First Temple headed to the public library. In the reference section, she looked up the stock of celebrity address and biography books. For once in her life, she found herself wishing that Savannah Ashleigh were not a total has-been. That she still might be listed in one of these books.
Three gave her the brush-off, but an older edition of People Who Are Somebody did list Savannah. "Birth date: February 3, 1959." Savannah was only thirty-seven? Come on! "Born: Farleigh Heights, New Jersey, Susan Imogene Isch." Ischleigh? But... Imogene! Awful name.
Wonderful name. A culprit was born! Now Nemesis would track her down.
Temple drove to police headquarters downtown. She would not allow Molina to not be in.
Positive thinking. It worked on finding parking spaces. Sure enough, one open street spot waited outside the entry tower. The Storm just fit.
Temple crossed the street to the plaza. In the lobby, she asked the desk sergeant to call Molina, if she were in. Temple Barr was here to see her.
He did, she was and Temple did.
Molina came out to the worn leather couches in the visitors' area.
"More evidence? More suspects?" she inquired in greeting.
Temple made a face. "Louie was returned to me yesterday afternoon."
"What did I tell you?"
"In a bloody satin pillowcase stinking of anesthetic and bearing the initials SIA."
Molina actually looked stunned and sat down. "How ... is he?"
"At the vet's, on fluids. Won't eat. Looks like hell. They say he's 'depressed.' "
"This is awful, but why are you seeing me about it? I don't do crimes against cats and dogs."
"I'm just telling you that Savannah Ashleigh's middle given name is Imogene."
"Ugh."
"I know. She deserves it, unlike my middle name."
"You have an undeserved middle name?" Molina inquired on a lilt of interest.
"Irrelevant. The point is, Savannah resented Midnight Louie's becoming a bigger star than her cat, Yvette, in the A La Cat commercials. There have been several mishaps on the set--a vintage-car brake failed while Louie was in it; he apparently tripped while going down a long flight of stairs on camera; the boat he and Yvette were sailing in on the Mirage lagoon sank."
"Savannah Ashleigh may be a few ounces of silicone short of a full implant, but she'd hardly sink her own cat."
"She might if she were blinded by fury. Her name is all over this pillowcase. I just wanted to warn you that I'm going to have a showdown with her. In case one of us turns up missing."
Molina sat back on the couch. "I'm not too worried. The result of your last showdown with a possible perpetrator has been a total bust."
"How?"
"Number one, the background check on Alison Darby, so far, shows she was adopted.
Darren Cooke was indeed in the city where she was born before she was born, but it's likely she built this fantasy of his being her father from that fact. Or her mother may have tried to give her a sense of importance, but I doubt it. Alison's mother was a singularly conservative, unimaginative soul, and so was her husband. They were low-income people. Darby obviously fixated on more glamorous 'real' parents during her tumultuous teen years."
For a moment Molina's face wore a worried look. Maybe she was thinking about her own preteen daughter's forthcoming tumultuous years. She went on briskly.
"Number two, the letters." Molina gathered herself for an unpleasant admission. "They were in a safe at the Flamingo Hilton, and they do match Darby's handwriting, not Cooke's; we compared them to examples among Cooke's files. Darby made some effort to disguise her writing in the letters, or she developed a secondary personality to write them, but nothing flagrant enough that we can even commit her for mental-health treatment.
"Number three, the medical examiner has always been adamant that no crime-scene evidence--not a trace--not the angle of the bullet, not powder burns, indicates that Darren Cooke did not kill himself. To simulate such a setup, a killer would have to be not only terribly knowledgeable but as skilled as a foreign agent. They've managed some pretty seamless assassinations. This is not one.
"Finally, the sleight of hand with your business card was exactly what you thought: Darby found him dead and hoped to use it to deflect any interest from her. Given her close association and the harassing letters she had been writing, she was in a perilous position, and knew it. She is not as nuts as she has been behaving. She even seems to have mellowed a little. Now that he's dead, she realizes that she's lost something.
"So, congratulations." Molina stood, towering over Temple as usual. "You may have cracked a window of reason in the mind of a troubled young woman. If you do have a head-to-head, or a hair-to-hair, with Savannah Ashleigh, don't expect police assistance. Confronting her could be construed as harassment. On the other hand, I hope you win.
"Finally, I hope you will see fit to tell me someday who ducked out of your place when Mr.
Devine so kindly announced me to one and all like a British butler. I have my suspicions, but the police like hard evidence. And the harder it is to get, the more satisfaction there is in getting it.
"Have a nice day."
And that was that.
Dissatisfied, but unable to do a darn thing about it, Temple went on to her next surprise visit. To the Goliath, where Savannah Ashleigh dwelleth like Delilah of old. This time, Delilah was going to get a shave and a haircut, and two bits of Temple's mind.
**************
She had to park the Storm a couple of leagues away from the Goliath entry. While walking in, she felt her righteous anger building up steam like a pile driver.
Savannah had better be in her room.
The desk clerk wouldn't give Temple the room number, of course. He said he would ring Miss Ashleigh's room. Whom should he say was calling?
Temple almost shouted, Miss Ischleigh from Farleigh!
But she smiled instead and gave her name: that of one of the few female film producers in Hollywood.
The clerk hung up from calling Miss Ashleigh, his attitude reflecting hers.
"You may go right up. Twentieth floor. The Suite of the Seven Veils."
Temple bestowed a chill nod as she ambled toward the elevators. Nothing like dropping someone else's name in this town.
The Suite of the Seven Veils was not too close to the elevators, but not too far from the ice machine.
The desert did demand its comforts.
She knocked, and waited. The double doors were swept open with a flourish. Savannah stood there in veils of her own, which would have been far more effective with male producers.
"You!"
"You!" Temple replied, sweeping in before the doors could slam shut and sweep her out.
She drew the bloody pillowcase from her trusty tote bag.
"Not every crook is thoughtful enough to use initialed evidence."
"Oh! Take that ugly, messy, reddish thing away!" Savannah averted her supernaturally taut face, her expression perhaps curling a little at the edges to indicate disgust.
How could an actress act through a mask of laser-sculpted collagen?
Not well.
"Sweet dreams, Mrs. Macbeth." Temple threw it down on the pale satin settee nearby.
"I want to know where you kept Midnight Louie, what you did to him and why. I won't leave until I get some answers."
Savannah drew herself up, especially the silicone and collagen parts. She had seen scripts that called upon the heroine to show pride in the face of disdain. She had practiced this particular attitude in the mirror until she had it down pat. This moment was made for her!
"I will give you answers. Do you see that little tiny, helpless cat there? My darling Yvette?"
Temple gazed where directed. Yvette was reclining in shaded-silver languor on a gray velvet pillow atop a chaise longue.
She looked adorable. She looked convinced of it herself.
"Yes?" Temple asked politely. "I imagine she has never been delivered in a pillowcase to your door."