Temple frowned. “I know him. He’s not Mr. Good Citizen but—”
But. Rafi was taking questionable jobs around Vegas, and she’d met him doing muscle at strip clubs. He’d been a strong suspect for the Stripper Killer. Just because he was Molina’s loathed ex was no reason to become his champion. What if this time he really was up to something … ugly?
Molina would have her scalp. And neck. And rear end if she underestimated Nadir’s reasons for being here when Mariah was on the premises and involved. Molina would have her skin for not mentioning that Nadir was here, period. Maybe she’d better tell her … and have Molina on-site, in everybody’s face? Not productive.
“What are you scheming, niece? I see whole Elizabethan tragedies running through your mind.”
“You have a theatrical imagination, Aunt Kit. It’s fun but off base. Some of the dramatis personae in this thing are a little dicey, is all. It’s the strangers I wonder about. We don’t know enough about anybody to figure out who might want to kill them. Are any of the judges and coaches previously acquainted?”
“Sorry. Not a one. To hear them tell it. From my point of view, they act like strangers.”
“Then … what about the people who put us all together?”
“Who? Oh. You mean the producers.”
“Yeah, why are they so shadowy?”
Kit shrugged. “They always are, whether it’s a Broadway play or a TV show. Only a very few producers develop a high public profile. I’m thinking of Don Hewitt of Sixty Minutes, and, my God, that show’s been on since God made Eden. So sheer longevity gets his name out. Stephen Cannell, a lot of people know him, fans of The Rockford Files and a few dozen other TV hits.”
“I’ve been calling our absent producers Goodson Toddman.”
“Oh, yeah! A play on the names of the old game-show kings, Goodman-Todson. But you’re in publicity. You know the people behind the people. The public doesn’t.”
“Wouldn’t that be a great way to set up a sting, a revenge plot, a murder, then? Produce a show as an excuse and pop off your enemy. Or enemies.”
“Oh, great. Now I have to worry what producers I might have ticked off during my distant acting career. I’m just a paperback writer now. Please, sir, no more. Don’t kill me.”
But Kit’s touching theatrics didn’t touch Temple. She was standing up, then pacing in the bathroom’s limited space. She liked that idea very much. Don’t look at the Teen Queen show as what it purported to be but as someone’s elaborate revenge plot. And it had to be revenge. You don’t kill someone the way Marjory Klein was killed for any other reason.
So. Reality TV as a setup for murder. Maybe … for multiple murders.
“Kit! You’re a genius. I’ve got a whole new take on this thing. Pick up thy bottle and toddle on home.”
“But, Temple, if it is indeed a setup and some of us, maybe all of us, aren’t here by accident, I was invited. Out of the blue. For no discernible reason.”
“Some people were invited as cover, like maybe all the contestants.”
“Cover. I’m cover. That’s good. I can live with that. I wouldn’t know anybody in common with a dietitian, would I?”
“Of course not. Where was Marjory from?”
“Ah, Los Angeles, I think she said.”
“See. Wrong coast, Manhattan baby. You’re safe. They say not, but I think the police must have someone undercover here.““Besides you?”
“I’m told I’m only good for babysitting.”
“Not your forte. I know. I’m your aunt.”
“Keep that under your hat, if you have one with you. And we both better keep an eye out to see that none of the little girls get hurt.”
“Sure. But, Temple, all of the girls had appointments with Marjory. Maybe she really ticked one off with her healthy eating crusade. Maybe she found one who was seriously anorexic and was determined to have her put into treatment.”
“And therefore removed from the competition. I didn’t want to reveal the total grossness of the death scene, but I suppose a girl who purged herself would consider stuffing food down someone’s throat a suitable punishment.”
“Stuffed down her throat?” Kit put a hand to her own neck. “God, what a way to go. I hope nobody ever hates me that much.”
She pushed the cork back into her illegal bottle, as if she couldn’t swallow anything more. The gesture reminded them both that no liquor was served in the Teen Queen Castle.
Imagine, Temple could turn in her own aunt for violating the dorm rules! Teenage angst, revisited, made for many motives for murder.
Kit saluted at the door, then scurried back down the hall to her own wing.
Temple turned back to the room. Mariah was still doing the turtle under the bedcovers. Temple wished she could be as dead to the world and the schemes that must be swirling around here as Mariah was at this moment.
Chapter 37
American Tragedy
“You want what’?”
Molina looked up from the phone receiver pinched between her cheek and shoulder. She held up a hand to signal Alch and Su to hold on a minute.
“I have more to do right now than act as a glorified file clerk,” she went on.
Under the desk her toe tapped an impatient drumbeat on the vinyl tile floor.
Alch and Su exchanged glances.
“All right. I’ll find someone to do it, although God knows we’re understaffed. Yes. ASAP. My messenger boy may have to be a bit unconventional. Fine. Good.”
She hung up with an undisguised sigh.
“More paperwork, Lieutenant?” Alch asked sympathetically. Paperwork was the bane of accountants, schoolteachers, and law enforcement types.
“Nothing germane.” Molina sat. “What’s happening at that damn house?”
“Nothing more. We have some uniforms on the set, so to speak,” Alch said.
“Meanwhile,” Su added, “I’ve found a lot out about Marjory Klein.”
“And—?”
“She was somebody, Lieutenant. She has several books about nutrition and eating disorders on Amazon.com and eBay.”
“Second coming, obviously,” Alch mocked. “Amazon and eBay. The new carnival hucksters.”
“The point is,” Su said, pointedly, eyeing Alch askance, “that she was something of an expert in the field.”
“Credentials accepted. What about her personally?”
Su flipped pages, quoting. “Associate Professor at Great Western University in Michigan. Blue-collar school but well regarded. Assisted various nationally known psychiatrists in treating eating disorder cases. She had some professional chops.”
“In other words,” Alch summed up, “she was an expert of a sort.”
“Amazing.” Molina was truly surprised. “The show producers actually assembled some credible advisors, unlike our own CSI.”
“It’s a national hit, Lieutenant,” Alch said, “no point in being a nit-picker.”
“There’s always a point in being a nit-picker, Morrie, or at least some pleasure.” But Molina smiled.
“Okay,” she went on. “This woman wasn’t a quack. Could she have professional rivals jealous of her new public profile with the Teen Queen gig?”
“We’re talking academia,” Alch said. “Always rivals.”
“I have the autopsy report.”
“What’d Grizzly say?” Su asked.
Molina smiled again. Her nickname for the burly brusque coroner, last name Bahr, had stuck. It gave her a certain cachet with him. Coroners were always a trifle vain, like Sherlock Holmes’s older brother. They loved the tribute of a nom de guerre.
“Peanut oil. Peanut allergy. Deadly. Victims of this condition usually advertise it widely to avoid any contact with such a common food element.”
“So the lima beans . .” Su began.
“Were both a medium and a message, I think.”
“Wow.” Su was speechless for two seconds. “Any one of those girls could have had enough of Klein’s ‘beans and legumes’ philosophy. And peanut oil … it’s everywhere.”