"Truly?" Temple brightened. "The ones on the MGM mannequin are contemporary copies, because the actual shoes used in the movie are too valuable to set out to steal. Poor Toto was dognapped a few months ago."
"Somebody nipped Toto?" Kit's deep voice reached a soprano squeak of indignation. "Is there no respect?"
"Not in Las Vegas, and not in New York City either, I bet."
Kit shrugged, then looked past the rail dividing the hallway from the restaurant, a low-lit cavern whose dark walls showcased black-and-white photos of famous film faces of the forties.
"Perfect!" Kit clapped her hands with delight. "We can snag that huge back-corner banquette, then conspire in utter privacy. Maybe Humphrey Bogart will stop by our table and ask Sam to play 'As Time Goes By.' "
"And maybe Ingrid Bergman will ask us the way to the ladies' room."
"Oh, pooh, Temple. You have no romance in your soul. Sometime this weekend I'll have to find out why over a mai tai or another equally tongue-loosening concoction."
"If we want that booth, we had better sit down."
"Right."
They made for the entrance and its waiting hostess, but Temple stopped before they could be seated.
"Is that really Tallulah Bankhead's trunk?" she asked.
"Absolutely," the attractive blond cashier confirmed from be-hind her glass case of sundries.
Despite the initials T.B. emblazoned on its brown side--"My initials," Temple whispered to Kit--the trunk was a low-profile prop compared to the glamorous babes atop it. Suspended in gaudy gowns like a pair of lifesize puppets, which they were, were Jim Henson's imperious Miss Piggy and Wayland Flowers's brass-mouthed Madame, both in hot pink and ostrich plumes. Behind them was a wall mural of a 1930s Hollywood studio "class photo," filled with famous faces named Astaire and Gable and Garland.
"Hmmm," Temple said, the windmills of her mind visibly churning in double time.
"We need to be seated." Kit dragged her away from the exhibit as if she were a dawdling child.
"Yes, mother," Temple mocked as they wove through the intervening tables to the gigantic corner booth of tufted red leather.
"The rest of our party should be along shortly," Kit told the hostess, who left the requested six menus before returning to her post. "Temple! What is it?"
"Just a wicked idea. Maybe your focus group can help me with it after lunch."
"I need to fill you in on who we'll be seeing."
"Right." Temple set the menu aside and folded her hands on her lap like a good child.
"You wanted a crash course in who's who and what's what in the romance world, so I've recruited--
not the best and the brightest--but the nicest and the knowingest. The stars are on a plane of their own and may be nice enough, but simply no longer share the common interests of the rest of us grunion struggling for our places on the sand. The raw beginners are eager, but naive as newts. What I've assembled is a panel of midlist experts. You do know what midlist is?"
"Not yet bestselling, name-brand authors; steady performers with potential."
"Very good, my dear. Doing PR for the American Booksellers Association convention was an instant education."
"Actually, I learned all that stuff from meddling in the murder investigation."
"We do not ask how, just how much. Anyway, what you'll meet here is a cross-section of the heart of the romance industry, pardon the expression. I know them from other conventions. We've all been around the publishing track a few times, and we're not about to be pushed off the merry-go-round. Still, we're not megastars. We have concerns about the field and what's happening in it, and to us."
"Sound like experts to me." Temple lifted her water glass in a toast.
Kit chinked rims with her own water goblet. "Just don't be surprised to find that feelings run high. For many of these women, this is their livelihood."
"Is that enough to kill for, do you think?"
"You mean. . . one of us might have murdered Cheyenne?" Kit looked truly shocked.
"Suspects come in all shapes, sizes and sexes."
"I believe that there are only two sexes, niece."
"Not in Las Vegas," Temple said firmly. Her blue-gray eyes intensified to the color of navy slate. "Say, do you suppose those prize shoes might be on a drag queen at Gays 'n' Dolls downtown? Who would ever think to look for them on a size twelve foot?"
"A transvestite revue? Not on your life. Those shoes would no more deign to dance to the wrong number than Dorothy's ruby slippers would shoe the tin woodman. Now, get your mind off fancy footwear and on the murder case at hand, because here come my body of experts."
Temple looked across the dim room. A clot of colorful convention-going garb ranging from linen blazers to cotton print dresses to hand-painted jersey sweat suits were milling beside Miss Piggy and Madame. If they were hoping to disguise their origin, they were off to a bad start. Each clutched a black canvas bag emblazoned with g.r.o.w.l. and hot-pink hearts.
In moments the hostess had led the four newcomers to the banquette. All one could hear was the squeak of cushions as they slid behind the table on both sides of Temple and Kit.
Temple felt like a kid trapped mid-seat in a carnival thrill ride. On the one hand, she was cushioned from all exterior shocks; on the other, she was in danger of being crushed by her human shock absorbers.
They accomplished the business of ordering by calling for two large pizzas and ice tea. The waitress bustled away after warning them the pizzas would take twenty minutes.
"No problem," Kit said. "We have lots to talk about." She began with introductions. "Temple is my niece and totally trustworthy." (Temple thought that was a nice thing to say, especially since they had just met.) "The lady on the far left is Doctor Susan Schuler." (Temple paused as she worried her glasses from the squashed tote bag beside her. A doctor--that was interesting. What kind?)
"Do you mind if I take notes?" Temple asked. "Not for ... evidence or anything, but simply because I won't be able to tell you apart for a while."
"Hey, that's easy." A woman wearing a red, black and white flowered dress with puffed sleeves reached into the tiny patent leather bag trailing from a thin shoulder strap. "Slap on our con-vention badges, people, for Temple. We can remove them again in transit."
Soon Temple was gratefully studying the group's left shoulders.
"What kind of doctor are you?" she asked the woman named Susan, a low-key type who wore no makeup and whose short, permanent-waved hair was a greige Brillo pad.
"A gynecologist," said a younger woman in a yellow linen blazer, with a teasing laugh.
"Not a medical doctor," Susan said tolerantly.
"Ph.D?" Temple asked with the awe of a lowly B.A.
"Right, in anthropology."
"Susan's written a book on the roots of romance fiction," Kit said. " Alpha Men and Omega Women. "
"Any relation to that bestseller, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus? "
Everybody but Temple laughed. Susan reached into her canvas convention bag to extract a trade paperback with a plain-Jane cover.
"Afraid not, Temple. This is a scholarly tome from a university press, with a minuscule print run. Even persuading a university press to publish a book on a topic as despised as romance novels was a triumph."
Temple pulled over the book to riffle the pages. Chapter titles like "He Tarzan, You Jane" leaped out as they flashed by. Also "Wild West vs. Nest."
"It's yours." Susan's smile would melt nails and certainly dissolved any dry academic air clinging to her. "Instant background, and we academic press authors are pathetically happy to have people read our books, even if we have to give them away."
"Thanks. It looks fascinating--no, really! This chapter, "Hawks and Doves"--it sounds like a political thesis."
"Bless you! God knows I'd get more respect for analyzing dull matters like politics." Susan shook her curlicued head. "Hawks and doves are opposites, as they are in real life, but in romance novels the battle is the war between the sexes."