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  She set down her untouched Virgin Mary, sans celery, and glided through the crowd with the agile expertise of one whose business is going places fast without ruffling anyone.

  En route she couldn’t help but wish that she had been on the arrangements committee. The ballroom was papered with a gilt-stamped motif of either Asian phoenixes or fireworks—without glasses she couldn’t quite be sure which—that shone softly in the dazzle from the overhead chandeliers. The lavish picture-frame paneling painted the color of vanilla ice reminded Temple of a French chateau. Taste. Elegance. Refinement. In a Las Vegas world overdosed on shallow glitter, the Crystal Phoenix stood alone, an island of restraint afloat in a blitz of glitz and crass commercialism.

  Speaking of which... Temple passed through the double ballroom doors, stopping so fast and hard that her Christian Dior black satin spikes threatened to drive through the carpet backing.

  Crawford Buchanan sat at a table draped in peach linen and piled with the black-and-white proof of his journalism credentials, the latest edition of the Las Vegas Scoop. A silver candelabra flickered at one elbow, its light playing over the matching silver of his hair—no longer frizzed into a permanent Brillo pad, but worn long and slicked back with mousse until it ended with a froth of trendy curls at his jacket collar.

  “Ugh,” Temple muttered.

  “If you don’t like the spokesman, wait’ll you see the product.” The woman who had materialized beside her smiled grimly. This one she recognized: Sylvia Cummins, WICA vice president, ran PR for the Crystal Phoenix.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Cutting into our pie,” Sylvia said. “You notice the sign?”

  “No—oh, pinned to the tablecloth. Uh. ‘Cooties We Cherish’?”

  “Better dig out the glasses, Temple, you don’t want to miss this one,” Sylvia advised under her breath as she brushed past to return to the ballroom.

  Temple pawed in her gold evening tote bag until she felt the soft padded form of her glasses case. By the time she donned them, the last arrivals had dispersed. Only she and Crawford occupied the foyer.

  Total tastelessness. Vulgarity. Crudity. It all sat enthroned in Buchanan’s little corner of the world. Temple walked over, glaring as she deciphered the offending sign. Cookies with Crawford, it read. Might as well advertise RUSSION TEA WITH RASPUTIN.

  “Have you sunk to crashing WICA meetings now?” she greeted him.

  “Hey, it’s a free foyer.”

  She studied his handout flyers advertising Crawford Buchanan & Associates Public Relations. “I didn’t know you had any associates but fleas.”

  “Temper, temper, T.B.,” he cautioned, unruffled. That was the most annoying thing about Crawford, he was not insultable.

  “Women in Communications Association means just that. I haven’t noticed you having any sex-change operations lately. I should ask Van von Rhine to toss you out.”

  He smirked. “At least you noticed. And try to eject me. I’ll sue WICA for being a female-chauvinist organization quashing free enterprise by the opposite sex.”

  “The only thing worth tossing at your table is the cookies.” She eyed the large brown circles, whose pink icing clashed with the peach tablecloth. “How can you do an objective job of public relations for anybody when you’re writing a column for the Las Vegas Poop? That’s gilt-edged conflict of interest. You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

  “Thanks. That’s what you PR girls are missing out on. All your hen parties won’t make up for some self-interested enterprise. This column”—he picked up the inky tabloid, his thumb under a front-page column titled “Buchanan’s Broadside”—“gets me lot of attention and more business. Got the stripper competition at the Goliath because of it. That’s worth a lot of money and contacts.”

  “I’ve got news for you. They asked me to handle it first.”

  “I turned it down.”

  “Why the hell would you do that, T.B.?” Buchanan seemed genuinely shocked, his big melting brown eyes wet as fresh-baked chocolate chips. “That’s self-employment suicide! Broads, glitter, bodies—a baby could get A-one news coverage on an event like that without dampening a diaper.”

  Temple sighed. “If the word ‘ethics’ doesn’t mean anything to you, I don’t imagine the word ‘exploitation’ would either.”

  “These stripper babes aren’t exploited. They love the attention, take it from me. The stripper guys may be a little bent, and I’m not too crazy about spending time around them, but—”

  “Crawford, you are too Neanderthal for words. Your attitudes toward women and gays are going to get you tarred and feathered someday.”

  “You sound like those hatchet-faced dames picketing the competition.”

  “Have you checked their signs? Maybe they’re just picketing you.”

  Before he could answer with his usual amused calm, Temple turned on her heel, literally, and marched away. She stopped inside the ballroom doors, unsoothed by the civilized surroundings, briefly regretting the lucrative assignment Crawford was handling with all the sensitivity of a number fifteen sandpaper. She could have used the money even before Midnight Louie had turned up in her life.

  But money wasn’t everything, Temple told herself, or she’d be a high-paid stripper and someone else could be a struggling PR free-lancer. Maybe that was why she had a headache. She sipped her Virgin Mary down to the melting ice cubes, and left.

  3

  Dial “M” for Matt

  “Hello.”

  “Brother John?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It’s Sister Sue.”

  “I recognized your voice.”

  “Me, too, I guess. Only I had to make sure. You never know.”

  “How are things going?”

  “Not... good. I don’t know how much longer I can take it sometimes. Sometimes I just wanta freak, you know?”

  “I know. But you shouldn’t have to take it at all.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Once it wasn’t. You know why you call?”

  “Because I need help. I want out. But...”

  “ ‘Buts’ are excuses, not answers.”

  “I know. I hate myself sometimes—”

  “Worse than him?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I think all the things he says are right.”

  “You know they’re not. You could leave tonight. The women’s shelter—”

  “Shit! I can’t hide somewhere. My business is going great. That’s my ticket out of here, not running away, hiding out. Not yet. I’ve got this big chance, in my business. Maybe that’s why he’s so mad.”

  “Is it worse?”

  “It always gets worse. You know that. But... I can make it. Just another few days. If I get lucky next weekend, I’ll have the money to drop out for a while. Take the kids. A week from today.”

  “Then why are you calling tonight? And gambling is no real way out. Sister Sue? Don’t hang up—”

  “I’d never hang up on you, Brother. Unless he came in and made me.”

  “I’d call the police then.”

  “God, no! Not the police. He just gets madder, badder, and he’s always out so soon. Bigger, badder. He... smashed up the living room, hit me in ways it won’t show. He’s so good about that, so smart when he’s crazy. And little Ria—”

  “He’s hitting the kids now, too? You’ve got to get out. You can’t wait for a week from today.”

  “I know, I know! Just a week. Help me hang on for a week. If I didn’t have this number, have you to call, someone who knows...”

  “My knowing can’t help you until you help yourself. Until you leave.”

  “A week from Friday. Honest. If you only knew what a chance I’ve got, how hard I’ve worked for it. I’ve made my plans, my escape plan. I’ve kept it secret. Not even his big fists and feet can pry it out of me. Only a few more days. I can make it. I can take it. Just a little bit longer.”

  “Don’t take that risk. He’ll only escala
te. Don’t—Sister Sue, are you there? Answer me!”

  “...I gotta go now. Baby’s crying. Baby’s always crying. Maybe baby will cry until Saturday, sweet Saturday. Bye, Brother John. God bless.”

  “Wait—don’t hang up. Wait...”

  4

  Crawford Sees Red

  Temple hated Mondays. Her normally creative brain always marked time until past noon. It had been true on the job, and it was equally true when she was her own boss, working at home. She made a face at her personal computer screen, then got up from the glass-topped desk in the spare bedroom and wandered to the row of French doors in the living room, cosseting a condensation-dewed glass of Crystal Light clad in a terry-cloth sleeve.

  Opening a door, she stepped barefoot onto the warm stones of the tricorn-shaped patio, keeping under the shade of the generous eaves.

  The sole palm tree on Electra’s property scrubbed the cloudless sky a brighter blue with its weathered green fronds. Oleanders hoarded a lingering bright red bloom among their spiky leaves. The pool’s lucid blue looked cooler than an ad for Aquavit.

  Something moved below, vague enough to make Temple clutch her glass and agitate the last floating islands of ice. A white shadow shifted in the ground-level shade two floors below.

  Her breath eased out when a smooth blond poll blazed as a figure stepped into full sunlight: Matt Devine, night-shift man, up at high noon and ready to exploit his off-hours.

  She watched him with idle detachment, through a frozen, lazy pool of thought and emotion. He wore the white, loose-fitting martial-arts outfit she always thought of as pajamas. Barefoot, barehanded, bareheaded, he began pantomiming the graceful motions of some Eastern discipline. Tai chi maybe, or preliminary warm-ups for something more lethal, judo or tae kwon do.

  Matt melted from one subtle movement into another, a butterscotch-topped Dairy Queen in motion, a small, remote figure on a painted parchment backdrop of cool blue water and hot white concrete edged with softly swaying green. God, he was good-looking, in an impersonal, artless way, she mused. Or was she only moonstruck by him?

  Temple turned from contemplation, leaving Matt Devine to his more arduous ritual, and ambled back into her apartment. Her own bare feet polished the walnut parquet, scratching her insteps on the occasional raised cracks.

  In the black-and-white kitchen, Louie’s banana split bowl overflowed with brown-green pellets. Free-to-Be-Feline was costing a pretty penny as fodder for the garbage disposal.

  The cat was off on errands of his own, no doubt scrounging garbage cans for unhealthy but toothsome grub. Temple perused the open refrigerator while mulling a snappy lead for a press release on the Button Collectors of West Las Vegas. Yogurt would be smooth and chill, but she craved something sweeter. Maybe green grapes. She opened the fruit drawer. She had no green grapes. She had only a half-wilted fan of romaine lettuce, ruffled edges curled like ostrich plumes. And a deformed grapefruit. Grapefruit was not grapes.

  And her press-release lead wasn’t coming. She should take an invigorating walk. All right, a hot, drying walk. She should exercise, like Matt, who even now might be stroking smoothly through the aquavit water. Join him. Eeek. Did she want to be seen in last year’s neon tank suit? The sun planted instant freckles on her shoulders. Definitely not sexy. What to eat?

  A knock at the door saved her from freezing in the refrigerated air while making up her mind. She glanced quickly at her knit shorts and top while hurrying to answer it. Uninspired but neat. Maybe Matt—

  “Oh, hi, Electra. What’s up?”

  “Not the rent, don’t worry,” the landlady answered with a grin. “I come bearing what the paperboy dumped in the azaleas this noon. The whole building’s supply ended up as lizard carpet. Thought you might have missed it.”

  “I didn’t,” Temple admitted. “Been fighting the button collectors all morning. While you were out beating the bushes for news, did you happen to spot Midnight Louie?”

  “No. That scamp gone AWOL again?”

  Temple nodded as she took the Las Vegas Review-Journal Electra offered. She stepped back to reveal the pyramid of untouched Free-to-Be-Feline. “He’s not eating his low-ash, low-fat, low-magnesium, high-fiber, high-protein food fresh from the vet’s.”

  “I don’t know as I blame him.” Electra frowned at the brown pellets in the banana split dish, then turned to the expression on Temple’s face. “You look kind of peaked, dear. Are you sure you’re eating right?”

  “I’d eat everything in sight if I’d let myself. You want some Crystal Light?”

  “No, but a beer would be nice.”

  Temple explored her refrigerator and discovered one lone Coors Light necklaced in plastic trailing an empty string of five matching rings, probably dating to the last days of Max.

  “Does beer spoil?” she asked, wrenching the cold can free of its plastic collar.

  “Only if it’s open.” Electra accepted the beer and headed for the French door Temple had left ajar. “Maybe your rogue tomcat is basking on the patio.”

  “No, I looked—” Temple began, too late to head off Electra’s singled-minded course.

  When Temple caught up with her outside, Electra was by the retaining wall smacking her lips and enjoying the scenery. “I forgot your unit had a pool view. Matt has added a lot to the Circle Ritz’s ambience since he came.”

  “Really?” Temple sat on the cushioned lounge chair.

  Electra plunked down on the matching ottoman. “Really. How are things going between you two?”

  “What things? You make us sound like an item.”

  “Well, you did go out with him a time or two after the ABA hullabaloo.”

  “He was just being nice.”

  “Hmm. He’s good at that.”

  “He is. He’s the most genuinely nice man I’ve ever met.”

  “Why do you sound so disappointed then?”

  “I don’t know.” Temple sipped her poisonously sweet low-calorie drink. “Nice is great if it’s an opening curtain. If it’s the whole show—”

  “No spice.” Electra nodded sagely. “Like my second husband. Perfectly nice, kind to widows and wackos. Boring.

  “Matt’s not boring, just reserved.”

  “You’re just spoiled by the ex-Max.”

  “What’s spoiling about someone who can walk out on you without a word?”

  “It’s not boring.”

  Temple sat back, remembered Max. “No.”

  Electra leaned forward to pat her knee, her armful of silver bracelets jingling like the spurs of song and story. “Don’t fret, dear. Men are always more interesting at a distance, or when they’ve just come or just gone. It’s a trait of the breed. Take my ex-husbands, but then I really couldn’t wish them on anyone.”

  Temple laughed. “Thanks for the paper, Electra. And the pep talk. I think.”

  The landlady winked, rose with her beer and let herself out.

  Temple remained in the lounge chair, listening to the faint, rhythmic plash of water as Matt swam laps below. She sighed and unfolded the newspaper.

  “No kidding!” She seldom spoke to herself, but had been doing it more since Louie’s arrival disguised it as pet talk.

  Her eyes whipped back and forth along the short lines of front-page type like a Singer sewing machine set on zigzag. Words leaped out: fraud... dead... Goliath... stripper... suspected murder.

  Temple leaped up in unholy shock. “Good grief, a thief! Murder at the strippers’ convention. And it’s in Awful Crawford’s own damn lap! I can’t believe it.” Below her, the water stilled. Matt was standing in the shallow end, a shading hand to his eyes, looking up at her balcony.

  “I’m okay,” she shouted down. “I just learned that my worst enemy, who was boasting about snagging the strippers’ convention away from me, has landed in the middle of a juicy murder. Not me this time, him!”

  “Are you jubilant,” Matt shouted back, glistening golden in the sun, “or jealous?”

  Temple sobe
red. A woman was dead and Crawford Buchanan wasn’t equipped to do anything about it but wring his pale white hands. She sat down and considered Matt’s question again, seriously. Then she rose, leaned over the patio wall and invited him over for supper.

  “Supper,” she repeated when she opened the door to Matt’s prompt ring at five o’clock. “Not dinner. I don’t do dinner.”

  “What’s the difference?” He presented her with a chilled matte black bottle of Freixenet. He was wearing a champagne linen short-sleeved shirt that made his tan and his brown eyes sing like the Song of Solomon.

  “This says dinner.” Temple hefted the wine bottle before depositing it on the table. “But it can stay for supper anyway. Supper is a little deli this, a little leftover that. For supper you can over-garlic the bread and bum the beans. For dinner you have to be perfect. For supper you can have your wine in a supermarket glass. For dinner”—she went up on tiptoe in her high-heeled Anne Klein emerald leather sandals, opened the shallow cabinet high over the stove hood and batted at the long-stemmed glasses just out of reach.

  Matt came over and took down two of the hand-blown cobalt goblets.

  Temple settled back to earth with a relieved sigh. “For dinner you drink out of craftware.”

  “Very nice.” Matt set the princely glasses at the colorful Fiesta ware places already set in the dining room corner. “I’m glad I brought dinner.”

  “And heeeere’s supper.” Temple swooped the plates of deli breads, homemade crab salad, cold baked beans and artistically arranged fresh veggies from the refrigerator.

  They settled down to the food without a lot of small talk or fanfare, which she liked, although she belatedly realized that the large, handmade wineglasses would hold a lot of sparkling bubbles.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m too much of a ghoul after my outburst this morning,” she said as soon as the main dishes had made the rounds.

  “You do seem to have a certain detachment about murder.”

  “Well, the first time, it created a crisis on my job. It’s hard to empathize with a fly in the ointment, especially when he’s as widely loathed as the late Chester Royal turned out to be.”