Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

So, if this was “Murder on the Siberian Express” . . . how much dodging and burning could even the most pompous museum curators do to hold back the inevitable tide of media interest? Temple may have been a bit hard-headed on this subject. She’d faced the disruption of murder on more than one assignment. Between living in one of the fastest-expanding areas in the U.S. with an annual tourist influx pushing toward forty million a year, the odds in Las Vegas for serious crime, including murder, were staggering.

It was a miracle the place was as safe and secure as it was. And it was, basically, thanks to hotel-casino security forces backing up local law enforcement. The city was Oz on the Mojave, and the “palace” guards were rigorously trained and employed to make sure it remained safe for Dorothy Tourist and the Gang. No Wicked Witches ruled here, if you excepted Shangri-La and her performing Siamese, Hyacinth. But Temple was a little biased on that account.

She dared to ask a question. One she regarded as fairly safe.

“Sir,” she asked Volpe during a pause when he downed the steaming contents of one samovar that smelled slightly festive. “Murder will out, but this death is clearly ambiguous. It could be just a tragic accident.”

The aristocratic white fuzzy eyebrows lofted while the dark eyes beneath sized her up. Oh, God. She couldn’t help that she looked like the Sugar Plum Fairy as a blonde.

“You’re right,” he surprised her by saying. “The death is indeed ambiguous. The police and coroner haven’t declared a cause, and the coroner’s office, thank God, is far behind on its case load. So we may be lucky enough not to get a determination until after the exhibition moves on to the Frick.

“However . . .”

Temple stopped basking in her good-student mode and held her pen poised above a blank line, ready to record the nitty-gritty that was about to issue from those pale, wrinkled Russo-Parisian lips.

“The excellent police in this city have identified this man, at least under his alias, and have informed us of his criminal career here. We do not know his real identity and, whatever the cause of death, we feel we need to know if he was connected with someone else. Perhaps they may discover an international connection, even with such as Chechen rebels. I merely mention the more dire international possibilities.”

Temple’s pen hit paper, making a period on the notebook sheet.

She was inclined to object that simply being a Chechen made anyone a “known” criminal, but there was no doubt that Chechen rebels had been making it as hot for the Russian government as unknown anarchists had for the czars in the bad old days a hundred and more years ago.

A possible dead Chechen swinging from a bungee cord in the New Millennium wouldn’t be just a would-be jewel thief but a possible political gauntlet slapped across everybody’s face. And as a PR problem, he would be a top-drawer nightmare. It would take a pile of artful public relations to salvage a situation like that. No wonder she often ended up solving crimes as well as creating press releases. It was the only way to protect her clients from the law’s delay. She had to do it herself.

Well. A big cold, slimy salty mouthful of dead fish eggs might be just the thing to snap Temple out of the serious PR funk Monsieur Volpe had just put her in.

Maximum Insurance

Temple kept her own counsel until she got home to the Circle Ritz.

Who would have ever thought that a PR person for a major exhibition would have ever welcomed the idea of plain and simple out-and-out jewel thieves?

Especially since the only model that came to mind was Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief. Who wouldn’t want Cary Grant on one’s case? Speaking of art thieves, there was always Pierce Brosnan in the remake of The Thomas Crown Affair. Not too shabby either. Every female PR freelancer should be so lucky!

Except. Here. Now. A Russian exhibit blending Czarist and post-Soviet politics with Las Vegas capitalist commercial sizzle. A marriage made in hell, for sure. And if a Chechen rebel in black spandex accessorized with bungee cord turns up dead on the scene?

Oh, hell indeed!

Temple speed-dialed Max on her cell phone. It was the relatively early hour (for a magician) of 1:00 P.M., but she hoped he was out there. Somewhere.

An answer!

“Well. Hello, Miss Teen Hottie. You still a bad, bad bottle blonde?”

“Yup. Sorry I was so out of it when you paid your respects the other night.”

“I hate to disillusion you, but those weren’t respects.”

“Hmmm,” she responded.

Max was doing his best to sound Max-errific, but Temple could tell that he was . . . simply . . . tired. Just awakened. Getting his bearings. Pretending to be perfectly alert, perfectly all right.

Just as she was. Pretending, that is. Rats!

“Listen, Max, I have that New Millennium Russian exhibition PR job and I need your input.”

“The Millennium? You’re doing the public relations for it?”