She crossed lanes in the stream of shoppers like the Storm darting through traffic, her chin lifted so she could see above the madding (and Texas-tall) crowd to the object of her outing.
Was that woman in the high-tech rubber jumpsuit going to dash in the door before her? Not on her life!
Temple's feet barely touched ground as she scuttled through the moving mob, slipping through the open door a step before the Rubber Jumpsuit.
Ah. Ahhhh.
Here all was not only classical, but class. The understated gleam of travertine walls, warm backlighting that showcased (shoe-cased?) glass shelves artfully lined with goods. She was aware of miniature dressmaking forms attired in gold brocade, of purses and the odd accessory scattered artfully hither and yon. But they were not the Main Event.
Temple contemplated the static, yet somehow anticipatory peace of a shoe store. All those smooth, unsullied soles waiting to glide over the plush carpet like magical skates. All those unscuffed toes and heels primed to pose before the floor-level mirrors. All those clever bows and straps and decorative heels. All that evening glitz and glitter waiting to accompany all the little girls from Kansas and the cinder-choked hearth to battle and to balls.
Unlike skirts and dresses and belts, shoes do not allow their owners to outgrow them. Carefully kept, they do not wear out, like socks and hose and human knees and friendships. Age cannot wither, nor custom stale their infinite variety of color, cut and style.
Temple moved slowly, softly in the large room, a connoisseur in an art gallery. No longer would she have to haunt Saks and Neiman Marcus sales at the Strip's Fashion Show Mall for unsold size fives. Oz had come to her. The Wizard had landed, gently, on the Yellow Brick Road and she needed more than ruby red slippers for the journey. Suddenly last summer, this stand-alone shop of shoes designed by Stuart Weitzman had miraculously appeared in her own back yard. SW shoes by the yard awaited her.
She sighed. It was meant to be. All she had to do now was afford them.
Temple edged along the store's perimeter, dazzled by the glimpse of one exquisite shoe after another. Even the vanilla-colored casual shoes had their own subtle glamour, although, when it came to shoes, Temple liked them high, narrow and handsome. Temple found herself catching a ghostly reflection of herself, and stumbled back in amazement.
A Plexiglas-box-topped pedestal had served as her imperfect mirror. Beyond the translucent outline beckoned even greater wonders: a wall of dancing shoes with solid rhinestone-covered heels, each glittering like a size-five rainbow, some diamond-bright, others gleaming with sapphires and rubies and emeralds.
"Those are Pave Collection models custom-designed by Mr. Weitzman," a gentle voice noted beside her.
"I know." Temple could not take her eyes off the treasure trove of shoes. "I've heard of them. They're fabulous."
"They can be designed to match a particular gown or any theme of the customer's choosing."
Temple nodded in a dream. "How much--?"
The saleswoman told her, in an even gentler voice with not a hint of condescension.
Temple nodded. She wasn't surprised. She also was not about to ever become the owner of a pair of Pave Collection shoes. At least she would have visiting privileges.
"Thank you." Temple tried to sound as if she needed time to decide which several styles she wished to purchase.
The saleswoman drifted away diplomatically, leaving Temple to contemplate the cruelties of budget.
Temple remained transfixed. To her this was Stonehenge, Avalon, Nirvana. The cares of the day, as Stephen Foster or someone equally antique would put it, faded away. Some women found such surcease of sorrow in chocolate. Temple always found it in an exquisite pair of high heels. At least her addiction was not fattening (especially not to the wallet).
Which one of the black satin pumps would she pick? The one covered in winking red ladybugs, with matching bag? The Deco-inspired one of a woman (on the heel) walking a Scottie (on the toe) with a long glittering leash (along the instep) ? The golden glitz of a sun/moon/stars motif?
Visions of Austrian crystals dancing in her head, Temple finally focussed on the contents of the Plexiglas plinth standing like a prow, a figurehead before the wall of Pave Collection shoes. Behind the clear Plexiglas floated a pair of diamond-white shoes, Cinderella shoes paved in crystal. A card explained the Pave Collection philosophy: up to 14,000 hand-set Austrian crystals encrusting each and every pair.
Temple edged around the pedestal, careful not to touch it, to jar the precious cargo inside. And then .
. . and then . . .
Holy cats!
She was nose-to-nose with Midnight Louie. Well, a black, Austrian-crystal cat, anyway, with great personal presence, climbed the back of each glittering heel, a single emerald stone winking at his eye.
Solely cats!
A second card was propped on a delicate easel on the pedestal's other side. Halloween's coming, it announced in elegant script . Find a pair of these "Jinx" black-cat, hidden somewhere in Las Vegas, by October 31 and claim a pair in your size as the prize.
Yes! Temple clasped her hands. The answer to a lovesick maiden's prayer. Not men whose first names began with M, but shoes whose name began with "Midnight" as in Louie. What more could a modern-day Cinderella wish for? Stuff the vacillating prince; get it on with the cool shoes!
Obviously, she was destined to find and win these shoes. Ob-viously, this was a heaven-sent distraction from her current personal conundrum. Obviously, Las Vegas's prime crime-solving amateur could beat out every other candidate in the Streak for the Shoes.
Temple marched up to a person that she assumed was the saleswoman who had addressed her earlier; she had been too dazzled to notice much but the shoes.
"Do I need an entry blank?"
The woman's face, which was about her age, looked politely inquiring. Surely she too had only one thing on her mind? How could she work here and not?
"For the Midnight Louie shoes ... I mean, the Halloween Jinx shoes."
"Oh. Just spot them by October thirty-first, then drop by and fill out a card with your name and address."
"Piece of chocolate cheesecake," Temple said, as satisfied as if she had eaten the whole, metaphorical thing.
She left the store, hardly noticing the crowd, and wended her way back through the crowded casino, not even glancing into the Appian Way at David with his sling and no G-string as she passed.
For some reason, she felt ravenous.
Chapter 6
Little Cat Feet
It has been a busy day, and I am in no mood for late-night disturbances in routine.
In my own living room, I have had to defend my turf against the invasion of the seven-foot-tall man.
On my own personal sofa, I have had to share my cushions with a stranger, while gazing upon a shirt the color of lizard leavings.
In the privacy of my bedchamber, I have been forced to endure more tossing and turning from Miss Temple Barr than a crepe suzette could expect to encounter in an omelet pan.
When the lady of the house returns, I am not prepared for the general air of celebration. Those of my kind do not celebrate, except internally.
This does not stop Miss Temple Barr from thrusting me into the midst of her excitement.
"Louie!" she cries even before she has entered our bedroom to see if I am still there.
"Louie!" She stands in the doorway, dropping her totebag to the floor and extending her arms wide.