Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

“Las Vegas leans to aerial murders,” Temple mused, remembering the dead bodies in the ceiling at the Goliath and Crystal Phoenix hotels, both of them connected, perhaps circumstantially, to men she knew and loved.

There! Her subconscious had tricked and kicked her into a reality check. She was a total romantic schizo! Her outer blonde and her inner redhead were of two minds and hearts as well as two Lady Clairol shades.

Temple didn’t think she should be having an emotional epiphany right here amid the rubble of museum construction, but there it was.

“ ‘Aerial murders’?” The Cloaked Conjuror was struck by the phrase. “My guy was killed up on the catwalk up top.” The ponderous head tilted to view the black-painted upper third of the space.

“Is there a catwalk up there too?” Temple asked.

“Of course. To service the lights and the magic act rigging.”

“Which is pretty Cirque du Soleil.”

If a mask could grin, the voice behind this one did.

“Imitation is sincere. No one in this town can put together a new act without taking Cirque into account nowadays.”

That made Temple wonder again what Max was dreaming up in that direction now that he had recommitted to a performing career. She knew the discipline was fierce and all engulfing. Something else occurred to her.

“Are your big cats involved in this museum act too?”

“Of course they make an appearance. I need to limit their time up there. Too risky. Even for magicians.” He chuckled. “But I’ve a got a new catwoman in my act, so that provides the feline presence so effective in magic shows.”

“A catwoman?” Temple feigned ignorance all the better to pump CC on his fishy new partner. “To your Batman/Catman? Interesting. I’m supposed to be skewing publicity toward the high-end art audience, but I could probably get some pop culture media interested in your new partner. Where’d you find her? In one of the Cirque shows?”

“Nope, though she was right here in Vegas. Did a little act at a place called the Opium Den. Shangri-La’s the name, so I guess she’s a Siamese kind of cat herself.”

A thieving kind of she-cat! While Temple was struggling mightily not to go Scarlett enough to outright swoon with fury, he added, “Even has a Siamese cat she used in her old act. Damn agile and clever little thing. Hyacinth. Those two communicate like a witch and familiar. Ought to be a few publicity angles in that.”

Temple could just see the headlines: EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! LAS VEGAS PR WOMAN GOES CODE RED IN CZAR EXHIBIT.

The Cloaked Conjuror was walking away to chat up Randy. Temple guessed that she had held up, as any delicate blossom must when she hears her most fatal female bête noir is on the scene of a very ugly possible crime. She already knew Shangri-La was a thief. She’d taken the diamond and opal ring Max had bought Temple at Tiffany’s.

Temple at Tiffany’s. Hey, that sounded even better than Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

The Opium Den was a third-tier theater off the Strip. She and Max, and Matt and Lieutenant Molina had all gone there for different purposes a few months back. Temple had been asked up on stage; somehow stripped of her ring and lured into a cabinet that deposited her in the building’s basement, from whence she was whisked as a prisoner. Along with Midnight Louie, a cat who had a habit of trailing her like a dog at the most perilous moments. She and Louie had been bound, boxed, and rushed out of town in a semi full of magician’s boxes and designer drugs.

Max had taken the whole cargo apart to find them in the trick cabinets, not too much the worse for wear, except Louie was literally spitting mad. Sometimes having a magician boyfriend was a boon. Sometimes not; say, when he vanishes for a year without a word.

Temple didn’t want to dwell on her worst moments, or months. Max was back and he’d had a damn good reason for ducking out: contract killers on his tail. They still were. And Max was still ducking out, for days rather than months at least. Although Temple was finding that harder and harder to take.

But it was disturbing to think that Shangri-La had shown up again. At best she’d been an accessory to a drug deal. True, no one at the police department had ever been able to connect her to anything. And, believe it, Molina would have tried. Hard. Molina viewed anyone who had anything to do with Temple with suspicion because of Max. Except maybe Matt Devine, who was hard to view with anything but admiration, or . . . lust? Gorgeous ex-priests with an ethically sincere approach to romance were not a dime a dozen even these days, God bless him and his Catholic conscience!

Back to Shangri-La. At worst, she’d wanted to hurt Temple for some reason. Or maybe just use her as a distraction, but how did Shangri-La know who Temple was, or, rather, with whom she associated?

Temple cricked her neck at the pendant dead man, a macabre human chandelier in this vast, airy space.