Running Hot

one side of the elegant room watching the opera patrons as they awaited the start of the performance.
    “You were right,” Luther said, studying a distinguished silver-haired man in formal attire. “An aloha shirt might have looked a little out of place here. Not sure the jacket and tie is enough. Should have brought my tux.”
    “You own a tux?” Grace asked.
    “No.”
    “Didn’t think so.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, these days you see everything from jeans to tuxedos at the opera, especially here on the West Coast.”
    “Mostly I’m seeing tuxes that don’t look like they were rented. I’m also seeing a lot of fancy gowns and about a million bucks’ worth of glittery stuff on the ladies.”
    “People dress up more for opening nights. We’re fine. You said the important thing is that we don’t stand out in the crowd. Trust me, no one will look twice at us.”
    That wasn’t quite true. She had looked more than twice at Luther tonight. It was the first time she had seen him in anything other than casual island wear. She had been more than a little surprised when he produced a well-tailored jacket, crisp white shirt, tie and trousers from his duffel bag.
    Back in Hawaii, dressed in a short-sleeved sport shirt, khakis and running shoes, he had looked like a homicide detective on vacation, albeit an injured homicide detective. Tonight, in the jacket and tie, he looked like an injured homicide detective going to the office. Clothes might make some men but they had no effect at all on the aura of power that radiated from him.
    She had done some hasty shopping at the Ala Moana shopping center before catching the flight to the mainland. Luther had accompanied her, exhibiting remarkable patience while she conducted a series of surgical strikes on the various designer boutiques and high-end department stores. She had targeted the sales racks, unwilling to pay too much for an outfit she might never wear again. She was dressing for the mission, she reminded herself. But some part of her that she could not suppress insisted on finding a dress that would cause Luther to sit up and take notice, even if it meant exposing more of her sensitive skin than she would have liked.
    Eventually she had emerged from the dressing room at Neiman Marcus wearing a sleek black number with a wide, ballet neckline and a slim skirt that ended just above her knees. In a bow to her ever unpredictable sense of touch, the dress had long sleeves.
    The faint narrowing of Luther’s eyes and the very satisfying spike in his aura told her she had discovered the right dress.
    “Let’s go find our seats,” he said.
    “I need to make a trip to the ladies’ room first. I’ll be right back.”
    Luther dutifully walked her to the swinging doors marked “Ladies.” She zipped inside and came to a sudden halt. Awed, she gazed at the seemingly endless ranks of gleaming stall doors.
    “Wow,” she said to a well-dressed middle-aged woman at the nearest sink. “There must be fifty commodes in here.”
    “And more in the other restroom on the other side of the theater,” the woman said with satisfaction. “I gather you’re from out of town.”
    “Yes, but I’ve been to enough opera houses to know that there are never enough stalls in the ladies’ rooms to take care of the demand during intermission.”
    “The mayor of Acacia Bay is a woman. She refused to throw her support behind Guthrie Hall unless the planners guaranteed that there would be enough restrooms for the female patrons.”
    “My kind of politician,” Grace said fervently. “She has her priorities straight. Let’s hope she runs for president.”
    She emerged from the restroom a short time later and joined Luther.
    “You look awfully cheerful, considering the fact that we’re here to ID a murderer,” he said.
    “I didn’t have to cut off all liquids after three o’clock this afternoon, after all.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “There were at least fifty stalls in the ladies’ room. I counted. And there’s another restroom on the other side of the theater.”
    “So?”
    “So, it means that I won’t have to get totally stressed out at intermission assuming we’re here that long.”
    Luther frowned. “Are you okay?”
    “Never mind, it’s a woman thing.”
    “I’ll take your word for it.”
    An usher directed them to their seats on the aisle twelve rows back from the stage. Luther was satisfied.
    “Close enough to get a good look at her,” he