“Much was.” Max rose, very slowly.
The cat remained in place, staring at him.
“This is so unusual. Karma doesn’t take to strangers.”
“I’m not a complete stranger.”
“Not until the last few months. If Temple calls, is there someplace I can reach you?”
He jotted his cell phone number on a blank card from his pocket.
Electra rose to see him to the door. “It’s good to see you Max. I’ll walk out with you.”
“Not necessary.”
“No, but I want to see what you’re driving these days. I’ve never seen anyone with such a habit of changing cars.”
“Leases allow me to change cars as often as you change hair colors.”
“Touché.” She took his arm once they were back in the foyer and waiting for the elevator. “I’m upset that Temple didn’t tell me about her father. You’ll keep me informed if you find out anything, won’t you?”
“I don’t have her mother’s phone number. I wasn’t exactly a Barr family favorite.”
“Why ever not, Max? I’d want you in my family album any day.”
He shrugged as they rode down in the elevator. “Temple was the youngest child and the only girl. They didn’t want her running off to Las Vegas with an itinerant magician.”
“But you were headlining at the Goliath!”
“I’m not anymore. Maybe they were right. And families are funny.” He couldn’t help thinking of his own very unfunny family situation.
By then they were in the lobby. Electra took a firm maternal grip on his arm. “You’re part of the Circle Ritz family, dear Max, whether you’re in residence or not. So feel free to come visit me and Karma anytime.”
Max smiled at her innate warmth. He’d been pretty insulated from family feeling most of his life. Surprising how good her encouragement felt.
On the back step, Electra halted them. “Wait. Let me guess which one is yours.”
“Not much of a challenge. There are only seven vehicles out here.”
“You are always a challenge, Max. Hmmm. The black Toyota SUV.”
“Not the silver Crossfire?”
“Maybe, except I know who drives that.”
Something guarded in her tone made Max ask, “And who is that?”
“Matt. Just got it.”
“Devine? What happened to churchly frugality?” Electra shrugged, her arm still linked through his. “Maybe it was time he broke out a little.”
“You were letting him ride the Hesketh Vampire.” Max referred to his vintage Brit classic motorcycle, also silver, which he’d given Electra way back when as a down payment on the Circle Ritz condo. For Temple and him.
“Right. Then he bought my old Probe.”
“Now that he has the Crossfire, I don’t suppose he gives the Vampire much exercise these days then?”
“Not much. I could ride it. Still have my Speed Queen helmet, but I haven’t for some reason.”
Matt stared at the low sleek silver car and the small red convertible and his own high-riding SUV, which looked ultra-conservative and dull alongside those two.
“I feel like taking a nostalgic spin on the Vampire. Did you know that there are only three left, outside museums? Come on; I’ll give you a ride that will curl your blonde hair even more.”
“I don’t know, Max. You sound pretty reckless right now.”
“Speed Queen isn’t up for that?”
“Darn wrong!” She reached into her muumuu pocket. “Just let me unlock the shed and we’ll be ready to rock and roll.”
In minutes, Max had grabbed the no-name black helmet Matt had used. Electra had mounted behind him, her chubby hands locked around his waist. They cruised out of the parking lot through a few city blocks before hitting Highway 15 paralleling the Strip, then veering onto 93, heading north into nowhere.
He let the Vampire have its head, like a horse. After all, it was named for the unearthly scream its engine produced as it reached higher speeds.
Far past the city, he let the motorcycle run as straight as a banshee scream, due north. Electra whooped behind him and held on tighter. Wind lashed them both into a mute, moving altered state of speed and nerve and nirvana.
And finally, miles down Highway 93 en route to Ash Springs, the Vampire’s triumphant screech drowned out the ugly, unwelcome questions in Max Kinsella’s head.
Chapter 39
Awful Unlawful
The atmosphere around the Teen Queen Castle was rapidly turning into English country house boredom.
All the frenetic activity ground to a halt. Each faction clung to their “wings,” lolling about the common rooms watching CNN (the coaches and judges), MTV and E.T. (the ‘Tween Queen candidates), Ambush Makeovers and Home Shopping Network and QVC (the Teen Queen lions’ mane den), and ESPN (the technical crew).
Xoe Chloe, the nonconformist, found reason to ricochet between all of them, as if on invisible Rollerblades.
And, of course, she kept bouncing off Alch and Su as they made their rounds interviewing the entire cast and crew.
There were two other people on board as unattached as Xoe Chloe, both unanchored and both unsavory. Temple wondered what that meant.
“Hey there!” The words were banal; the deep baritone that intoned them sent hacksaw blades up Temple’s back.
She turned to find Crawford Buchanan attired in a banana-yellow jogging suit (which made him look like a tropical fruit with a shaggy, rotting end, i.e., his always too-trendy coiffure), trying to catch up with her in the artsy breezeway between the coaches’ and candidates’ areas.
“Yeah?” She turned and stopped only because it occurred to her he might be worth pumping.
“You sure do get around.”
“Beach Boys. 1964. ‘I Get Around.’”
“An MTV girl. If I were a judge you’d make my cut.”
“You’re a real Nowhere Man. Beatles. 1966.”
“Okay. Cute. I’d still like to interview you.”
“With no mike, Spike?”
He tapped his forehead. “I still have this. And maybe some paper somewhere.”
While he patted his jogging suit pockets for the absent notebook, Temple snatched an InStyle magazine abandoned by a passing blonde on a nearby table.
“Write on this.”
“Well, I guess I can. In the white spaces.”
“You always been a radio guy?” she asked.
“Off and on. Used to have my own show. They called me the Provo, Utah, Kid.”
“Real catchy.”
He bought it. “What do you think about this murder thing?”
“I think it’s ruining the reality TV show world. I mean, jawing with maggots, eating live lizards, winning a million for snagging some dork on live TV … or not, singing so bad you’re an un-American Idol, that’s all righteous stuff. Cool. But murder. Way too intense. Bad form. You know what I mean?““Uh, yeah. So … why’d you do this?”
“Thought it’d be a kick. Why’d you do this?”
“I have a chance to get syndicated and you could be part of it, Xoe. It’s the pits that we’re off camera. I need a telegenic personality like you. When we’re recording again, I’d get you Rollerblading all through the house. You’d be our guide to the whole show, see? Great exposure. A shower scene maybe. Then jogging around the pool. Show ‘em all sweating and primping. The public will love it.”
“Whoa! Crawford, you devil, you. That’s all visual material.”
“Right. Radio sucks. I’m being recorded here too. I wanna go TV.”
“Sure. You’ve got the chops for it. Say, if you solved this murder thing—”
He blinked, flashing his long, ladylike lashes. A supermodel would kill for those things.
“I’ve been thinking this police stuff is a hitch,” he said.
“No, dude. It’s an opportunity. CSI Central. Who d’you think done it? You’ve been all over this place. Unless … it’s you-uuu.”
He spat out a yeesh sound. “Right. I want to ruin a chance to change media. No way. But you’re right, if I could find a way to capitalize on this murder.. .”