Temple stood. "Thank you. This will help ground my anchors."
Fabrizio snapped his fingers. A harried-looking woo-mahn trotted over, tote bag in hand. "This is Cindee, my publicist. She has press kit."
A glossy folder with a color image of a hip-up naked Fabrizio was thrust into Temple's hand. The photo was so lifelike that Temple expected her palm to suffer an oil slick.
Fabrizio stood, too, towering over her as he had loomed over countless swooning, swept-away cover models. His eyes, already too close together, narrowed horizontally as well. "You will one day like to be picked up by Fabrizio."
On that threat and promise, he strode back into the mob of woo-mahns, who closed on him like eager antibodies surrounding an infection.
"See!" Kit had materialized from somewhere, and was as happy as hell's bells. "He doesn't bite.
Learn anything relevant?"
"Only that there is no justice in who gets rich and famous, and how."
"Pshaw, we knew that already."
"He's not worried about being a victim," Temple said thoughtfully. "Either he hasn't thought about the possibility, or ... he knows why Cheyenne was killed."
"Maybe we could waylay him late at night and interrogate him."
"Aunt Kit! You don't find that bloated hunk of overdeveloped ego attractive?"
She shrugged, shameless.
Temple headed for the elevators, Kit by her side.
"You were right, though," she told her aunt. "Pretending to work with tabloid TV is an open sesame. Works much better than legitimately being employed by a local TV station years ago."
They were edging into the chiming slot machine area, for no one can go anywhere in a Las Vegas Hotel without passing these garish coin-catchers for the eternally hopeful.
Temple suddenly grabbed Kit's arm, jerked her into an aisle and sat them both down on two adjoining stools--hard.
"I can't believe it!" she said indignantly. "Keep your head down."
"Why? Is Fabrizio trolling for redheads again? I fear I'm a bit faded--"
Temple's red head was bobbing up and down like a dunking apple on Halloween. "Shhhh!" she ordered, her fierce eyes focusing over the top of the slot machine. "What are they doing ...
together! Of all the nerve."
"Who?" Kit cautiously peered over the machine in the direction that Temple was staring. "Those two cover models?"
"They are not cover models!" Temple was almost rabid with rage. "They have no business being here. Especially together."
"Temple! Who are they? They look innocuous enough."
"That was my first mistake. One is the Mystifying Max--"
"Your ex?"
"So to speak. And the other is Matt Devine."
"Oh. Your ... maybe current." Kit tilted her head almost horizontal to the floor to sneak another look. "Which is which?"
"Who cares? What are they up to?"
"I would say about six-three, if you're looking at the tall one. Hmm, not bad, Niece. Either one could compete in the pageant. If you don't need both, I'm available."
Kit was summarily jerked back down to her stool.
"Fine, if you're in the market for traitors!" Temple was still fuming.
"What have they done?"
"Well, the last time I saw them together, you could carve the hostility into chunk-size pieces and feed it to the sharks. Now they're strolling around the Crystal Phoenix like buddies. And Max claimed he needed to keep out of sight! Sure. Of me!"
Kit ventured to stretch her neck up again. "And so he is. Now. Matt too. Pity. I'd sure like to see them closer up."
Temple stood slowly, ready to duck again. "I don't know whether they make me more nervous when I can see them, or when I can't."
"That's men for you, every time." Kit yawned. "Well, now that I've had my daily dose of excitement, I'll pop up to my room for a beauty rest before dinner." She patted Temple's hand.
"Don't let this worry you. I'm sure that there's a very simple explanation."
"There isn't," Temple said grimly.
Clutching her Fabrizio folder until the glossy paper squeaked, she ventured to the elevator with her aunt. She kept scanning the area for another sighting.
And never saw hide nor hair nor pectoral nor tempestuous mane of anything that resembled a cover hunk the entire way back to her room.
Electra was lounging on the bed when she got there, studying a folder full of papers.
"How did the writing class go?" Temple asked, tossing Fabrizio facedown on her bed's coverlet.
"Terrific. We had a two-hour lunch break, so I dashed up and began my contest entry. That little machine is so adorable and petite, just like you!" She didn't notice Temple grinding her teeth. "It makes such cute little words, all prancing across the itty-bitty screen. So much more interesting than a typewriter. I'm glad you brought it."
"So am I. I'm going to have to punch some notes in tonight. The cast of characters at this circus is larger than the extras roster in a Hollywood epic. Speaking of epic, I had another close encounter with the scrumptious Fabrizio."
"Oh." Electra was so intent on her class papers she hardly reacted.
"And guess who I just saw strolling through the lobby? Max Kinsella and Matt Devine."
"That's nice, dear. I've got to concentrate on my scene-and-sequel writing exercise."
Temple held her arms up, wide, Fabrizio-style. Didn't anyone want to be swept off their feet anymore? Not even by a hot news flash?
"I'm going to jump in the shower with Fabrizio," Temple said, gathering her gear.
"That's nice, dear. Don't let the water get too hot."
"And with Norman Bates's mother!" Temple shouted from around the bathroom corner.
"Urn hmm. Say hello for me."
Chapter 19
Ship of Jewels
Entering the Treasure Island Hotel and Casino was like diving into the chill of a grotto formed from tarnished brass. Despite the elegantly orchestrated atmosphere, Temple heard the same old Musak playing the same old sweet song. This was a cabaret, my friend, and the theme song was "Money, Money, Money." Coins tumbled into slot machine tills like pieces of eight pouring out of bottomless, upended treasure chests.
Though the decor was dark and dignified, it had a macabre bent. Large antiqued brass skulls on the door handles split lengthwise as they opened, and the tastefully beige massive chandeliers, on second look, were composed entirely of human skulls and garlands of dangling bones.
Temple, however, was indifferent to the mock-morbid; she'd seen death's true, bare-faced presence close-up at the Crystal Phoenix all too recently. No, the boisterous slot machine area intrigued her, and not because of the sporadic, seductive clink of crashing quarters.
Like many blase Las Vegas residents, she had neglected to tour the new behemoths grazing along the Strip's Jurassic Park of hotel-casinos. She had read about them, but had not yet gone to see the architectural elephants in person. So she was only guessing when it came to what evil (or delights) might lurk inside the Treasure Island, but... yes!
Temple clasped hands to breastbone and went up on tippy-toes, despite the three-inch heels on her Evan Picone pumps, all the better to see her quarry.
She smiled sappily--not at the garish blinking and clinking slot machines--but at the ceiling above them. A pirate's ransom of brass, silver and real gilt paint, of pearls and cut-glass gemstones, tumbled from niches set under the ceiling. Enough treasure chests hung above the gamblers below to hide a hundred crystal shoes.
Temple cruised toward the glitzy black-and-gold island of a bar that was ringed with sky-high treasure troves. Of course the displays were temptingly out of reach--just. Certainly that seemed unjust. If she were just six feet tall. Or had Alice's little bottle that made her bigger. If she just had a stepping stool, or a pogo stick or stilts!
If hotel security personnel just weren't cruising these black-gold waters like uniformed barracudas, looking for people who were behaving oddly. People like Temple herself, who was watching the ceiling, which was probably watching her back. She snagged the nearest stool and sat before a machine decorated with a grinning buccaneer, dagger in teeth.