Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

Good thing Molina couldn’t see her. She wiped her brow of the sweat the steamy bathroom had deposited. Better to assume the producers lied and that cameras and mikes were still recording.
    “So what do you want me to do?”
    “Stay with Mariah as much as you can.”
    “What’ll we all do?”
    “Exercise, eat or don’t eat, watch each other. Alch and Su will be there too. I’ll make sure they look for a suspect a little farther afield than Chloe Zoe.”
    “Xoe Chloe.”
    But Molina had disconnected.
    Temple sat there puzzling. The least likely person on the premises had been murdered. Why? And what about the lurid threats to the show and the mischief inside the house? That seemed to be from an entirely different script than Marjorie Klein’s quick, deviously planned death.
    Script. Maybe a script for mock mayhem was part of the “reality” here. And someone had taken advantage of the distraction it provided to commit murder for a totally unrelated reason.
    Xoe Chloe was going to have to snoop around plenty. Luckily, she had the personality for it. Temple stood up, still puzzling. She didn’t dare leave Mariah alone now though. What to do? She couldn’t be with her all day; they had separate exercise schedules. Mariah would actually appreciate the show’s suspension; she could make more progress.
    What to do about Mariah? But wait! Temple knew an “inside” man already on the premises, a pro for her to recruit. It was a fiendish idea, but Molina was giving her no rope so she’d just have to live with any lifeline Temple could come up with on such short notice.



Diet Drinks

    A soft knock on the bedroom door awoke Temple sometime between midnight and five A.M.
    She glanced across the gigantic bed. Mariah was a completely concealed lump under the covers. When she was in this state, Temple had discovered, not even an earthquake-style shaking could wake her.
    Temple crept to the door nevertheless and turned the interior key in the lock. The person in the hall was about her height, so she edged the door open.
    Her aunt scuttled in.
    “Are we alone?”
    Temple nodded at the giant tortoise shape on the bed. “As good as. But come into my office.”
    Once they were ensconced in the bathroom, Temple turned on the small fluorescents surrounding the mirror. Kit Carlson wore her trademark big-frame eyeglasses, and an elegant vintage nylon peignoir set—red, studded with rhinestones which were somehow very attractive on a small, energetic woman. She also carried a Manhattan-big tote bag. From it, she pulled a bottle.
    “I never travel without my dessert sherry.”
    “Oh, thank God.” Temple pulled the toothbrushes out of the matching water glasses and rinsed them at the faucet. “I deserve a break today, even if it’s tomorrow. What time is it anyway?”
    “Three A.M.,” Kit said in a spooky voice. “When ghosts walk.”
    “You spot Mrs. Klein in the hall on the way here?”
    “No. But I had the oddest impression that someone saw me. Maybe it’s just a hangover from this twenty-four-hour oversight we’re getting.”
    “The spy machines are off for now. The homicide lieutenant on this case told me so herself. The show is ‘suspended.’ We’re all stuck here until the police know whodunit.”
    “Oooh! Ten Little Indians. Agatha Christie stories made great plays.” Kit lifted her clumsy glass with the toothpaste spatters on it and clicked rims with Temple’s. “You found her dead, poor thing. Drink up, then tell me all about it”
    “I don’t know if I should,” Temple said after a slow sweet swallow. “I’m here on police business myself.”
    “Listen. I am one nervous Nellie, niece. A coach was killed. They’ve got us judges and coaches cooped up in one wing, easy pickings. Who’s next? Apparently, someone doesn’t much like being made over.”
    “Maybe it’s someone who doesn’t like women reinventing themselves,” Temple said.
    “Like who? The Taliban?”
    And that remark of her aunt’s put Temple in mind of the lone Middle-Eastern man on the premises: Rafi Nadir. But hadn’t he made over Carmen Molina, to hear tell? It didn’t compute.
    “Any controlling man,” Temple said. “The kind who can’t stand women getting out from under their thumbs and becoming themselves. Maybe it’s a cliché, but there’s truth under the truism. I’ll never forget this case I covered when I was a TV journalist in Minnesota. A woman. A wife. A mother. A nurse. Just lost some weight.