By the time Temple had realized that there was something very different about this opening ceremony--all the officials at the mike were women--the few obligatory speeches were over.
Another woman bathed in the spotlight, only she had the Barbie-doll hair for it. Temple blinked, and then a breathy monotone hyperventilated into the microphone.
"Ladies and ... ladies. And laddies." She glanced coyly to her left. Temple could just see the shining crowns of a long line of male models.
"Oh, no," Temple moaned to her wine glass.
"My official duties don't begin until the pageant Saturday night, but I'm proud and pleased to introduce the contestants." A furious rustling of papers came over the mike.
"Who is she?" Kit was asking, dumbfounded.
"Looks like we didn't listen to the introduction. That has to be Las Vegas's version of Norma Desmond, the film star Savannah Ashleigh."
Beside her, Electra jolted into life from a long reverie. "That's it. My pseudonym. Great name."
"You can't use it, Electra. It's already her pseudonym, whatever her real name was."
"And besides," Kit put in consolingly, "it's much too long for a book cover. I've never heard of her,"
she added.
"You're lucky. I had to interview her during the Stripper Killer case. I would have gotten more, and more sensible information, out of her cat Yvette."
"Yvette? For a cat?"
"You should see it. A Persian, of course, a silver thistledown with tiny little teeth and claws. She keeps it in a pink canvas carrier."
"Savannah Ashleigh did what in a pink canvas carrier?" Electra demanded.
"Never mind. We better hush up while she's talking. I guess that's what you call it."
With another wicked giggle, this time shared with Kit, Temple settled down to serious listening. A clue might pop out from the mouths of babes. It was possible.
The mouth of this babe, though, continued to stumble over the models' names and vital statistics.
Perhaps Savannah needed reading glasses and was too vain to use them. Or perhaps she had never been able to read and talk at the same time.
Once called, the men bounded onto stage with the same eagerness as if they were about to be introduced to Sharon Stone. Confident, charming, each with a prepared off-the-cuff comment, they made Savannah Ashleigh look like the aspiring performer.
Female heads nodded approval all over the room, and each contestant was ushered off with enthusiastic applause, especially the blond-white-haired surfer male nurse who flung heart-shaped wrapped candies into the audience.
While the audience was sizing up the men for the coming contest, Temple was watching and listening with different criteria in mind. Any bit of background suggestive? Any link to Cheyenne? No one's biography mentioned the stripper contest, but that wouldn't be something they'd emphasize. Although most of them were professional or aspiring models and actors, they didn't want to project too raunchy an image before this house of middle-American women.
Temple contemplated the fact that these men walked a fine line. Yes, they were sex objects. Yes, they had to court and charm convention attendees in order to succeed and win followings. But they also had taken care not to cross over into any behavior that could be considered sexual harassment.
That was a charge that female sex objects didn't have to worry about.
Not all the men were pros. Some were dedicated amateurs. Those with everyday professions were particularly applauded: chiropractor, car salesman and lawyer (he was hissed first and then applauded).
Those with perceived sexy job descriptions, cop and forest ranger, were hailed with roof-raising hoots and applause.
"It's nice they have under-forty and over-forty age categories," Electra commented between introductions.
"Thirty-three," Temple said contemplatively.
"No, dear. Thirty-three isn't the break point, though it would be as good a place as any."
"I meant thirty-three contestants. Cheyenne would have made thirty-four. That's a lot of potential victims, and suspects. Poor Lieutenant Molina!"
"You feel sorry for Molina? This is a first."
"It doesn't make sense to kill Cheyenne over the contest. There are just too many contestants to fix the outcome with one death."
"Oh, goodie. Now you're going to tell us we have a serial killer at large," Kit said.
"No, we don't. Not yet, anyway. I've got to get closer to the contest."
"You mean the contestants," her aunt said. "You think you can stand the heat?"
"They're just a bunch of nice guys trying to finish first."
"Right," said Kit skeptically.
"Without getting finished off."
"Well, I'll look into your wish, Pinocchio, and you may prove to be made of wood, even with all those sparks around. But if your nose starts growing, I'll yank you out of there."
"Don't worry. I told you. I'm off men. I'm immune."
"With that attitude, you are not a good candidate for a reader of mine. At least you're not entering the Love's Leading Amateur writing contest."
"Contest," Temple repeated dreamily. "People coming from all over to compete for a prize. And then they die. Why?"
Chapter Interlude
Hysterical Again
Great to escape the hullabaloo of the crowd. A writer needs quiet to create. Now where was I? The jewels. Where could I hide them in a carriage? Maybe in the tire. Or weren't they inflatable then? Does it have a trunk? Hard to say. I know--
"The jewels?" Even in the moonlight, the lovely Amaianariala's skin was seen to pale. "My good sir, I have no jewels. My carriage was a ruse to divert dastardly robbers from the real treasure trove. The jewels are on their way to
Timbuktu. Was there a Timbuktu then? If not, where?
to Sicily."
"Cecily? Is this your sister?" he gruffed, brandishing his dagger.
The fair Aananamiklia was seen to blush. "I have no sister. Sicily is an island in the Mediterrean Sea."
"And I have no ship, so I am in no position to pursue the jewels by sea. I see. . . . Then--" The Demon Dagger of Devonshire grinned and leaped off his steed into the roadway.
In a moment the carriage door was jerked open so quickly that the lovely Amslslisdmkdl Dammit! Rotten, stupid name. Never comes out the same twice. Oh, well, fix it later.
tumbled to the road and right into the arms of the Demon Dagger of Devonshire.
"Aghhh!" she screamed. "Would you mind not brandishing your dagger, sir? It pricked me."
" 'Twill do more than prick you, madam, do you not do as I say you should do."
Hey, I'm really getting the hang of this flowery language. And that repeated use of "prick" isn't too shabby. A little subliminal sex never hurt anyone. Now what?
The duke's daughter swooned, so the Demon Dagger tossed her back into the carriage, ordered the driver to move on without any tricks and tied his faithful steed's reins to a Carriage wheel. Oops, that might strangle the damn, inconvenient horse. Ah!
lantern (thingamajiggy at the top, find word later).
Then he leaped into the carriage, his dagger between his teeth.
The comely Arianainla cowered in a corner.
Sex, remember, sexual tension.
The Demon Dagger thrust his dagger in
in ... in .. .his (belt? too modern) . . . sash!
his scarlet sash, and took out his
Finial!
That's the damn word I wanted to tie the reins to.
moneybag.
"I have no money," shrilled the lass.
"Luckily, I do," he rasped. "I don't want your money, I want justice."
"And for you, justice is--?" she inquired spiritedly.
"Whatever of the Baron's possessions I can take," he snarled, as he looked her lush, recumbent form up and down.