Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Temple edged forward, squatted, and dipped a hesitant forefinger into the puddling red. "Fingernail polish!" "Oh." The girl on the opposite wall waved a bouquet of scarlet-lacquered nails on long, pale-stemmed fingers. "A brand-new bottle of my favorite color, Vamp Tramp, was missing yesterday.”

Temple's cell phone received a quiet and dignified interment in her tote bag. She was most thankful that she had not reached her party. "Is this someone's real costume, or what?”

Paper-towel man was shaking his head on the way out. "Don't ask me, lady. Ladies. I'll let maintenance know to clean up."

“No. Wait! This may not be a murder scene, but it is a malicious mischief scene. At the least, hotel security should be notified. And the . . . tableau should be photographed. And probably the components should be preserved."

“Who the heck are you?"

“I handle public relations for the Crystal Phoenix. I know what precautions to take."

“Okay. I'll tell someone who can make decisions. Me, I'm outa here. And . . . if this roll of paper towels might be evidence, keep it. I got plenty more where that came from.”

He dropped the roll on the dressing table top and bowed out, quite literally.

“Really?" the woman in white asked in a small, wee voice. "It's just a dead . . . dummy?"

“Nothing but a deck of cards, honest.”

The reference to Alice in Wonderland was lost on this Babe in Elvis land. Beneath the heavy swags of dark hair, her alabaster brow may have frowned, infinitesimally, as she spoke. "They play cards upstairs. Not down here. This is a dressing room."

“And what were you doing here?"

“Dressing."

“For what?" Temple asked. "And you act as if you know me.”

The girl finally pushed off the wall and stepped forward. "Of course I do." She parted the river of long hair that made her face a pale stepping stone almost lost in its rippling brunette flow. "It's me."“

 'M_e' ?"

“Your posing partner! Well, not your partner. I mean, that would have been a little kinky, even for the cover-hunk pageant.”

Temple grabbed the parted hair and separated it more. "Priscilla! I mean, Quincey. Of course! I forgot about you being here during the excitement. Wow. You look ... unreal. Did Priscilla Presley really look like this?"

“Absolutely." Quincey Conrad patted her borrowed tresses into place again. "I have researched every detail of this role. I'm even wearing the required five pair of false eyelashes."

“Is that why your eyes are at half-mast?"

“I don't have half-mascara on! I have on half a bottle of Daddy Longlegs' s Centipede Sweetie from the discount drug store. It's probably a lot more advanced than the stuff poor Cilla had to use, like, in the Stone Age, thirty years ago. It's got little ceramide microns in it. Thousands and thousands."

“I know. Billions and billions. Well. I'm sure the ceramide microns are delighted to be serving on your false eyelashes. You certainly don't look like yourself."

“Oh, honestly. Get with it, girlfriend. I have never looked like myself. What's the point?”

Temple nodded. "You may be strangely right. So. Tell me what happened here."

“You're so good at this . . . you know, calm and collected stuff. Can I sit down?”

Temple eyed the get-up. "That depends on your outfit, doesn't it?"

“Oh, everything was polyester then. Didn't wrinkle,wears like diamond-dust nail polish. I got it at a funky little shop called Leopard Alley."

“Ah, yes. I remember it well."

“Hey! You know the place. Wild." Quincey pulled out a wooden ice-cream-style chair and stared down at the paper-towel-stuffed costume corpse. "That's probably one of the Elvis imitators' costumes. Poor thing. They pay a fortune for those corny, custom-made pjs, you know."

“I know Elvis must have, but even the imitators?"

“Oh, yeah. Unlike the cover hunks, their job isn't taking it off. Their job is putting it on. The whole schmeer. Suit, shoes, belt, hair, sideburns. Even a girdle, if necessary. People think women are phony when they dress up. Hah! No, those guys pay bunches and bunches to look like a has-been."

“So you don't get the Elvis mania."

“Oh, I get it. I mean, when he was young he knew how to be one foxy dude, once he got over having been a total groadie nerd in high school, but that's no reason to hold anything against him. I mean, a lot of surprising people were total groadie nerds in high school."

“All surprising people were total groadie nerds in high school."

“Really?"

“Haven't you ever felt like a total groadie nerd?" Quincey curled the end of a false tress around a forefinger. "Maybe. Once. For a few seconds. But I got over it."

“Hmmm. Anyway, you came in here to make up, and that's when you found him?"

“I came in here to check on my makeup bag." She nodded at a quart-size quilted fuchsia zipper bag on the otherwise empty length of communal dressing table. "Sometimes those Elvis boys borrow my stuff, you know? Especially my Daddy Longleg's Centipede Sweetie mascara."

“They use mascara?"

“Oh, girl. He did. Why shouldn't they?"