Previously in

Midnight Louie's Lives and Times .. .

Crime, chicanery, and chicks are my beat.

I am a noir kind of guy, inside and out.

I admit it. I am a shameless admirer of the female of the species. Any species. Of course, not all females are dames. Some are little dolls, like my petite roommate, MissTemple Barr.

The difference between dames and little dolls? Dames can take care of themselves, period. Little dolls can take care of themselves also but they are not averse to letting the male of the species think that they have an occasional role in the Master Plan too.

That is why my MissTemple and I are perfect roomies. She tolerates my wandering ways. I make myself useful looking after her without letting her know about it. Call me Muscle in Midnight Black. In our time we have cracked a few cases too tough for the local fuzz of the human persuasion, law enforcement division. That does not always win either of us popularity contests, but we would rather be right there than on the side- lines �when something crooked is going down. We share a well-honed sense of justice and long, sharp fingernails.

So when I hear that any major new attraction is coming to Las Vegas, I figure that one way or another my lively little roommate, the petite and toothsome, will be spike heel�high in the planning and execution. She is, after all, a freelance public relations �specialist, and Las Vegas is full of public relations of all stripes and legalities. In this case, though, I did not figure just how personally she would be involved in murder with hattitude.

I should introduce myself: Midnight Louie, Pl. I am not your usual gumshoe, in that my feet do not wear shoes of any stripe, but shivs. I have certain attributes, such as being short, dark, and handsome ... really short. That gets me overlooked and un- derestimated, which is what the savvy operative wants anyway. I am your perfect undercover guy. I also like to hunker down under the covers with my little doll. My adventures would fill a book, and in fact I have several out. My life is one ongoing TV series in which I as hero extract my hapless human friends from fixes of their own making and literally nail crooks.

After the recent dramatic turn of events, most of my human associates are pretty shell-shocked. Not even an ace feline PI� may be able to solve their various predicaments in the areas , of crime and punishment ... and PR, as in Personal Relationships.

As a serial killer finder in a multivolume mystery series (not to mention a primo mouthpiece), it behooves me to update my readers old and new on past crimes and present tensions.

None can deny that the Las Vegas crime scene is a pretty busy place, and I have been treading these mean neon streets for nineteen books now. When I call myself an "alphacat," some think I am merely asserting my natural male and feline dominance, but no. I merely reference the fact that since I debuted in Catnap and Pussyfoot, I then commenced to a title sequence that is as sweet and simple as B to Z.

That is where I began my alphabet, with the B in Cat on a Blue Monday. From then on, the color word in the title is in alphabetical order up to the current volume, Cat in a Red Hot Rage.

Since I associate with a multifarious and nefarious crew of iuman beings, and since Las Vegas is littered with guideDooks as well as bodies, I wish to provide a rundown of the ocal landmarks on my particular map of the world. A cast of characters, so to speak: To wit, my lovely roommate and high-heel devotee, Miss Nancy Drew on killer spikes, freelance PR ace MISS TEMPLE BARR, who had reunited with her elusive love ...

... the once missing-in-action magician MR. MAX KINSELLA, who has good reason for invisibility. After his cousin SEAN died in a bomb attack during a post�high school jaunt to Ireland, he went into undercover counterterrorism work with his mentor, GANDOLPH THE GREAT, whose unsolved murder while unmasking phony psychics at a Halloween s�ance is still on the books....

Meanwhile, Mr. Max is sought by another dame, Las Vegas homicide detective LIEUTENANT C. R. MOLINA, mother of teenage MARIAH ... and the good friend of MissTemple's recent good friend, MR. MATT DEVINE, a radio talk-show shrink and former Roman Catholic priest who came to Las Vegas to track down his abusive stepfather, now dead and buried. By whose hand no one is quite sure.

Speaking of unhappy pasts, Miss Lieutenant Carmen Regina Molina is not thrilled that her former flame, MR. RAFI NADIR, the unsuspecting father of Mariah, is in Las Vegas taking on shady muscle jobs after blowing his career at the LAPD ... or that Mr. Max Kinsella is aware of Rafi and his past relationship to hers truly.

In the meantime, Mr. Matt drew a stalker, the local lass that young Max and his cousin Sean boyishly competed for in that long-ago Ireland ...

... one MISS KATHLEEN O'CONNOR, deservedly christened by Miss Temple as Kitty the Cutter. Finding Mr. Max impossible to trace, she settled for harassing with tooth and claw the nearest innocent bystander, Mr. Matt Devine .... who is still trying to recover from the crush he developed on MissTemple, his neighbor at the Circle Ritz condominiums, while Mr. Max was missing in action. He did that by not very boldly seeking new women, all of whom were in danger from said Kitty the Cutter.

In fact, on the advice of counsel, i.e., AMBROSIA, Mr. Matt's talk-show producer, and none other than the aforesaid Lieutenant Molina, he had attempted to disarm Miss Kitty's pathological interest in his sexual state by supposedly losing his virginity with a call girl least likely to be the object of K. the Cutter's retaliation. Did he or didn't he? One thing is certain: hours after their iffy assignation at the Goliath Hotel, said call girl turned up deader than an ice-cold deck of Bicycle playing cards. But there are almost forty million potential victims in this old town, if you include the constant come and go of tourists, and everything is up for grabs in Las Vegas 24/7: guilt, innocence, money, power, love, loss, death, and significant others.

All this human sex and violence makes me glad that I have a simpler social life, such as just trying to get along with my unacknowledged daughter ...

... miss MIDNIGHT LOUISE, who insinuated herself into my cases until I was forced to set up shop with her as Midnight Inc. Investigations, and who has also nosed herself into my long-running duel with ...

... the evil Siamese assassin HYACINTH, first met as the onstage assistant to the mysterious lady magician ...

... SHANGRI-LA, who made off with MissTemple's semi-engagement ring from Mr. Max during an onstage trick and has been seen since only in sinister glimpses ...

... just like THE SYNTH, an ancient cabal of magicians that may deserve contemporary credit for the ambiguous death of Mr. Max's mentor in magic, Gandolph the Great, not to mention Gandolph's former onstage assistant as well as a professor of magic at the University of Nevada at Las Vegas.

Well, there you have it, the usual human stew, all mixed up and at odds with one another and within themselves. Obviously, it is up to me to solve all their mysteries and nail a few crooks along the way. Like Las Vegas, the City That Never Sleeps, Midnight Louie, private eye, also has a sobriquet: the Kitty That Never Sleeps.

With this crew, who could?

Chapter 1

Last Seen Dead

It is enough to break a guy's heart ...

. if a macho dude like me could ever admit to having one.

I sit, apparently calm and dignified, on the off-white sofa in the living room of what you could call my digs, my crib, my flat ... okay, "our" condominium unit at Las Vegas's only round five-story 1950s landmark, the Circle Ritz.

The round part you probably get. The Ritz part is a word that was chichi way-back-when in the mid-twentieth century and sounds more like a cracker nowadays. Although that cracker is indeed round.

But crackers can be easily crushed, and that is exactly what my esteemed roommate, Miss Temple Barr, would be if she knew what I knew: that her longtime squeeze, Mr. Max Kinsella,is pretty thoroughly crushed himself these days. In fact, I and my partner in crime solving saw him plunge five stories into a solid black wall thirty-six hours ago at the nightclub called Neon Nightmare. Talk about an apt name.

Miss Midnight Louise is my partner (and a would-be descendant in her own mind if only I would admit to being a deadbeat dad). She suspects that someone sinister had arranged Mr. Max's unscheduled landing, from which he was taken away by ambulance.

Granted that performing bungee-cord acrobatics and illusions over a nightclub floor is a pretty dangerous pastime, but Mr. Max Kinsella had formerly been a top Vegas magic act under the name of The Mystifying Max.

What is so mystifying is why he was performing masked under the moniker of the Phantom Mage at Neon Nightmare. Not even his girlfriend�and mine�MissTemple Barr, knew about it.

The lady in question ambles into the living room even as I muse about her. She is talking on one of those obnoxious cell phones that I wish had been drowned at invention in an acid bath. As if the world needed more distracted people wandering around forcing everyone to overhear the details of their professional and personal lives.

Overhearing all that stuff is my job!

However, it is sometimes handy to eavesdrop on one's nearest and dearest, though in this instance it is more than somewhat heartbreaking.

�Max!" my MissTemple admonishes the tiny instrument pressed to her ear. "Answer! Pick up the phone. You have got to be home sometime during one of my hundred and one calls. I've got to talk to you. Soon!�

She folds the already mouse-size phone in half and tosses it onto the sofa seat in disgust. Then she spots me and does her Cary Grant imitation: "Lou-ie, Lou-ie, Lou-ie.�

I do not know what ancient film that is from, but I never object to being associated with a leading man like Mr. Cary Grant, the twentieth-century equivalent of Mr. George Clooney in the suave department.

Miss Temple picks up the phone and sits beside me, glum as the holiday-hijacking Grinch.

�Louie, what am I to do with a man who won't ever answer the phone, even when I'm going to dump him?�

Well.... For the first time in my long career as a primo PI, all-around hip cat, and career-girl companion, I wish I had not taken a vow of silence when it comes to conversing with humans.

I long to offer my MissTemple some trenchant "Dear Tabby" advice. I wish I at least had the option of warning her that her not-so-beloved-lately was in the hands of the paramedics and the city hospital system, if not the county coroner.

Usually I like knowing what other folks do not: that is a crack Pl's job.

Now I just feel as low-down and guilty as any back-alley goldfish-gulper caught raiding the koi pond at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino.

�I am so glad I have you to talk to when I am upset," she continues, twisting the knife.

Who knew a conscience could be so painful? Not moi. I am glad that I do not have a soul, at least, although some on the ailurophile fringe might debate that.

I understand her problem, of course. She has gone forth and consummated her long-simmering attraction to our upstairs neighbor, Mr. Matt Devine, ex-priest now in need of a nice dark confessional, if the church authorities had not scotched these handy dramatic devices of film and story long ago.

I saw that coming from almost a year ago, not that anybody would listen to me. And not that I would want them to. I do not talk to people, and thus save myself from a lot of drivel.

Mr. Max is a swell fellow, but enmeshed in intrigue local and international. Such an agenda does not allow a man to keep the home fires burning as hotly as they should. It is the old story: a romantic triangle turned tragic, only nobody knows it but me.

I will have to see what I can do to change that.

Chapter 2

Limp Biscuit

Temple hiked herself onto one of the two breakfast stools in her tiny black-and-white kitchen. Then she ravaged the upper cupboard for something salty, crunchy, and frustration-reducing.

All she found was a long-opened box of Ritz crackers, half full of soggy imposters of crunch. She tossed the box toward the Albertson's paper bag that served as a temporary trash receptacle.

Okay. She'd finally made the most momentous decision of her life. She'd picked which of two totally wonderful guys she wanted to spend that life with. She took a deep breath. Matt was so sweet. So totally amazing. So hot!

He had been, like, worried about seventeen priestly years of celibacy cramping his style?

Not!

Oh! She was sounding so teenager-y-in-love.

Temple sobered. She'd felt that much in love with Max once, almost three years ago. A year in love here in Las Vegas after instant-everything in Minneapolis. A year of Max gone. Not even a full year of Max back.

Temple went for her refrigerator, hunting something, something . . . crisp and sour. No pickles. Okay. Sweet. What? Was she pregnant? Or just having a change of hormones. Of heart? Or a heart still torn two ways?

A knock on her doorbell put her into cardiac arrest. On her door! Not doorbell, dumbbell! She had to cut herself some slack. After all, she was just a teenager in love.

Matt always knocked.

She opened the door, hungry and anxious and edgy. And it was all, well, all right.

�I'm not bothering you?" Matt asked in his polite Midwestern way.

She pulled him inside, slammed the door shut, and pushed him up against the entry-hall wall.

�Yes, you are. What are you going to do about it?�

He didn't hesitate, just drew her into a mind-blowing soul kiss and during it turned her into the wall herself, so she was pressed hard against, well, everything.

Several minutes later, they ambled into the living room to admire Midnight Louie on the couch.

�Have you reached him?" Matt asked warily.

Temple knew he didn't mean Midnight Louie. She eyed his ruffled blond hair, his warm brown eyes hotter than black coffee from their make-out session in the hall, his expression of uneasy concern.

He realized their new intimate relationship would never feel entirely real until Temple formally broke it off with Max. Although neither one would say this or even mention Max's name at the moment.

That was Max. Mystique to the end. Temple swallowed a sob.Matt was there, holding her. "It's all right."

�What's all right?"

�However you feel."

�I feel horrible. I feel like a rat. I've got to reach him. It's not like he didn't know this was coming."

�He knew?" Matt held her away, staring hard into her eyes, seeing the troubled emotions she hadn't wanted him to notice. "He's Max. Of course he knew.�

Matt's lips tightened.

�He gave me permission, for God's sake."

�Permission?"

�His blessing?" Temple added with a sob she had to cup with a hand to her mouth to stop.

For some strange reason, Matt smiled. "Yeah. I kinda got that from him too. I don't think your faith in him was ever misplaced."

�But he is! Max is. I can't find him. I can't get him to call me back so I can say, 'Hi. 'Bye.' I need to be up front with him about this. That's all. Let him know. For sure. Nothing about us is a problem, Matt. But I warned you, saying good-bye to someone is hell."

�What about the ring?"

�What about it?"

�Where are you keeping it, since you don't wear it? Yet."

Temple breathed deep. "Inmy scarf drawer," she said in a small, wee voice.

�Scarf drawer?"

�It's where I keep everything I don't know what to do with safe."

�Temple, that ring is worth, well, way more than it should be."

�I know, Matt. Fred Leighton. I was hoping I could put it openly on my finger soon. Like . . . today. Then it would take a mugger cutting my finger off to get it."

�Temple!" Matt was half laughing, half shaking his head. "Look. Danny built a floor safe into my bedroom redo. I'll just keep it there for the time being. Your scarf drawer doesn't sound terribly secure, unless you also keep boa constrictors in there to fend off burglars."

�You're right. The ring needs to be worn or kept someplace secure. Come into my boudoir and we will unearth it from a pile of lovely but annoyingly unmanageable scarves. Frenchwomen really know how to accessorize with those things, but I am about as French as Midnight Louie.�

She took his hand to lead him away, thinking maybe it was time her Circle Ritz bedroom had a new sensuous adventure to record.

Matt hesitated at the threshold. Temple knew what he was thinking: this had been Max's and her bedroom for more than a year. The bed was California king-length, for six-foot-four Max, and Matt sure didn't need that.

She stepped close. "It's all right. You know I'm all yours, anytime, anyplace. Ring or no ring.�

So they ended up ruffling the zebra-stripe coverlet, both of them the better for it.

�Where's this fabled scarf drawer?" Matt asked finally. Temple guessed he'd never consummate anything with her in that bed.

�Over here, sir." She got up and opened the top drawer of the small chest against the wall. "Every scarf I was ever given as a gift, and that I wronged with an inept knot, a careless twist, a hopeless loop, lies interred here, along with other odds and ends. It is yours to riffle as you please. As am I." She finished with a curtsy.

Matt grinned at her presentation. "No one can oversell like you."

�Thanks for the professional compliment.�

He began sifting through the frothy rainbow of scarves. "This should be good practice for violating your lingerie drawer in future. Aha! The significant clue. A ring box.�

He pulled out a plain white box and opened it to reveal something Temple didn't recognize at first. When she did, her cheeks flushed.

�That's not it. That's just a tawdry cubic zirconia ring I bought somewhere.�

It was also oddly similar to the Tiffany opal-and-diamond ring Max had given her in New York City Christmas last, when she and he had thought his dangerous past was history and their glowing future was now.

She'd bought this cheap reminder of that lost ring for less than forty dollars in a weak moment, for which she'd been noted recently.

Matt tossed the box on the bed.

�Okay," he said. "More scarves. Am I supposed to deduce something from this mass of scarves?�

He held up two, stretched out. Gave her all sorts of ideas. "Danny did give your bedroom a four-poster bed," she said. Danny Dove was Temple's dear friend and a noted Vegas choreographer. Nothing better than a gay choreographer for masterminding a straight guy's bedroom decor.

There was a moment of prolonged silence. Matt had read his Joy of Sex book religiously. But at least now he'd forgotten the ersatz opal-diamond ring. Mission accomplished.

He lifted another cheap ring box with a quizzical look.

�Something I picked up somewhere, sometime. Don't ask me what that is.�

Matt opened it. Stared. Looked up at her with real worry. "I do, Temple."

�What?" The wedding vow answer had both startled and encouraged her.

�I know what this is, and it's not good. This is the ring Kathleen O'Connor mailed to me."

�No! What was that about? It's a nasty snaky thing, no wonder it came from that vixen."

�Not a snake." Matt held up the sinuous gold circle between his thumb and forefinger, like a dissection specimen. "It's a dragon, really, swallowing its own tail; an ancient symbol of eternity called the worm Ouroboros."

�Ouroboro-what? Kitty the Cutter sent you a ring? I didn't know about that."

�I didn't want you to. It was another of her sick stalking games. She said I had to wear it or she'd hurt someone near me. So I carried it in my pocket when I was out and left it on my living room side table when I was in. I never put it on my finger. Where did you get it?�

Temple thought. "I don't know. I put everything I don't know what to do with in that drawer."

�Including this?" Matt lifted the gray velvet box containing his . . . her . . . ring.

�Yes, but only for safekeeping. Until I can, you know, reach Max."

�What if you never reach him? Are we on hold until then?�

�No! I just want to do the right thing."

�Temple." Matt came to sit beside her on the bed. "I've spent all my life trying to do exactly the right thing and I've learned that can be paralyzing. Look. I'll take this ring up to my safe for now. But I need you to think about when, and where, you got Kitty the Cutter's ring, the one she made me carry as a sign of her power over me."

�Good Lord! What an awful talisman! How did you lose it?"

�She loved to show that she could come and go in my place as she pleased. It disappeared one day. After . . . Vassar died. That's all. I figured that meant she was finally disappointed in me. It disappeared. Just like she ultimately did."

�Yeah, she died. Gee, Matt, I just can't remember where I got that thing right now. But I did get it. It's ended up here. You don't think Kitty�?"

�I hope not, but she is dead now, at least."

�Somehow I came across it, but where or when�?" Temple pushed her hands into the blond hair at her temples, warding off the headache that was sure to come.

Matt caught and removed her hands. "Take it easy, Goldilocks. You'll never remember something trying that hard. Just let the question bounce around in your brain for a while."

�What brain? I'm a blonde, haven't you noticed?"

�Only temporarily, and I don't mind. I'm a blond too, so dumb blond jokes are personal." He leaned in and kissed her hair. "Besides, I think that's what did it."

�What did what?"

�Your bottle-blonde undercover makeover job. It made you look just different enough to make me think that I might have a chance with a BraveNewTemple.�

Of course he had to kiss her surprise away. Too bad she wasn't brave, or very new. Just the same old bundle of chutzpah, humor, and hope a single girl had to be nowadays.

Not quite single.

�Matt, I'm sorry to be so neurotic about Max. It's just that I've been worrying about him for so long."

�I wouldn't love you if you didn't. What can I do?�

�Love me when I'm being a ditz."

�Easy."

�Safeguard our ring." She closed her hands over his holding the box. "I'll try to zen my way into remembering Kitty's ugly offering. In fact, take that ugly ring thing up to your safe too. There might be fingerprints on it."

�What good will that do us?" he asked.

�Molina can get it analyzed, if we figure out a good excuse.�

�I'm not sure she would�"

�I am. All we have to do is have you ask her."

�I don't have any pull with Molina."

�Hmmm. We'll see.�

Chapter 3

Riders of the Purple Rage

Matt had only been gone a few minutes when the phone rang.

Temple shook herself out of her meditation session on the sofa and dove for the receiver. It might be Max at last.

So far, she hadn't a clue about when she could have gotten the wormy gold ring Matt was so concerned about. Maybe this was it: the first senior moment, a tendril of looming peri-menopause striking out at her fifteen years too soon. She was only almost thirty-one, God!

�Temple, dear," said a well-known voice. "I'm in such a pickle and I really need your help."

�Electra?" Temple sat up straight, jolted out of her meditations. Trouble would take her mind off a lot of personal issues. "I can run right up to the penthouse.""Don't, dear. I'm not there.�

The landlady of the Circle Ritz was always somewhere about the place. When not in her fifth-floor penthouse digs she was running the Lovers' Knot Wedding Chapel with Drive-by Window�Photo Shoots free�at the side of the condominium-cum-apartment building. Everything here did double duty, including the angst.

�Electra! Where are you? What's going on?"

�I'm at the Crystal Phoenix."

�You have good taste."

�Not really, dear. I have never been guilty of that. But I'm afraid I may be found guilty of something else."

�Guilty? Of what?"

�I volunteered for security for this damn convention, Temple, dear. I thought I had picked up a thing or two from you and Max. Alas, apparently not. They're planning on taking me in."

�In where?"

�To stir, as we say in the security trade. Somewhere downtown, as they always say on TV. Can you come bail me out?�

�Yes! But, Electra, why?"

�They say I knocked off a Pink Lady."

�I've been known to knock back a Pink Lady or two in my day too."

�Not the drink, dear. A live one. Now dead. Please come! This Detective Su is very small, smart, and stem, and my using your name is having no effect whatsoever.�

The call ended on that alarming note.

Temple grabbed her cell phone and auto-dialed Max's number one more time, just in case. No answer. "I'm leaving the Circle Ritz and heading for the Crystal Phoenix," she told the messaging function. "You can catch up with me there. Electra's in big trouble.�

Maybe that cryptic message would draw Max out of his disappearing act.

She threw the cell phone in her tote bag, pushed her bare feet into the Steve Madden slides under the coffee table, blew Louie a good-bye kiss, and skidded out the door.

Electra? In trouble with the law? Impossible!

Chapter 4

Mr. Know-It-All

Once my framed roomie has done her little-doll skidoo, I gaze sadly at the morning paper, which she has neglected to read, given the enthralling appearance of Mr. Matt Devine on her doorstep ... and in her scarf drawer.

A dude of my age, position, and gravitas is above peeking in on bedroom antics, but I did hear mention of their late archenemy, and therefore mine, Miss Kathleen O'Connor. I could tell MissTemple exactly when and where she acquired the sinister ring Mr. Matt took away, quite rightly.

It is not that I could talk, if I wanted to, though I like to think I can do anything. But it is also against my principles to talk to humans. Besides, that would be spoiling my MissTemple's fun. She does love a mystery.

So do I.

I am eager to follow her over to the Crystal Phoenix and find out what our beloved landlady is up to.

But first I ponder the newspaper. Those of my ilk are hopelessly drawn to paper products. Maybe it is the heady aroma of fresh ink. Maybe it is because we are smarter than we let on, and can read quite well if we apply ourselves and the seats of our pants to it. Pantaloons, I should say, in our case. We have bibs, we have ruffs, we have pantaloons and feathering. You would think we were cavalier poets.

Maybe it is because we are like those men I've heard talk of, who feel most wanted when they interrupt their women at some absorbing minor task and sweep them away to the bedroom, or the living room carpet.

The French do not worry about these things, but simply say, "Je ne sais quoi." I know not what. Those French! Quite the cards.

Me, I worry about the bigger picture.

Sometimes I am the only one who sees it, and that is when I worry most.

I lean forward to regard the small news story below the fold on that morning's front page.

NEON NIGHTMAREMAGICIAN-ACROBATFALLS TO DEATH, it reads.

The "jump" is on page 4. Ouch! Most unfortunate terminology in this case. "Terminology." Ouch!

Now only I know why Mr. Max Kinsella is not answering his cell phone or his home phone or any phone on earth of late. "Of late." Ouch!

I think I have had enough of phones and "jumps" lately myself.

So that emergency ambulance run from the Neon Nightmare was for naught. My poor MissTemple! Just when she had intended to tell Mr. Max "good-bye," he has gone to the Great Good-bye in the Sky.

My whiskers droop. He died young. I can understand Miss Midnight Louise's fury at the accident. It had looked rigged to me too. Mr. Max was too expert to take a fall without sabotage in the picture. I admit that I will miss my human rival and look-alike.

My MissTemple will be beside herself when she finds out. For now, I must forsake the trail of Mr. Max's fatal fall and go whither she goeth, to be there when the roof caves in. And it will.

Chapter 5

Twist and Shout

Temple pulled her red Miata into the Crystal Phoenix's entry area to shouts and applause.

She jumped out as the parking valet took it, realizing she was wearing her hot pink Steve Madden slides. Maybe that was what was getting all the twisting of necks and shouting.

�Amore," the Italian word for love, was supposed to hit your eye like a "big pizza pie," according to the old song, but Temple was being whomped in the iris by a wave of purple and red clothing.

People clothed in both colors were streaming through the glass doors into the Crystal Phoenix lobby like so many bicolor birds of paradise.

People. Check that: women. Women wearing T-shirts and feather boas and high heels and wide-brimmed hats, dragging wheeled purple leopard-pattern luggage, wearing red lipstick and purple eye shadow, women of size, women of no size, like her. Wait! Older women. Well, "seasoned" women, as Gail Sheehy had put it so profitably in her latest life-state book.

The lobby was teaming with red and purple. Temple felt positively dowdy in pink. Then she spotted a pink hat here and there amid the flock and felt better.

Until she remembered that a woman in pink had been killed. She had no idea where Electra might be, so she dialed her landlady's cell phone.

�Yes?�

The voice was brisk, female, and not Electra's.

Temple couldn't have misdialed; Electra's cell phone number was in her directory.

She muttered something about misdialing anyway. "You were calling Mrs. Lark?"

�Yes."

�Who is this?"

�Who is this?"

�The police. Who are you and why are you calling?"

�I'm a friend of Mrs. Lark's and I heard that something had gone wrong at the hotel.�

At that momentTemple became aware of a tall pale figure behind her, and turned. It wasn't a ghost, it was a Fontanabrother in an expensive Italian ice-cream suit, accompanied by her errant aunt Kit, who had not come home to the Circle Ritz the night before and was looking not the least worse for wear.

Temple's mother's sister, a New York City actress turned romance novelist, had come to stay with Temple for a few days. She had surprised the heck out of Temple by ending up having more than a few dates with the eldest of Vegas's Most Eligible Bachelor frat pack, the nine single Fontana brothers. Their uncle, Macho Mario Fontana, was the last of the mob bosses. The brothers were presumed to be elegant quasi-muscle around town. They owned, among other things, Gangsters' vintage limousine service. The youngest, and number ten, was married and owned this hotel.

Aldo Fontana�tall, dark, and dangerous�took the phone from a frazzled Temple's hand. "This is Crystal Phoenix security," his majestic baritone mentioned, almost threatened in a silky, seductive way. Kit rolled her eyes behind his looming back and pantomimed fanning herself and swooning.

�May I help you?" Aldo held the phone away from his ear so that Temple could hear the raging soprano aria on the other end. Temple guessed who it was; a female seriously disinclined to swooning: Detective Su.

Meanwhile, her aunt Kit, a thirty-year-older petite version of herself, cozied up to her side.

�Sorry I didn't call to announce a change of venue last night, but it was awfully late.�

Temple could easily imagine a woman forgetting the time in Aldo's company, and shrugged. "I know a New Yorker like you can take care of yourself, Aunt, and anything that might come up."

�Speaking of that, what's going on? Why are you here apparently being berated by a cell phone?"

�Electra called me at the Circle Ritz. There's a death connected to this convention and the authorities are holding her for questioning. That was one of the detectives in charge of the case.�

Meanwhile, Aldo had snapped her cell phone shut and returned it with a flourish.

�The Lalique Suite. The police have set up shop there.�

Temple raised an eyebrow. She'd been the hotel's PR person for a year now. The Crystal Suites were pretty fancy for police use.

� 'This convention'?" Kit looked around, as if seeing all the purple and red for the first time, and indeed, she probably was. A swarthy Italian hunk in expensive clothes as pale and soft as creamery butter would be hard to see past.

Temple took her aunt's arm as they followed Aldo to the private elevators. "'Big Wheel in Las Vegas' convention for the Red Hat Sisterhood," she explained, having gleaned all that from attendees on the way in. "It's for older women with style, joy, and pizzazz. Like you."

�Oh. Except that I'm with Aldo and they're not.�

Temple eyed the many women around them who had stopped short, riveted by his tall, smooth passage through them.

�I wouldn't bet on that if you were so foolish as to unhand his arm and let him loose. They'd be on him like an expensive suit."

�But I'm not going to unhand him," Kit said. "I'm sure Aldo can convince the police that Electra Lark is not a crook."

�It's ridiculous," Temple agreed when the three of them were alone in the stainless-steel elevator, wafting upward, "for anyone to think my landlady would kill someone.�

Aldo waved his manicured fingers. One would never guess they were rattlesnake-fast to draw a Beretta.

�The police always make snap judgments," he said, suiting gesture to words. "It saves them thinking. I've paged Nicky. He'll put a stop to this police nonsense."

�Nicky?" Kit asked.

Aldo smiled tenderly down at her and even Temple felt the heat. "My youngest brother. He owns the hotel."

�Wow. And what do you own, big boy, besides a Viper and an expensive collection of aged scotch?"

�For one thing, my luscious linguini, a race horse.�

Kit was truly shocked, and Temple too. She'd never known what supported the litter of Fontana brothers, excepting Nicky, the white sheep of the family, and some iffy side businesses.

Kit leaned into Temple to whisper an explanation for the pet name. "He thinks I'm really rather . . . supple for my age. All those cheerleader splits didn't hurt."

�Aunt! I don't need to know these things," Temple hissed back. "What's your horse's name?" she asked Aldo to get the discussion onto a higher plane.

�Midnight Louie," he answered. "Black as coal, fast as greased stainless steel, took second in his last race. A real comer on the inside."

�But�"

�I figure your cat has been lucky for you and has at least nineteen lives, from what I've seen. What can it hurt?�

Louie with a thoroughbred namesake! Temple doubted that he cared much about such connections, but she was impressed.

The elevator doors spit them out onto an aubergine-carpeted hallway, deep purple to the common folk. Temple had never seen the Crystal Suites, nor had much needed to. Now she did.

The soft-lit sconces along the silver suede-covered halls were priceless vintage Lalique frosted glass.

The suite itself had huge Lalique door handles of facing phoenixes, commissioned for the hotel.

Another Fontana brother opened it before they could ring the bell, but it was not a usual member of the "frat pack."

�Nicky!" Temple cried, embracing her boss (as near as a freelancer can have a boss) and biggest client and remembering to add, "It's me, Temple, passing as a blonde."

�Good thing it's you:' he said. "Van doesn't like me canoodling with any blondes but her.�

Van had just arrived to peek over his shoulder.

�Temple, I see you've come over to the light side," she said, smiling at the blond dye job.

Nicky's wife was an Alfred Hitchcock blonde, smooth, cool, and dignified, like the stars of his best films: Grace Kelly, Kim Novak, Eva Marie Saint, and animal rescuer Tippi Hedron. One of her films, a rare lesser Hitchcock effort named Marnie, had featured a young pre-Bond Sean Connery! Yum. Temple may be engaged now, but age did not wither nor custom stale the Scottish actor's sex appeal.

Van von Rhine was Nicky's wife and the hotel manager. Where he was all macho charm, like any Fontana brother, she was cool Anglo efficiency and smoldering drive. If they were both on this scene, the situation was serious.

Nicky high-fived Aldo, then the couple settled in to hear Kit introduced, managing not to appear surprised that Aldo's latest squeeze was also Temple's visiting maternal aunt.

�Listen," Nicky said, his low tone pulling everybody conspiratorially close.

�Van and I got this TV cop show off the main floor. We do have a murder on the premises, and your friend Electra was there for the denouement:' he told Temple. "I don't know how even a sharp PR diva like you is gonna keep both the hotel and your friend out of the headlines."

�Electra's my landlady and I doubt she'd kill a gnat. Can I talk to her?�

Van spoke for the first time. "It's a he-she detective team. She spits nails; he slings mashed potatoes. Do love your hair."

�Su and Alch," Temple diagnosed. "I know them. He's tougher than he acts, but she isn't. She's the real deal, a mini-Molina. Lieutenant Molina is my bane on the LVMPD. Born to be bad, particularly to me. Thanks for the vote for the hair color. It's temporary, though."

�Bleach never is, baby," Nicky put in.

�Eventually," Temple said, finished with coiffure matters. "Keep Aldo and Kit on the fringes with your camp. I'll wade in and see if they'll let me talk privately to Electra."

�You a lawyer now?" Aldo asked incredulously.

�No," Kit answered, "but she is a Carlson on the distaff side and we are nothing to mess with. Viking stock, you know.�

Aldo blinked at the image of petite, low-rise Kit, or Temple, as Valkyries.

What did he know? Columbus had been preceded to North America by the Vikings. Everyone north of the forty-fifth parallel knew that!

Temple went inside first. The room was expensively pale in decor and furnishings, except for a big bright blob of red and purple in the seating area near the floor-to-ceiling windows.

As she approached, Temple saw the canny detectives had placed Electra facing the windows so her features were in blinding daylight while they were silhouettes to her aging eyes.

Bullies!

But it worked.

Electra was in her sixties, which Temple now regarded with shock and awe after a heart-to-heart with her aunt about what aging women could expect. She was almost thirty-one, unmarried (although with strong prospects), and suddenly very sympathetic to the problems of aging women in a culture that worshiped young and thin and shallow.

She appreciated Electra's free spirit even more after a few heart-to-hearts with her aunt.

She appreciated the landlady's tropical muumuus color-coordinated to the temporary dyes she sprayed onto her halo of springy white hair. The wedding chapel business she ran out of the Circle Ritz. Being game to hop on a motorcycle at her age, wearing a helmet that proclaimed "Speed Queen." Her warm and lively interest in all her tenants, including Matt's emergence from ex-priest to buff boy about town. All were part of the Circle Ritz mystique, and Electra Lark was its resident fairy godmother.

No way would this lady off somebody. Of course, such a conviction would never stand up in court, so Temple would have to see that it never got that far.

As she came even with the silhouettes of Alch and Su, she noticed with astonishment that Electra's hair was all-over purple. An ex-undercover girl in honey-bunnie blond shade number 43 was hardly one to criticize.

�Electra!" Temple said, to let her know she had backup.

The face that turned to her, usually haloed with good cheer and motherly encouragement, suddenly looked pale, aged, drained.

�Temple! Thank God you've come."

�Just what do you think she can do for you?" Su asked.

Su was a tiny Asian-American woman not much older than Temple who managed to convey Green Giant�size competency. Temple supposed that was from being a little woman in a big man's profession.

�Can we talk?" Temple asked the detectives, moving away from the windows.

They followed her out of Electra's hearing range.

�I know this woman," Temple said. "She's not a killer.�

�Neither are most of us," Su pointed out, "until something pushes us over the edge.�

Morrie Alch, a teddy bear of a homicide detective with nicely polished claws, was staying out of it. Women's business.

�At least you can tell me why Electra's being questioned," Temple said.

�We don't have to tell you anything," Su said, close to a sneer. It must have chapped Su's chopsticks that her boss, Lieutenant C. R. Molina, had sent Temple undercover as a teenager at the recent Teen Queen Idol reality TV show set, instead of her.

Competing guys were standard police issue, but dueling gals could be meaner.

�Okay, ladies." Alch puckered his lips judiciously. "Miss Barr might get something we can't out of the . . . suspect. The lieutenant would like that."

�And then," Temple said, "I'd like you to let Electra go about her business."

�Not!" Su.

Alch frowned.

�I bet you couldn't pry her away from this convention:' Temple argued. "She's volunteered to set things up. And she wouldn't leave Las Vegas. She runs two local businesses. She has local people like me to look out for her. Simply being found near a dead body would have had me in lockup numerous times."

�Should have," Su said.

�Lighten up, ladies," Alch said. While they were both scowling at him for that method of address, his palms lifted in a peace gesture.

�We have grounds for holding Mrs. Lark:' he told Temple, dead serious. "But not enough. I've checked with Molina. She's not ready to bring Mrs. Lark in for questioning on the evidence so far. So, you can take her outta here when you go, or put her back with the other birds of a feather.�

Su glared at him with soundless fury, but Alch gave her A Look. He gave Temple another one. "I'm going to let you take her out of here, but that's not an irreversible option. And anything of interest she tells you, you tell us. Right?"

�Absolutely, Detective Alch.�

Su snorted.

Molina had okayed Temple's custody of Electra? What was the Iron Maiden of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department up to?

That's what Nicky and Van and Aldo and Kit wanted to know as Temple retreated to their position by the long Italian leather sofa against the wall.

�What's the deal?" Nicky asked in a whisper.

�I get to talk to Electra, and take her out of here if she doesn't do something foolish and confess."

�Great, but why?" Aldo wanted to know. "The cops never back off unless they have to."

�Not enough evidence to hold her," Temple said. "I think. Maybe they're just giving her enough rope."

�We don't want this case dragging on any more than they do:' Van said.

Nicky winked at Temple. "She's saying you better solve this one for the cops. Get them out of our hair. Out of her vanilla-smooth French twist." Nicky ran teasing fingers into it, making Van's eyes glare steel-blue. She shook him loose.

Not many people knew "Van" was short for "Vanilla." Temple did.

Van smoothed her hair back into place. "Do whatever you can, Temple, to cool down this situation."

�Right." First, she had to find out from Electra what was really going on.

"I'm lucky I got them to cut you loose:' Temple whispered as she settled beside Electra on the cushy leather sofa. Electra clasped her hand with matronly zest.

�So nice to see you here, dear. Who gave you permission? Was it that nice Detective Alch?" Electra whispered, glancing coyly at the fiftyish detective.

�Yeah. Luckily, Morrie likes to pull Su's chain."

�Morrie. Such a cute name. Do you think he's married?�

�I think he's fifteen years younger than you are, Electra.�

�Just right. Boy-toy age for me.�

Temple sighed. "Electra, why are they holding you for questioning? Who died here?"

�It's so silly, Temple. You know me. Always eager to help. I volunteered to set things up before the convention�"

�You mean that wave of purple and red in the lobby is just the advance troops?"

�Heavens, yes! We'll soon have five thousand Red Hatters in town, splitting up between the Crystal Phoenix and the Goliath.

We have several hundred here now to help with setup. My Red-Hatted League is one of the local chapters."

�So that's why you're here. And you are being questioned by the police because�?"

�There was this Pink Lady�"

�Not a drink."

�No! Girly cocktails are so pass� now. They really knock back those martinis on Sex in the City."

�That's Sex and the City and it's in reruns now, Electra. Not hot. Speaking of hot, just how many Red Hat Sisterhood members live in Vegas?"

�I don't know. The Las Vegas area has more than one hundred chapters with up to forty-some members, and that's who's here setting up."

�Yowie. That alone almost makes five thousand! How did a local PR ace like me miss knowing about all of them?"

�Not everyone is helping with setup. And you're too young to be a Red Hatter, which is age fifty and over, just like AARP. Although you could be a Pink Lady, dear."

�Since they appear to have a short life span, maybe not. And a Pink Lady is�"

�A member-in-waiting to turn the golden age of fifty and be eligible for the Red Hat, kind of like a cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church, don't you know? They never let anybody too young into the full sisterhood; it might upset the applecart."

�Or lead to murder?"

�No, it's just that the Red Hat Sisterhood is one of the few things in life that older ladies can call their very own. Whatever. I was just trying to help out that helpless Pink Lady. She'd fallen facedown, I'd thought. I didn't know she'd been strangled. A lot of us wear scarves and boas to hide the jowls, you know." Electra patted at the scarlet feathers making her face into an island without a telltale neck.

�Okay. Which Pink Lady?�

Electra's voice and expression hardened. Temple was glad Su and Alch were out of earshot. "Just some bimbo, dearie, who maybe wished she was old enough to be a real Red Hat Sister."

�And why is this anonymous 'some bimbo' attached to your movements and motivations?"

�Um, there's an awkward connection the police found out about."

�What awkward connection?"

�The good detectives�"

�There are not good detectives in a case like this, just suspicious and determined and not on your side."

�Whatever. Anyway, I'd been seen earlier at the preregistration desk, showing newbies how to tie their scarves."

�Around their throats to hide awkward wrinkles and sags, I presume."

�Exactly, dear. Hides the turkey wattle and all those nasty sagging horizontal lines. What more could a woman do for her sisters?"

�And?"

�When they found the Pink Lady dead a few hours later, strangled by a scarf, naturally I came to mind.�

�Because�?" Electra was being way too evasive.

�I did use her earlier to demonstrate properly tying a scarf to the other ladies."

�Not good, but not damning. So�?�

Electra looked down and wrung her hands. She even wore red and purple rings and some looked like real rubies and amethysts.

�Electra?"

�This convention meant so much to me. I wanted our chap- ter to shine, Temple. I wanted the Red Hat Sisterhood to have a stellar time in our uniquely glitzy city. I just wanted to help.�

�So what was the problem with that particular Pink Lady?�

�She was from Hollywood.�

Temple waited.

�Florida."

�So?"

�So was my third husband."

�But that must have been long ago. You've ditched several more husbands since then."

�Oh, yes. We split almost thirty years ago. I'd thoroughly washed my hands of the cad after I found out he was stepping out on me, and this was back when I still looked like someone who shouldn't be stepped out on."

�You still do," Temple said, putting a firm hand on Electra's nervous ones.

Tears filled Electra's gray eyes. "It was the name tags. So cute. Our chapter designed them. A chorus line of high-kicking red EiffelTowers on a lavender border. The EiffelTower in Pariswas originally painted red, you know.�

Temple shook her head. She didn't know, and she didn't know what that had to do with anything. Electra probably didn't either at this point.

�Everything was perfect," Electra went on, "was going to be perfect, until she came along."

�The name tags. The Pink Lady's name�?"

�Was Lark, just like mine. I hadn't noticed it during the scarf-tying demonstration."

�I had no idea you knew your way around scarves and knots, because I certainly could use tutoring in that knack.�

�Call on me anytime, dear, if I'm not in jail."

�And you didn't know you were advising an ex-rival?"

�Honey chile, she'd changed as much as I had. And my attention was on her neck, not her name tag. But when I saw it, after I'd done the scarf demonstration, I knew she was the formerly teenaged bimbo who'd lured Elmore Lark away from me. It wouldn't have mattered, except I'd kept his last name because it turned out to be the only thing I liked about him."

�So . . . Lark met Lark."

�Then she got insulting. Said she'd never have recognized me and I said the same, because, believe me, those husband-stealing teen tootsies who shine at that age lose it faster than Bruce Willis loses hair."

�Apparently you discussed your mutual revelations and revilements in front of God and everybody."

�No. If God had been there, He would have struck her dead for illegal parking with my then-legal husband.�

Temple winced. "And within hours, she was really dead."

�I didn't do that. I respect a Red Hat Sisterhood scarf toomuch to wring that witch's neck with it. Even with a lesser Pink Lady version. It is a sacred trust."

�So is a marriage," Temple said, who'd had reason to think about that very thing long and hard lately. "You know that. You operate a wedding chapel, after all."

�Yes." Electra sniffled. "That is my expression of optimism in a pessimistic world and time. I may have wanted to wring Oleta's cheating neck, Temple, but I never would have killed her. And that's why I was so surprised to find the fallen woman, excuse the expression, that I tried to help was her. Again.�

Electra's purple-mascara-loaded lashes beat hard to drive back the tears.

Temple believed her. Wanting to wring someone's neck was a common urge and almost never acted upon.

But maybe someone who'd had it in for this particular Pink Lady had witnessed Electra's shock and fury and had decided to ride on it. . . .

An opportunist among a . . . brimful . . . a feather . . . a hat pin . . . of innocuous Red Hat Sisterhood ladies.

Or maybe not innocuous. Not all of them.

Chapter 6

Louie Among the Sisterhood

It is not a cakewalk to ease unseen into a suite at the Crystal Phoenix, much harder than fronting on down a yellow brick road out in Las Vegas proper, and there are plenty of yellow brick roads in this town, only they all are covered in green felt.

Thankfully, I know these Crystal Phoenix grounds and buildings well from my stint as an unofficial house detective here. Those room-service carts always hide the tableware and such under a thick white linen cloth. And I was always to the fine linen born.

So today I have gotten the lay of the land and the dramatis personae through a tablecloth, darkly. Thank heaven and Bast for these sharp black ears of mine.

I manage to sneak a peek or two when nobody is looking. Since I am always at ankle level, nobody is looking most of the time.

First of all, I cannot believe that Miss Electra Lark, major dame-o of the Circle Ritz, has sprayed her hair completely purple! It was one thing when she went multicolored. I know a lot of cats with coats like that. But I have never seen a purple cat. And Miss Electra does not even have the excuse of St. Paddy's Day and green. Does she not realize that white-haired ladies tinting their hair blue is a clich�? That purple is just one half step up from that? That Blond is the New Blue for the post-sixty set?

Of course, I also cannot believe that Miss Electra Lark (even if she is a reformed "Mrs..") would off some so-called Pink Lady just for the act of lassoing her man some decades before. If he was so lasso-able, he was lose-able in my estimation.

We all have our issues, and hopefully outgrow them. Like I have forgotten and forgiven Miss Midnight Louise for taking over my primo PI position here at the Phoenix.

Not!

Okay. I am a cool dude. I go where I am needed, I do what I must, and I always keep my whiskers dry.

I know my MissTemple will not sit still for our beloved landlady being railroaded for murder one, so we both are here for the duration.

I also know that if Miss Electra Lark is not returned soon to the Circle Ritz, someone will have to assume the duties of feeding and watering her reclusive Birman cat, Karma. And that will not be me! Every time I am around that mystical feline dame I get the heebie-jeebies. I do not know what the "heebie-jeebies" are (maybe a relative of cooties), but they are not conducive to the hair lying flat along my spine. Unless I wish to be known as the feline Rod Stewart, I will keep myself away from Karma and any hair-raising encounters.

In a way, though, I am glad this has happened. It will keep my MissTemple's mind off her romantic dilemma. That is the trouble with romance, in my view; it always leads to dilemmas.

I advocate the way cats of my kind do it: wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, and off to one's dudely pursuits until the next free-for-all called "heat" comes along.

Humans are so primitive in certain matters.

Chapter 7

Fatal Flair

Nicky Fontana himself escorted Temple to the scene of the crime after she'd left Electra at the registration desk doing volunteer work.

This was a relatively quiet corner of the ballroom holding dozens of Red Hat Sisterhood shopping booths and ringed by stages featuring products of allied interest.

It was all a girly shopper's paradise, but with racks of clothing and feathers on three sides, the booth in question formed a perfect cul-de-sac for murder, now sheltered from the public gaze by freestanding screens. Inside them, yellow crime scene tape looked like a garish and tacky ribbon garlanding all the flower-shop reds, purples, lavenders, and pinks.

You'd have thought they were filming��������������� Crime Scene Investigation on-site. Worker bees were teeming over the body and its surrounding area. None of them were Attractive Babes Showing Lots of Cleavage on the job. None of them were Nerdy Young Brainy Guys with Possibilities.

They were just average working people, squinting through spectacles, wearing wrinkle-free khakis, and free of nipple-showing T-shirts and blouses. Their salaries were likely lower than hers, and she was a risk-laden freelancer.

Temple compared their ordinariness to their TV alter egos to avoid staring rudely at the corpse. But now she did.

Oleta Lark's face was turned Temple's way. She looked like a fallen department store mannequin lying there. Several were already on display in the ballroom, some of them decked out in unabashedly girly doses of pink and lavender. Oleta's own skin color was still normal, lifelike, but her eyes were open and glassy, sightless, so unnervingly still. Her pink hat had fallen aside to reveal hair so highlighted that any base color was lost in the red-gold-brown blur.

Though the pink hat proclaimed her as under fifty, it wasn't by much. The dead flesh was pasty and slack and her body had a sacklike look that an upright position and animation might have made hard to notice.

The Lolita of yesterday who'd stolen Electra's husband had been history long before someone had wrapped the purple scarf dotted with red flowers around her neck and pulled until dead.

�The detectives okay this?" a CSI woman asked Temple, rising from the floor next to the corpse. She didn't have chiseled features and a hot haircut. In fact, she had a double chin and a couple of not-telegenic zits.

�Detective Alch did," Nicky said, turning on a hundred-watt smile. "I'm Nicky Fontana. This is my hotel, and this is my PR representative, Miss Barr. I want her to be able to give an accurate account of where we're all not at on this.�

Nicky being modest and genuine was pretty irresistible. He may have been married, but he still had that Fontana brother charisma down pat.

The woman smiled.

�We're just working the scene. Detective Alch will make what he sees fit available to the hotel and the press. If it's okay with him that you gawk for a while, gawk. Even we won't know a thing until the lab processes everything. It ain't as fast as on TV."

�Understood," Nicky murmured.

Temple took that invitation at face value and gawked to take in more detail.

She'd seen a few dead bodies in her time and on her sensitive job of making Las Vegas safe for good news, not bad. She'd never seen a strangling victim before.

She'd been relieved that Oleta Lark's tongue wasn't extended and black in a pallid post-death face. The scarf wound around her neck did not cut into flaccid flesh like a piece of barbed wire. It looked like an accessory. There was a "Got Milk" ad slash of foam on her bright pink lipstick and her open blue eyes were bloodshot.

Still, if ever a wronged wife had wanted to see a rival brought down, this postmortem image would do it. Temple couldn't have wished anything more demeaning on Kitty the Cutter, and God knew she had her reasons, number one being Max, number two being Matt.

Electra hadn't done this. It would take not only strength but deep, long-simmering hatred to pull tighter and tighter until a body's breath was just a memory. Temple couldn't believe Electra would ever succumb to such a rage.

Temple liked to think no woman could or would do this, and most strangulation murderers were indeed men, something sexual about the process. Often they were sons of smothering mothers. But Temple had learned to know her own gender in all its proud and petty glory, and didn't underestimate the female of the species.

Anyone would have the strength to do this, if determined: man or woman. And, face it; this was a convention of women drawn from all over the country. Grudges recognized no borders. Women were more than their ages, despite social assumptions that cast them as either pursuable young bunnies or uninteresting maternal mama rabbits.

Oleta had started out to be someone's bunny and had ended up a helpless rabbit choked to death. But why?

For what she knew? For what she was?

Or for what she was not?

Chapter 8

Honorary Older Women

"Okay," Temple told Electra when they were safely back in the bosom of the Red Hat Sisterhood thronging the hotel's main floor. "You haven't been arrested. Yet. Su would love to; Alch is Mr. Wait-and-See. I need to be on the scene."

�But here you are! And you work for the hotel."

�No. I need better credentials. A reason to be able to enter all the convention event rooms. And," she added, spotting Kit's hand waving above the milling hats as her aunt spied them and darted forward, "it wouldn't hurt to have Aunt Kit on our side."

�Easy," Electra said. "We get you both registered for the convention. We could say she's a Red Hat hottie from Manhattan. I've been handling registration among some other things. That's it! We have the Sinsinatti Reds chapter. Why not the Ragin' Red Manhattan Hatties? And you? You're such a baby. You have to be a Pink Hat."

�So think Pink.�

Electra cupped her double chin in her hand and thought. She straightened, grinning. "I know! You solve crimes, right?�

�Sometimes."

�The Hot Pink Panthers chapter!"

�Seems to me a lot of the Red Hat Sisterhood chapter names use the word 'hot.' Is there a hidden statement in that?"

�Hat. Hot. They're so close. I guess we think women who wear hats are hot.�

Kit joined them. "Make mine pink."

�That's cheating," Temple said.

�What's cheating?" a passing Red Hat woman stopped to ask with the speed of an ice skater turning on the toe of a blade. All three were struck dumb with guilt.

�It's great to see new members enlisting at the convention," she went on. "Are you from Las Vegas?"

�I'm from Las Vegas," Electra said quickly. "The Red-Hatted League chapter."

�I'm a Vegasite too," Temple admitted.

�Manhattan:' Kit said.

�Wonderful! I'm Jeanne Johnson.�

The name struck Temple as familiar. Maybe because it was a good Nordic Minnesota name and Jeanne Johnson had that natural blond, semiathletic look about her. Like she could ski down an Alp on tennis racquets if she had to, enjoying the below-zero windchill. In other words, one cheerfully determined woman.

Then Temple got it, encouraged by Electra's elbow digging into her side. She'd seen the name in the Red Hat Sisterhood program book she'd been studying.

�Oh! You're the founder.�

Jeanne released a six-hundred-watt grin.

�My official title is 'Her Royal Hatness.' Who would have believed that we supposedly over-the-hill dames can all don tiaras and be queens of our own inclusive kingdom? Who would have believed in a few short years we'd be a national phenomenonwith hundreds of thousands of members? It's all based on a poem, you know. Not many organizations are."

�A poem:' Kit asked. "That's pretty amazing. Something from Shakespeare's Winter's Tale?"

�No, it's by Jenny Joseph, about a woman musing that when she's older she'll indulge herself by wearing purple, and a red hat that doesn't go with it by conventional standards."

�Free spirit:' Kit summed up.

�Exactly. Women of a certain age often find themselves with empty nests, or divorced or widowed, with no intense job commitments and falling faces and fannies. The Red Hat Sisterhood encourages them to band together. Sure, we have crazy, mixed-up fun, but we have a thirst for moving in new directions and mutual support too. And even spreading good cheer among the less fortunate than we."

�I can't wait until I'm a full Red Hatter," Temple said, catching Red Hat fever.

Her Royal Hatness assumed a sober expression. "We'd love to have you then, but don't wish your youth away. Too many women do. Now, what can I do for you? You looked at a loss standing here.�

So Temple explained the difficulty straight out.

�Oh." Jeanne's natural buoyancy flattened. "That killing was awful. The hotel was wonderful about sparing the poor woman public display, and the police have been cooperative too."

�That's important in Las Vegas," Temple said.

�That's why they and the hotel want Temple keeping an eye on things," Electra said proudly. "She's got a knack for spotting killers."

�Only I don't want any killers spotting me:' Temple said, "so we were trying to figure out how I could go undercover as a member. You hide a leaf in a forest, and here you'd hide your presence in a hat."

�I'd certainly like this matter settled as soon as possible," Jeanne said. "I'm Queen. I'll name you an honorary member, Temple."

�And my aunt too? I could use a partner."

�And Miss�"

�Carlson," Kit said.

�Ah. And Miss Carlson too." She ushered them to one of the registration stations and whispered her instructions to the wearer of the red hat there.

�This would be wonderful," Jeanne Johnson said as she turned back to them, "if a woman and an honorary Red Hat Sisterhood member found whoever killed Oleta Lark.�

She glanced at Electra's name tag with sudden concern. "A relative?"

�Once removed." By a murderer.

�No wonder you want your crime-solving friends present and accounted for, Electra! Carry on, Hatters, and do us proud.�

The royal audience ended with Jeanne Johnson grinning as she produced two enameled pink-hat brooches with the Red Hat Sisterhood logo. She dropped them into Kit's and Temple's purple canvas convention bags filled with informational sheets, convention programs, and favors from bars of soap to decks of playing cards.

�Good luck on your serious quest, but remember to have fun!"

�That's an order everyone would like to take," Temple commented, but Kit looked a bit chagrined.

As they left Electra at the registration desk with her Red Hat friends, Kit caught Temple's elbow in a death grip to steer her out of hearing range.

�Aldo must never hear of this," she said, pulling Temple aside from the crowded registration lines. "That I'm really qualified to be a Red Hat."

�Yes. I mean, no! Never. But he knows that you're my aunt. I don't buy the dumb hunk thing. Can't he do simple arithmetic?"

�Aldo is an emperor of enterprise. He just thinks you're as old as you look, sixteen, and that I was your mother's youngest, hippest, most not-Midwestern sister."

�This whole Red Hat Sisterhood movement wants women to be proud of their lives and ages and futures."

�Right. Meanwhile, I got myself listed in Actors Equity as ten years younger ages ago and I'm not going to lose that edgenow. Not even for you, niece, would I go undercover as an over-fifty. You or your landlady, the old darling."

�You and Electra are probably about the same age, Kit, although you don't look it.�

Kit sighed her deep relief. "There is some advantage in short stature and a slight frame. You are going to inherit it, dear niece, so honor my position now because someday you'll be here."

�I hope so, because you're a pretty cool lady. If you want to think Aldo digs you for the age on your Actors' Equity card, fine.�

Temple was a legitimate Pink Lady, but not the youngest. She spied a few twenty-something daughters accompanying their mothers. For her trouble, she'd scored a truly darling name tag: a hot pink miniature straw hat with feathers framing her name on the front: Temple.

Kit's shorter name fit her miniature pink hat much better, but she was cheating. In every respect.

�So we are both Pink Ladies," Kit noted, "for the record. Lord, every time I hear that phrase I could use a drink. How do we do this undercover sleuth stuff?"

�We're registered, but first we must find the proper hats to disguise us and announce our status.�

Luckily, the convention store, called the Hatorium Emporium, was mostly set up. Temple and Kit trolled the aisles, trying on hats and giggling like five-year-olds until both had suitable chapeaux, wide-brimmed for purposes of disguise.

�Short women aren't supposed to wear wide-brimmed hats," Temple told Kit.

�Pink Hat women don't worry about silly fashion rules.�

�Is mine too . . . bridesmaid-y?�

Kit stepped back to assess. The hat was pink with a lavender touch, both colors permitted the under-fifty Pink Lady member. Temple had figured she might actually wear the hot pink straw hat later, after removing the pale pink cloud of marabou feathers and cluster of silk lavender flowers around the crown.

�It's utterly charming, Temple," Kit said. "You look like an angel. And I'd say it was more bridal than 'bridesmaid-y.' �

Temple felt her cheeks pink to match the marabou. She hadn't announced her marital potential to anyone yet.

�Well, yours is a showstopper," Temple told Kit in turn.

The front of Kit's wide-brimmed pink straw was a huge, rhinestone-dotted organdy bow anchored with pink satin roses and wisps of ostrich feathers.

�The hat! The hat," Kit intoned in a Broadway musical style as she spun to display the back. "The hat is nothing ratty. The hat! The hat! Is that which makes us all look batty!"

�Batty is beautiful," Temple interrupted. "Golly, I'm glad I'm still a temporary blond. Pink would do nothing for my natural red hair color, and vice versa."

�Speaking of blond and unnatural," Kit said, stopping in midstep. "What or who is that?"

�Oh, Lord. I hope it's not another of Electra's husband's ex-wives. That would be too much of a coincidence to bear."

�The whole entourage is too much to bear," Kit murmured, pulling Temple aside so the oncoming parade could pass.

It was led by a woman on hot-pink stilettos, crowned by a hot pink hat with a brim so wide it would suffice to shade an elephant. Even so, it barely shaded the cleavage on her Pamela Anderson�size enhanced Hollywood breasts. The woman was pulled along by two tiny pink-dyed Chihuahuas on rhinestone-studded leashes.

She was trailed by an assistant attired in pink checks who toted two pink canvas pet carriers and was followed by a large brass luggage trolley that had been mugged by a pink polka-dot matched set of baggage.

Temple let her jaw drop in horror.

Kit eyed her sagely. "You know her."

�To my everlasting regret. Surely a former actress like you has heard of Savannah Ashleigh.�

Kit pulled her red-framed reading glasses off her nose to stare at the entourage in naked disbelief.

�She makes Pamela Anderson look like Oscar material. And all that pink. She's no more under fifty than I am! Oh!" Kit cupped her mouth and looked around, but no Fontana brothers were lurking to overhear her confession.

�That woman," Temple said, "has made this town headquarters for the rotten actress retirement home. She's the one who wanted to slice the balls off Midnight Louie."

�No! Well, those pink Chihuahuas looked pretty neutered."

�I've got to find out what Savannah Ashleigh is doing here. Could you amble over and grill her, Auntie? She kinda really hates me since I took her to People's Court and won."

�This will be like grilling an unzipped banana," Kit promised. "I'll smash her.�

She skittered over on her low-heeled slides to stand in the registration line behind the lady in question.

Not that Savannah was content to wait in line. Oh, no. Apparently Temple hadn't needed an undercover agent aunt. Savannah was broadcasting live from the Crystal Phoenix lobby.

�I do not do lines, unless they're waiting for my autographs. I am the celebrity emcee of this shebang and should have a prestige suite waiting for me, and mine." She beamed upon the yappy pink Chihuahuas. "Taco! Belle! Hush, babies.�

Taco and Bell? Temple thought, cattily. Are we angling to be a fast-food commercial huckster as well as an over-the-hill Paris Hilton wannabe?

Kit came skittering back. "What a bad name that woman gives airhead starlets. You heard, I presume. Her voice has the projection quality of a buzz saw.�

Since both Kit and Temple had been blessed with arresting, slightly raspy voices to counterbalance their petite size, that was saying something.

�Hey, Kit. I just realized that I'm a dumb blonde now, just like Savannah. At least she might not recognize me.�

A shriek erupted at the front desk area. Savannah was prettily perched atop her hot pink luggage trolley as if she'd seen a mouse.

Actually, Temple saw, she'd just glimpsed Midnight Louie sniffing around the pink canvas pet carriers, which must contain Savannah's Persian cats, Yvette and Solange. The Crystal Phoenix was a favorite hangout of his.

�That cat is a criminal!" Savannah shrieked. "Arrest him. He wants to rape my babies.�

Bellmen came running over, but Louie had dashed under the cart. He wasn't there when the bellmen went on their knees to look (and possibly to look up Savannah's miniskirt). He'd pulled a disappearing act under everybody's noses. That made Temple think of Max. She began patting down her tote bag for the lump of her cell phone.

Meanwhile, Savannah opened the fancy pet carriers with maternal panic. Out pussyfooted the shaded golden Persian, Solange, wearing a red hat with purple flowers, and the shaded silver Persian, Yvette, with a red marabou boa around her neck and edging her purple cape and a red pillbox hat tied to her silver-platinum head.

Camera lights sparked as Red Hat Sisterhood ladies circled around, taking dozens of photos of Savannah and her red hat cats and pink-dyed pooches, who also wore pink hats, one a fedora (must be the boy, Taco) and one a beret (the putative girl, Bell). Or Belle, rather. Bellwhether? Temple stood unmoving, dazed by the possibilities.

But never underestimate an alley cat born and bred. Into the sea of red and purple dashed a flash of solid black. When it disappeared, Taco was whimpering and sitting on his tail, hatless as well as hairless.

Temple let her mouth drop open.

�Who was that masked cat?" Kit asked.

�All I can say is that Louie was forced to wear a flamingo-pink fedora in a cat food commercial when we were in New York last Christmas. I think Taco's semi-sombrero is dog meat."

�What a nuthouse. No wonder the second Mrs. Lark was killed with no one caught red-handed at the scene. With everybody wearing a red or pink hat, who's to say who did what to whom? It's like costuming; if it works, nobody can see past it."

�You're absolutely right, Kit. It's even possible the wrong victim died."

�Now that's a thought. That would clear Electra lickety-split."

�Nothing about crime solving is lickety-split.�

Even as they spoke a wave of cool neutral colors washedinto the tide of red and purple. Nicky's brothers, calming and charming the troubled waters.

Emilio bent and came up holding Taco and Belle, while Armando captured Yvette and Solange. Julio escorted Savannahto the elevators, color-coordinated pets in tow. Giuseppe and the second youngest, Ralph, were doing duty as community photographers. Their impeccable Italian tailored suit coats hung with a half-dozen instant cameras as they obligingly photographed groups of Red Hat ladies posing naughtily for the camera, knees cocked and hands on generous hips. In Italy, women of substance were considered sexy, so Red Hat lady and Fontana brother had met their match.

�Ridiculous," Kit sniffed, no doubt worrying about Aldo amid all these happy hussies. "Women my age and older preening like fading chorus girls in front of the entire world.�

A solo Fontana brother waltzed up to Temple; no lavish, wide-brimmed hat could fool a fine Italian eye. Besides, he'd inadvertently spent some recent time around her, so she recognized him immediately.

�Our difficult guest," Aldo told her, "is assured that Midnight Louise will no longer trouble her purse pooches. Any ideas how I can indeed ensure that?"

�Of course!" Temple said. "The Crystal Phoenix is Midnight Louise's beat now, not Louie's. Funny, even I took that black speedball for Louie. He was framed!�

Mixing up the two black cats also underlined Kit's point that everybody in the Red Hat Sisterhood was inadvertently in disguise.

Aldo had other things on his mind than cats and hats.

�Where, my lovely MissTemple, is your delightful aunt? I seem to have lost her in this parade of feminine fripperies. Never have I seen so many bright, and large, hats.�

Kit, hidden by her huge pink brim, turned sheepishly to lift her face and also admit her membership in the silly sisterhood.

�Bellissima! Is this you under that charming chapeau? Such a blazing pink is certainly your color."

�Hot pink," Temple corrected him.

Aldo's dark eyes grew mock-rebuking. "I did not wish to compromise your adorable relative's reputation in a public place, but it is indeed a very . . . hot . . . pink." On the last word he touched his forefinger to Kit's lips.

Well, Temple thought, she'd swoon right there and toodignified-to-preen Kit was blushing the same color as her hat. It was nice to know the older woman was still capable of blushing, although a dreadful facial flush called rosacea was another thing Kit had mentioned the aging belle had to fight.

�Go and have a Pink Lady with Aldo, Kit, in the Crystal Bar. I'll snoop around here and head back to the Circle Ritz once I can pry Electra from her volunteer post.�

Actually, Kit looked terribly smart in her hat as she ambled away. She didn't walk off "into the sunset" with Aldo, because, thanks to the hat, she was the sunset.

Temple spared a couple minutes to take in the scene.

It looked as if the giant blown-glass blossoms from the huge Chihuly chandelier at the Bellagio had drifted down to cover every female head in sight.

If the advance guard of six hundred Red Hat Sisterhood members could command such a presence in a Las Vegas hotel lobby, then the incoming five thousand should really take over the old town. The press was sure to giggle at this overblown convention of aging women refusing to be invisible, but Temple felt a sinister chill.

It reminded her of the Father Brown mysteries (which she'd quietly started reading a year or so ago in honor of meeting an ex-Catholic priest). Luckily, the modest, often-overlooked British priest-detective (no Red Hat candidate in any context, he) bore not the slightest resemblance to a certain modem American ex-priest, Matt. Her Matt. That thought felt so right.