"Speaking of hotheads, that Buchanan character was pretty antsy to get out of there."
Electra's eyes narrowed. "Either the nose of a newshound heading for a deadline ... or the spur of guilt."
Temple leaned back against the sofa, scratching Louie's tummy. "Even I hadn't thought of that. What a spectacular way to be rid of Crawford Buchanan forever! Could he have killed somebody merely to raise his ratings? Yes. Did he? I'm not so sure."
Temple stood, leaving an abandoned Midnight Louie frowning on the sofa cushion.
"There's only one thing to do, Electra: get better acquainted with the psychics. They're staying on for a while, aren't they?"
"With a huge psychic fair at the Oasis running the entire weekend, I doubt any will skip town before Monday."
Temple smiled nostalgically. "I can see Lieutenant Molina now, growling that this mob of suspects who are only in town for a five-day stay are murder."
"That detective team, Watts and Sacker, seemed pretty laid-back."
"Maybe. But if whatever was fatal to Edwina Mayfair turns out to be murderous, you can bet that will change. Meanwhile, when does the psychic fair open?"
Electra checked her watch. "At noon today, Friday. It's not the thirteenth, is it?"
"Not unless the spirits have rearranged the calendar. Today is November first, All Saints'
Day."
"Better take a nap; I'll get you at eleven."
"You're game?"
"Of course. Someone at the fair may have insight into who did whatever was done."
Temple saw Electra out, wondering if her landlady would still be a redhead by midday.
She grabbed a bagel on her way to the bedroom, deposited the Midnight Louie shoes in their own drawer when she got there, shrugged out of the dress, pantyhose and bra, put on her purple fuzzies and burrowed under the unmade covers.
A few moments later she felt the bed bounce. Louie was ready for a catnap too, and well he should be, after his adventures of the wee hours.
It felt strange and rather decadent to be going to sleep for the night at a time when she was normally waking up. But she fell asleep too fast to think about anything. When she woke up, the doorbell was chiming and a dream-shadow of a big black cat with emerald eyes and a ruby collar was slinking back into never-never land.
Temple reached for her glasses, saw the bedside clock read twelve-fifteen and lurched up to answer the bell.
Electra was standing there, her hair a banana-yellow, her face an ashen blank slate of sobriety.
"Temple. I just heard the noon news. Hang on to your heartbeat."
"It was murder!"
"No, they don't know that yet, or don't say they know yet."
"Then what's the shock?"
"It wasn't a lady."
"The newscaster was no lady?"
"No, the victim! Your hand-holding partner wasn't a woman."
"What was it, then?" Temple blinked, still sleepy.
"A man!"
"A man?"
"Named Gandolph."
Temple frowned and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "That name sounds familiar--"
"Of course. It's the name of the wizard in The Lord of the Rings fantasy trilogy. Only they spelled it wrong on the TV screen. G-a-n-d-o-l-p-h, as if he were German or something. It should be G-a-n-d-a-l-f, you know?"
"No, I don't know. I've never read this Lord of the Rings. Has it got something to do with matrimony?"
"You've never read The Lord of the Rings? But you must have; everybody has."
"Not me." Temple scratched her chin and yawned. "Even though 'Gandolph' does sound familiar. What's the rest of her ... his name?"
"Doesn't have a rest."
"Just G-a-n-d-o-l-p-h?"
"That's right. But, say, doesn't it worry you more that you held hands for almost an hour with a phony medium? A fake? A transvestite?"
"Not at all." Temple felt her eyes screw themselves into focus.
"Wait a minute! I was all worried about Crawford Buchanan playing footsie with me, and instead I had a strange guy in drag nudging and patting my knee! I don't know if I'm sorry he's dead."
"Hush, dear! The recently departed can sometimes hear the harsh judgment of the living."
"Good!" Temple shouted. "What a dirty trick! And I thought the poor dead lady had a hair-loss problem. All that whispered motherly consolation was a sham, you louse! Why don't you go out and get your kicks on Route Sixty-six ... in the middle of the road where they can run you over."
"Temple, he's already dead."
"Not enough for me! That shows you what kind of flakes these so-called psychics are."
"Please, you can't judge all by one."
"I sure can. And why did you wake me up, anyway?"
"We're going to the psychic fair, to see what we can learn there."
"Now you're talking like Nostradamus."
"I've never claimed prophetic powers," Electra demurred modestly.
"I meant the local rhyming bookie." Temple sighed. "I suppose we should see what the fortune-tellers all think about being taken in by a wolf in ewe's clothes."
"Psychics are not fortune-tellers; they would get very upset if you called them that."
Electra was pursuing Temple to the bedroom, anxiously explicating.
Temple shut the door before Electra could follow her in.
"Brew up some coffee while I'm dressing," she suggested from within. "It should put me in a better mood."
Electra's footsteps ran, not walked, over the parquet to the kitchen tile, from where shortly came a great clangor.
Temple sighed again, then rummaged in her closet for something to wear. Unfortunately, Midnight Louie had already found it, pulled it down and made it into a nest to curl up on.
She squatted down to study his cozy arrangement.
"The late lady was a lad, Louie. Imagine that. Named Gandolph. Why is that name familiar?"
Chapter 17
Parsley, Sage Rosemary and Crime
The Oasis was Las Vegas's answer to the Taj Mahal.
In fact, the gazebo by the pool out back was the Taj Mahal The symbolic curbside greeters were a sculptured pair of immense palanquin-bearing elephants flashing polyurethane tusks long enough, and strong enough, to seat the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for a photo opportunity.
Inside was an exotic jungle landscape chattering with monkeys and birds, among whom the ringing of slot machines chimed like distant temple bells.
"This is Elizabeth Taylor's Cleopatra," Temple declared, "but our Crystal Phoenix attraction will be Spencer Tracy's Katharine Hepburn: not as big as a back lot, but what's there will be choice."
"Do Van and Nicky approve of your moonlighting as a psychic detective these days?" Electra asked.
"I'm not a psychic detective: I'm investigating psychics. There's a big difference. You bet they approve. I called to find out how the Crystal Ball went--a smash, boo hoo, that l couldn't bask in--but Nicky and Van were mostly agog about the fatality at the seance. They're dying to know if the haunted house organizers are irresponsible enough to play fast and loose with their special effects, and maybe commit manslaughter. Such loose cannons wouldn't be on the Crystal Phoenix team, I can tell you. So I have carte blanche to snoop."
"Eightball did offer the opinion that these punk kids that dream up special effects nowadays are technological giants and, emotional dwarves."
"When did you see Eightball?"
"I can use my telephone, too," Electra said airily, "even if it isn't a cute red spike shoe like yours. Now let's boogie."
Electra eagerly led Temple to the ballrooms, her vivid muumuu for once fading into the hothouse background.
After they had paid their stiff entry fees (apparently sister seance attendees received no discounts), they were allowed into a ma-harajah's pleasure dome draped with imported fabrics.
Sheer silks impressed with gold designs tented every exhibitor's stand.