise after the ball at the Teen Queen Castle was over. If there was one for her.
    Molina checked her watch.
    “Done with still an hour’s time,” Temple chimed in, shooting a conspiratory glance at her pal Mariah. “Shoes, maybe?”
    “Actually, I need to make a stop,” Molina said.
    “Ladies’ room?” Temple asked.
    How heedlessly insulting. Temple Barr would make a fab teen queen. “No. Family members appear in the audience on the final show. I need something... less casual.” Temple eyed Molina’s jeans, moccasins, gauze cotton top, and suede bag. “I guess! Your cop shop pantsuits won’t cut it either. And I don’t suppose you want to trot out Carmen”—she cut off as Molina glared from Mariah to her—“a Carmen Miranda ensemble.”
    “Who’s Carmen Miranda?” Mariah wanted to know. Trust kids to sense when adults were getting their lies and deceptions in a wad.
    Temple vamped expertly into a diversionary path. “Oh, an old-time performer. Wore these tall, tall headdresses of tropical fruits. Sang, danced. One hot Hispanic cha-cha chick. The movies in the forties were big on Latin music and performers.”
    “The forties?”
    “During World War II.”
    “Latin was in?”
    “Olé! There were some great, fun movies, all black and white. You should rent a couple.”
    “Sounds coolio.”
    “As coolio as Julio Iglesias.”
    Mariah frowned. “Don’t you mean Enrique?” she said, mentioning Julio’s cleft-chinned