Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

The pinnacle was the clear Lexan plastic onion-shaped dome. Lexan was Lucite on steroids: impact proof. When the Czar Alexander scepter was suspended above its stone base and a bright pinpoint spot was aimed at all that high-carat jewel fire, the effect would be spectacular.

Already the exhibition’s lower levels glittered with period gowns and high-polished furniture, interspersed with islands of imperial silver and gold and more gemstones.

“This should be a knockout, Randy.”

“This information should knock you out more.”

Temple gave him an inquiring look. Her usual slightly sandpapered voice was raw gravel this morning, thanks to serial sobbing into her pillow. Even Visine had only softened the bloody tinge of her eye whites. Having an emotional meltdown as a blonde was way too risky. Normally, her natural red hair would have deflected interest from her eyes.

“Tell me,” she said. Even bad news would take her mind off . . . things.

“The dead guy may have been a petty con man, but he had experience topside in this kind of show. He was, get this, Madame Olga Kirkov’s brother. Got his start performing in her traveling ballet company, then came here and got an American citizenship years ago.”

Temple allowed herself to look shocked. “Art Deckle had been a Russian ballet dancer?”

“Andrei Dechynevski. He made the leap thirty years ago. Did you know Madame Olga herself had defected from Russia twenty years ago? Back when you couldn’t leave the Soviet Union without an escape pod and help from the CIA or an underground group?”

“So, this White Russian exhibition in the white-hot center of American tourism would mean a lot to her. Could she and her brother have been in it together? Why would a respected elder stateswoman of the ballet world want to steal the Czar Alexander scepter?”

“Dunno. Maybe some clever person with a reason to interview the old dame should ask her. You know the ins and outs of this museum/performance fine arts stuff.”

“That’s true. I do,” Temple said. She winced at her last two words. “I will.” That wasn’t much better. Why did she have vows on her mind? For reasons of breaking or making them?

Concentrating on the weird death—and now strange family history—of Art Deckle might take her mind off . . . other things.

After inquiring, Temple was directed to the second-floor meeting room that served as exhibition headquarters. She found her way to the same oblong room wrapped around a very long conference table littered with architects’ floor plans and elevations.

It was her luck that Madame Olga was the only one here. The old woman was sitting cross-legged like an elf atop the table, studying the pale blue lines of the drawings. The prominent veins in her hands and arms were even more vivid than the sketch lines.

Still, her back and spine were ruler straight. That she maintained that ballerina’s combination of flexibility and ramrod posture was amazing for a woman of her age. Maybe Aunt Kit was mistaken about inevitable female decrepitude. Just a little.

“Ah.” The woman looked up with a grateful sigh. “My eyes are seeing double on these drawings. Just the one to make it all come clear. Miss Barr, is it?”

“Yes. Why are you sitting on the table, may I ask?”

“Why not?” The age-faded face wore a pixieish grin. Madame Olga reminded Temple of an octogenarian teenager, a total contradiction in impressions. “Come. Join me, child. You can’t see anything right unless you’re in the middle of things.”

Or the muddle of things. That’s where Temple was right now.

“I don’t know if I can—”

“Not in those high heels. Leave them on the floor.”

“But . . . I’m not wearing stockings.” She didn’t feel that bare-foot odor was suitable for the woman’s turned-up yet aristocratic nose.

“Excellent. Stockings only cut off circulation. High heels are the average woman’s equivalent to toe shoes. They strengthen the line of the leg and intensify the curve of the calf. Very sexy, my dear. Do you dance?”

“Only socially. A little.”

“Pity. You have dancer’s legs. I noticed that immediately. I always judge people by their legs. A clumsy leg betokens an idle mind and crooked legs signify a twisted soul. Your legs are slender and straight. You can be trusted.”

Temple hoped Max would agree with that evaluation.

“Why are you here to see me? You are here to see me?”

“Um . . . yes, I am.” Temple gazed at the architectural renderings papering the wooden tabletop. She felt she was at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party without tea, and with only one very old, eccentric, and formidable guest.

She eyed the old lady next to her, who seemed her own height.

“It’s funny,” Temple said. “I always feel short but I don’t now that I am sitting next to you.”

The black eyes in that pale, blue-veined face crackled with energy and amusement.