Like a major hotel casino, the house would need some sort of central spy chamber where the images from all the cameras unreeled. Where someone watched and recorded. Several someones. Most likely the technicians and producers but perhaps also someone with a more sinister purpose.
Temple was thinking about who this Sinister Someone could be so hard she turned the corner into the den area of the house and ran right into someone coming the otherway: face-to-face and, ick, belly-to-belly, as in the oldie “Zombie Jamboree” song.
Double ick!! Rocketing Rollerblades! Where were Lexan bulletproof shields when a girl needed them?
She had ended up cheek by jowl with the diminutive Crawford Buchanan!
Temple disengaged as fast as Xoe Chloe’s size fives could manage it.
“Hey, little lady!” He reached out to steady her from the impact.
He should be so lucky.
“Chill, dude.”
Temple skated away from him on the smooth marble floor despite having no Rollerblades beneath her feet at the moment. She could still move like a street skater. (In fact, her four older brothers had taught her to waltz on Minnesota concrete years ago. Without knee or elbow pads. You never knew what you would be grateful for, thanks to obnoxious older brothers, years later.)
“You’re quite the spunky little dark horse,” he said.
“Just send me a ticket to the Belmont Stakes,” she rejoined.
“All this ugly hullabaloo and here you are, out and about like a Dead End Kid.”
“A dead what?”
“Guess you’re way too young to remember that old film stuff. I’d like to do an interview with you. Crawford Buchanan, media personality. I’m embedded here for KREP-AM radio.”
“Embedded? Dude, that sounds s000 sleazy.”
What a ferrety little weasel! Or was that piling on animal comparisons? No doubt, Temple knew she’d like ferrets and weasels a lot better than Awful Crawford. What a phony, with his cultivated basso that rumbled like gang warfare and his salon-styled hair that reflected every trendy fashion. She couldn’t believe the new gold highlights in its already dramatic black-and-silver tones, courtesy of Mother Nature.
The highlights reminded her of Matt Devine, who was so much more worthy of bumping into than Crawford Buchanan. She wondered what he was doing in Chicago on his vacation. Would he ever believe … ? No, and he’d certainly never approve of doing such a wild and crazy thing, this dangerous masquerade, all for the sake of Max Kinsella.
Or was it?
“So, kiddo.” Crawford was waxing oily again. “The old place is pretty spooky now that someone’s leaving funny valentines all over it.”
He’d immediately snapped her attention back to the here and now.
“What did you call it?” she asked, struck by his phrase. “This harassment?”
“Funny valentines. You know, the fluffy cream on the hot pink yoga mats. The … strawberry syrup spray on the, uh, balloon lady in the workout room. It’s all a joke.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be here to rescue you and record it all for KREP.”
Hmmm. Another hanger-on, another motive. Maybe Crawford needed to bolster poor drive-time numbers. These flashy incidents could do it.
“I don’t listen to those middle-of-the-road stations, man,” Xoe sneered in answer.
“I’m not middle-of-the-road—” he replied, frowning. “No, just road kill. Scram, old geek, or I’ll run my spikes right through you.”
Temple fanned out her claws and pushed past him into the empty den. She breathed out her relief when he didn’t follow her in. How odd to think of everyone hunkered down in their rooms for safety’s sake … when they were all being spied upon and recorded 24/7.
This whole setup was a voyeur’s dream, she realized. Not the vague, general voyeuristic public instinct that supported reality TV but an honest-to-God, freaky, perverted voyeur of the old school.
The den was eerily deserted. Three large plasma TVs were blank gray screens on the wood-paneled walls, looking like modern art frames someone had forgotten to put the pictures in.
The many oversize white leather ottomans that the candidates had lolled upon in teen preening positions were empty now, and resembled giant poisonous mushrooms sprouting from the exotic wood-inlay floor.
The vast room was so dim and deserted that Temple braced herself for spotting another doll-like corpse, however ersatz.
But she was the only girl in residence.
Though not quite the only resident.
A figure stood, rising from one of the huge paired wing chairs near the see-through fireplace that served both the den and dining room.
It was tall, dark, and … familiar.
It leaned over to turn on a nearby torchère, casting light upward that defused before it reached the twenty-foot ceiling.
Cheese it, the cops! Cop, singular. Very singular. And not Molina.
In fact, the anti-Molina.
Rafi Nadir, attired in casual black, like Max, but much less expensively than Max, came toward her.
She stood paralyzed. He’d already seen through one half-hearted disguise of hers. Would he detect this much more thorough one just as fast?
He looked leaner and meaner than his usual bloated, discontented self. He looked serious.
“What are you doing roaming around this place?” he asked.
Fight or flight? Rafi wasn’t going to go away. Might as well find out now whether she could fool him or not. If not, maybe she’d have an ally inside. But, for now, undercover was her best option.
Temple/Xoe snapped her gum, then mumbled around it, “I’m a contestant. This is supposed to be … home.”
Luckily, his eyes were scanning the overall scene, only half on her. “It’s a TV set. And somebody is altering the script. You belong in your room, little girl. Better get back there.”
“I suppose you can make me,” Xoe challenged.
That girl never could keep her mouth shut when it mattered.
“Yes.” He was two feet away now. He looked away again. “But that’s not my job. That’s just some advice from someone who knows when a situation is escalating into the weird and dangerous.”
“I like the weird and dangerous.”
He looked her up and down. “You think you do. I’m private security. I can’t tell you what to do. I just say you oughta get back to your room. Lock the door. Do your nails. Wait for the producers to say the show must go on.”
“Private? Like a PI?”
“God, no.”
She knew that’d get his goat. Like all ex-cops, even disgraced ex-cops, Rafi hated private detectives. “I was thinking of hiring you, is all.”
“Yeah, right.” He actually chuckled. “You Teen Queens think you’re Britney Spears when you’re really Nancy Drew. I’m already spoken for.”
“Oh?” Temple tried to sound indifferent but Xoe sounded interested. “By whom?”
“By Savannah Ashleigh, the judge, is whom.”
“She’s no judge. She’s just an actress, and a bad one.”
“I don’t judge clients. But I think she’s right in being worried. So why a punk little chick like you is boogying around Hell House after all these unsettling incidents beats me. Given all the black you’re wearing, must be a death wish.”
“I don’t like being penned up.”
“You might consider that’s exactly what might happen if there’s another nasty prank and you’re wandering around unaccounted for. I’d skedaddle back to my safe little room if I were you.”
“It’s not little.”
He suddenly lunged forward, his booted foot smacking the floor.
She jerked back, retreating. It had worked. Xoe Chloe had made him too mad to see past her cheesy, mouthy exterior.
“Listen, little lady.” He caught her arms and pulled her close and spoke low. “My job is to guard the Ashleigh broad but I’ll give you some free expert advice. Somebody around here is this close to the edge. You don’t want to end up spattered on the exercise machines, stay in your room. Don’t wander around alone; do as you’re told.”