Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

Oh. You mean the producers.”
    “Yeah, why are they so shadowy?”
    Kit shrugged. “They always are, whether it’s a Broadway play or a TV show. Only a very few producers develop a high public profile. I’m thinking of Don Hewitt of Sixty Minutes, and, my God, that show’s been on since God made Eden. So sheer longevity gets his name out. Stephen Cannell, a lot of people know him, fans of The Rockford Files and a few dozen other TV hits.”
    “I’ve been calling our absent producers Goodson Toddman.”
    “Oh, yeah! A play on the names of the old game-show kings, Goodman-Todson. But you’re in publicity. You know the people behind the people. The public doesn’t.”
    “Wouldn’t that be a great way to set up a sting, a revenge plot, a murder, then? Produce a show as an excuse and pop off your enemy. Or enemies.”
    “Oh, great. Now I have to worry what producers I might have ticked off during my distant acting career. I’m just a paperback writer now. Please, sir, no more. Don’t kill me.”
    But Kit’s touching theatrics didn’t touch Temple. She was standing up, then pacing in the bathroom’s limited space. She liked that idea very much. Don’t look at the Teen Queen show as what it purported to be but as someone’s elaborate revenge plot. And it had to be revenge. You don’t kill someone the way Marjorie Klein was killed for any other reason.
    So. Reality TV as a setup for murder. Maybe... for multiple murders.
    “Kit! You’re a genius. I’ve got a whole new take on this thing. Pick up thy bottle and toddle on home.”
    “But, Temple, if it is indeed a setup and some of us, maybe all of us, aren’t here by accident, I was invited. Out of the blue. For no discernible reason.”
    “Some people were invited as cover, like maybe all the contestants.”
    “Cover. I’m cover. That’s good. I can live with that. I wouldn’t know anybody in common with a dietitian, would I?”
    “Of course not. Where was Marjorie from?”
    “Ah, Los Angeles, I think she said.”
    “See. Wrong coast, Manhattan baby. You’re safe. They say not, but I think the police must have someone undercover here.”
    “Besides you?”
    “I’m told I’m only good for babysitting.”
    “Not your forte. I know. I’m your aunt.”
    “Keep that under your hat, if you have one with you. And we both better keep an eye out to see that none of the little girls get hurt.”
    “Sure. But, Temple, all of the girls had appointments with Marjorie. Maybe she really ticked one off with her healthy eating crusade. Maybe she found one who was seriously anorexic and was determined to have her put into treatment.”
    “And therefore removed from the competition. I didn’t want to reveal the total grossness of the death scene, but I suppose a girl who purged herself would consider stuffing food down someone’s throat a suitable punishment.”
    “Stuffed down her throat?” Kit put a hand to her own neck. “God, what a way to go. I hope nobody ever hates me that much.”
    She pushed the cork back into her illegal bottle, as if she couldn’t swallow anything more. The gesture reminded them both that no liquor was served in the Teen Queen Castle.
    Imagine, Temple could turn in her own aunt for violating the dorm rules! Teenage angst, revisited, made for many motives for murder.
    Kit saluted at the door, then scurried back down the hall to her own wing.
    Temple turned back to the room. Mariah was still doing the turtle under the bedcovers. Temple wished she could be as dead to the world and the schemes that must be swirling around here as Mariah was at this moment.



American Tragedy

    “You want what?”
    Molina looked up from the phone receiver pinched between her cheek and shoulder. She held up a hand to signal Alch and Su to hold on a minute.
    “I have more to do right now than act as a glorified file clerk,” she went on.
    Under the desk her toe tapped an impatient drumbeat on the vinyl tile floor.
    Alch and Su exchanged glances.
    “All right. I’ll find someone to do it, although God knows we’re understaffed. Yes. ASAP. My messenger boy may have to be a bit unconventional. Fine. Good.”
    She hung up with an undisguised sigh.
    “More paperwork, Lieutenant?” Alch asked sympathetically. Paperwork was the bane of accountants, schoolteachers, and law enforcement types.
    “Nothing germane.” Molina sat. “What’s happening at that damn house?”
    “Nothing more. We have some uniforms on the set, so to speak,”