“Is there not a strain of Stripe in the Shaded line?” I ask. “Were not common tabbies responsible for the Shaded’s sublime black leather and faint tracery of markings amid the fur that lends such a rich sheen to the divine silver and gold?”
Yvette shrugs again. “Stripe is common. Black and brown are the weediest variety of cat colors. If we have any Stripe in us, it goes back countless generations and therefore does not count.”
I did not mean to impugn the Shaded pedigree but must take exception to her characterization of black and brown, being of the very common House of Black myself.
Solange addresses this before I can. “I am actually the older type of Shaded Persian. There was a time when kits of my ilk were tossed aside as unvalued throwbacks. Fortunately, we are coming into new favor and our more robust coloration is prized now, in the show ring and out of it.”
“Hear, hear!” I say, eyeing Solange with new appreciation.
There is a little bit of tabby in every cat, and particularly in every alley cat.
Yvette has wandered away during my mutual admiration society musings with Solange.
She is patting at something under a bush.
I cannot have her disturbing my crime scene, so I rush over.
Well, well, well. I will have to see that the Las Vegas CSI, the real-life ones, find this prime piece of evidence pronto. It is a can of Razor’s Edge shaving cream, lime scented.
“Good job, girls,” I say. “Now huff your ruffs back inside. I will be sure to direct my associate’s attention to this useful clue.”
“You must visit us and tell us what happened, Louie,” Solange manages to say as I hustle them toward the glass sliding doors where they can paw pitifully until admitted.
“Where will I find you?”
“Lavender Wing, with the judges and Team Queen members.”
With that I return to the deserted pool area and the too-obviously abandoned shaving cream can. This job must have taken several cans. Where are they?
I sit and regard the empty can. I wonder what theCSI will make of the pad prints amid whatever human traces remain. Which is likely nothing. This can is a message, not a clue.
I picture the cops “fingerprinting” the Divine Yvette and Solange when their presence at this overall crime scene is detected.
Then they will be “soot foots” indeed!
I am very glad that I will not be wielding the inkpads on that occasion.
Ouch!
Chapter 21
Hanky Panky
Temple and Mariah huddled in their room that night, comparing notes on hastily scrawled pages they tore up and packed away.
As befitted a ‘Tween ‘n’ Teen Queen competition, half of their shared notes concerned the rules of the contest, the rituals of competition, psyching out the judges, and a keen awareness that their every word and gesture could be recorded.
The other half concerned the skullduggery. Skullduggery. Temple liked that word but Mariah adored it.
She was her mother’s daughter, though the very expression would have made Mariah howl. She was so into being “not Mother” at the moment.
For a final consultation, they huddled in the bathroom for a fast five minutes, shower running full blast and steaming up the mirrors, the air, and possibly parboilingany electronic bugs and cameras. Such devices weren’t allowed in the bathrooms anyway.
Still, that was the underlying paranoia of reality TV. One could never be sure.
So their conversation was as veiled as the air. -“What if that shaving cream had been acid?” Mariah theorized, “and all of us had been lying there exercising and trying to get tans and burning our skins off?”
“You have a morbid imagination.”
“Thanks. Whatcha think?”
“Thanks for asking. I think it was a stunt to get attention, which worked. And I don’t know if we really have a stalker among us, or if it’s the producers trying to throw the contestants off-balance, or—”
“Or a crazy killer?”
“Right. Like there are a lot of sane ones.” Temple leaned her arm past the shower curtain to crank the water force up the last notch. “Hand me that razor, please.”
Mariah did, looking a little jealous that Temple was so proficient at shaving her armpits. Hey, this was Feminine Hygiene 101. She should be a pro.
“I don’t think my mother shaves,” Mariah said glumly. “Are you sure?”
“No, but it doesn’t seem like something she would do. You’re really good at it.”
“Thanks.” Temple tore off a hunk of toilet paper and put it on the nicked shin that had happened when Mariah had opined that she didn’t think her mother shaved. Only her mustache!
“Those drawn-on tattoos are cool.”
“Tattoos are cool when they’re temporary. When they’re permanent, they’re a problem waiting to happen.”
“why?”
“Well, we always reinvent ourselves as we toddle through life. We should aim to be a blackboard, not a pincushion with no expiration date.”
“Huh? Oh, I get it. You’re funny.”
“I hope so, because this situation is getting less so every day.”
“It’s like boot camp.” Mariah picked at the dead skin around her big toenail. She sounded ‘tweenage sullen again. Temple found herself suddenly sympathetic toward Carmen Molina. “Everybody tells you what to do. `Exercise.’ `Suck in your stomach.’ `Eat your vegetables.’ `Smile.’“
Temple smiled. “Imagine making smiling an order? How many of those rules does your mother harp on?”
“The vegetables.”
“That’s not too bad.”
“No. But being a girl is harder than that.”
“Being a girly girl is harder. We don’t all have to be pretty in pink.”
Mariah squinted up at Temple. “I can’t see the real you in pink. But it does go with that Elvira wig in a weird sort of way.”
Temple pushed the hot, damp hairdo back on her forehead. It felt like a heavy wet turban.
“This thing makes one admire Cher in concert. Pink doesn’t go with my natural hair color, so it’s kinda fun to wear it now. I feel like a 1958 Cadillac convertible.”
Mariah giggled. ‘You’re not big enough to be a hugerrific car like that.”
“No, but I can think I am. You see anything suspicious around the camp today?”
“I snooped, like you said, and I found six cans of Razor’s Edge in the contestants’ lockers.”
“Good work! Empty? You didn’t touch them?”
“No! Only picked ‘em up with a towel. All of them were pretty light. You know what I’m thinking?”
“That whoever sprayed those yoga mats used what was on hand?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“With this vast cast of competitive characters, it’s so easy to spread the blame. I bet our perp used latex gloves though.”
Mariah nodded. “My mom has a whole box at the house. She never leaves home without ‘em.”
Temple giggled this time. “She sounds like a gynecologist.”
“Ah, I have my first appointment after this is over.”
“The pits!”
“Is it scary?”
“Oh, yeah, but you get used to it. I mean, we all have to do it. Consider it a badge of courage.”
Mariah considered while Temple watched, remembering her own first gynecological exam. No matter how prepared you were, it was always a bit of a psychic violation.
“We heard about that in school,” Mariah was saying. “The badge of courage story. It was about war.”
The red badge of courage for women was a different kind of war, Temple thought. The onset of menstruation. Of being different from men. Of being capable of being hurt just for your gender, physically and psychologically.
Temple was a modern girl. She bought her own “sanitary protection” with careless regularity, somewhere between the way she bought breath mints and condoms. The euphemistic phrase “sanitary protection” still made the process seem dirty and secret, even today. What did you tell a girl on the brink? Relax and enjoy the anxiety, the shame of doing something guys don’t and sometimes mock?