Cat in a Red Hot Rage

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  She just hoped she didn’t lose a fiancé over it.

  Chapter 25

  Hot Water and Cool Tequila

  Or a major client.

  Temple was called onto the carpet in Van von Rhine’s office, only it was all bleached wood floors and no carpet.

  Nicky was there, with his brother, Aldo, as a witness.

  Van was tapping one sleek Italian designer pump on her high-end wood floor, very audibly. Temple was thinking that Van could wear a bath towel to work if it was Italian-made and be just as happy in it, as she was with her easygoing husband, on whom Temple was banking with every instinct in her.

  “Pardon me, Temple,” Van said, maintaining her natural blond cool. Or ice. “I don’t see how transferring a distasteful media brawl from the Crystal Phoenix’s front porte cochere to our meeting rooms inside is an improvement. But you’re the public relations expert.”

  You’re the one whose baby-blond bleached head this is on, was the message.

  “The media was eating us up for the five, six, and ten P. M. news,” Temple said. “I had to do something to stop it for the moment.”

  “But they’ll be back tomorrow, hunting for blood. For red ink for the hotel. We’ve worked very hard to establish a reputation as a first-class destination in Las Vegas. Not as the equivalent of World Wrestling Federation contest between middle-aged men and women.”

  Nicky lit up. “Hey, maybe we can get all the debaters to wear those Stingy Dingy underwear like they do on the wrestling shows.”

  “You mean tighty whities,” Temple said.

  “Oh, my God!” Van hid her face in her hands. “There is no way out of this but disgrace.”

  “Matt will lend an air of dignity,” Temple suggested.

  Van looked up to skewer her with a steel-blue gaze. “Are you sure he’ll be willing to go along with this tasteless stunt?”

  Temple stretched out her left hand and wiggled the heavy-duty engagement ring on it.

  Van blinked at the high-end glitz. “Congratulations. Okay,” she conceded. “He’s just a fool in love. I still don’t think he’ll do this, even for you.”

  “I would,” Nicky said.

  Van lifted a pale eyebrow. “You’d do it for Temple if you were Matt, or just on principle?”

  “I’d do it because it makes sense.”

  Temple released a hot, long-held breath. Van was the head of this operation, but Nicky was the guts and the heart.

  “Look,” he went on. “The damage was done. Our clients were being attacked by a rowdy protester group. Someone sicced the media on that and I’d sure like to know who.”

  Nicky eyed Temple, who nodded. She had media contacts all over town and they were going to get roasted on a red-hot grill until she knew who’d masterminded that ugly scene. She had her suspicions. She’d get to that just as soon as she got to Matt and did what Van von Rhine rightfully thought was going to be a hard sell.

  Three nights tied to his four-poster bed ought to do it for a fiancé. Also for her.

  But Matt had scruples, and those were very costly indeed.

  Maybe five nights.

  “So who do you think did it?” Nicky asked.

  “Huh?” Temple pulled her imagination and libido back to the problem at hand. “I have my suspects,” she said mysteriously.

  Actually, it was “suspect” singular, but she wasn’t ready to go on record for that.

  Temple raced back down to the holding cells.

  Wait a minute! She’d been doing too much unofficial police work lately. They weren’t holding cells, just neighboring conference rooms.

  A pair of Fontana brothers stood guard outside each set of double doors. Aldo and Kit were waiting for her, and he introduced her to his siblings, just so she wouldn’t get embarrassingly confused about names.

  “Ernesto and Rico are keeping the Black Hat Brotherhood bottled up with lots of beer,” Aldo said, rolling his eyes. Italians preferred wine to beer and hard liquor.

  “Armando and Julio, on the other hand, have been trying to keep the Red Hat Sisterhood from unnecessary stress.”

  Temple could hear female hooting inside. “What did you have them served? Tea?”

  Aldo winced. “Texas Tea, I was told. I was also told it would knock a mule-headed beer-drinking Black Hat Brother back on his ass.”

  Texas Tea, Temple thought. Wasn’t that Jack Daniel’s and lemonade? She braced herself to enter the conference room to meet with the Red Hat Sisterhood on ninety proof.

  Once inside, the double doors snapped shut, locking her in.

  There wasn’t much choice of debaters. Whoever had been in the unruly crowds on both sides had been swept into swift custody by the Fontana brothers at Temple’s instructions.

  She was surprised to see two pink hats among the red.

  Holy Hattie Carnegie!

  One was her aunt Kit, sure to be a strong debater, and one was Savannah Ashleigh. Talk about a loss leader.

  Looking around, she was relieved to see that two of Electra’s Red-Hatted League members were among the group, Judy and Phyll, the Mutt and Jeff librarians. And of course she’d had to invite Jeanne Johnson, Her Royal Hatness, the founder and head woman. That pretty much made up a debate team, if she could ditch Savannah.

  “Traitor!” the woman in question now spat at Temple.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You named a man moderator. Why not me? I’m much better known nationally than some local radio personality.”

  “The title is ‘moderator.’ You’re not moderate.”

  “I’m as modern as the next Teen Idol.”

  “Moderate. Like the weather.”

  “Oh.” Savannah trout-pouted, which collagen treatments to her lips had well qualified her to do. “You mean dull, boring. Bland.”

  “Exactly,” Temple said.

  “Well, I certainly am not that!”

  “I agree,” Temple said with a broad smile.

  HRH spoke next. “This could be a good publicity opportunity for our message,” she said, “but I’m worried about lowering ourselves to debate these rowdy protesters. This is our convention. We were violated.”

  Temple sighed. “I agree, but protesters have a habit of taking over the news media. At least a debate will even the playing field.”

  Temple then set up the debaters: HRH Jeanne Johnson; “clown princess” Candy Crenshaw, recommended by HRH; Kit; and Phyll, one of the two Red-Hatted League librarians. (Never argue with a librarian; they know too much.) She designated Savannah Ashleigh as official emcee and note-taker. The ersatz actress would know how to pose and fidget to draw the cameramen’s attention. It would still effectively gag her. That was fighting dirty, but Temple worked for the Crystal Phoenix, not the Black Hat Brotherhood or Savannah Ashleigh.

  Speaking of fighting dirty, Temple next headed to the roundup of Black Hat Brotherhood members.

  Armando and Julio Fontana were concerned about allowing her entrance.

  “These men have been drinking beer for an hour and a half,” Armando warned.

  “I’ve been binge drinking upset-stomach acids,” Temple answered. “We’re about even.”

  She went in, bowled over by a yeasty reek. About fifteen cow-pokes glowered at her from under the brims of their black felt hats. Holy Hopalong Cassidy! One was Elmore Lark.

  All Temple could think was that this headgear must be mighty hot in a Las Vegas spring. At least the women had been inside and air-conditioned.

  Temple introduced herself. “I need four candidates for the debate team, pronto,” she said. “You can draw straws or duke it out.”

  The men murmured approvingly at her brisk directions.

  “I’m the head man,” one said. “The BHB founder.” He stood and nodded at her. “Mike Crenshaw.”

  “Oh. That’s the same last name of the lead singer and jokester of that group, Candy Crenshaw and the Red Hat Candies.”

  “They call me Cal, and the Big Hat Breaker,” Crenshaw s
aid with a tight grin.

  Temple had lost her smile, suddenly realizing that she had another pair of warring exes on her hands. Crenshaw was a burly man in his sixties. Having plunged into a whirlpool, Temple thought it might be interesting to muddy the waters. “And Mr. Lark, I see you’re a member. Want to the join the debate?”

  She was thinking he’d never do it, not with bigamy charges against him. In fact, coming down here had put him into the teeth of his two ex-wives and risked bringing up his dicey marital history. Was he really that ticked off at a group that encouraged older women to embrace their ages and not “act” in the ways society expected? Maybe. The Black Hat Brotherhood was a strong reminder that a lot of men of a certain age didn’t like change, especially in their wives.

  “Damn right,” he said, tipping his black hat without rising.

  She just knew his long legs in cowboy boots were stretched out under the conference table. Temple shrugged her acquiescence. It wasn’t her hide the media would nail to the wall if someone tipped them off about his marital record. She was acting as a PR person and a friend now, not a so-called objective reporter.

  If these Black Hat Brotherhood guys were too smug and naive to finesse their big media opportunity, tough. Which, of course, was their whole raison d’être. In their minds, Real Men would rather bomb than be caught being reasonable.

  “Hey,” Matt said, walking up the short hallway to his door at the Circle Ritz late that afternoon to find Temple holding up the wall with a pitcher of something pale, cold, and alcoholic.

  God, he looked good!

  Oops. Sorry, God, I know he used to be all yours, but you made him this way.

  Since they’d broken the sex barrier something tentative in Matt had vanished, given way to a new ease and confidence that was as sexy as hell. Sorry, God! Again. She supposed releasing his held-back feelings had done that. Now he looked her deep in the eyes, ready to see everything she could show him. A guy couldn’t glow, but he could simmer, and Matt simmering for her was irresistible.

  She smiled back at him, and they just stood there basking in each other’s pleasure with the other.

  Then he pulled her close for a long, deep kiss. Not a word said. Not a word necessary.

  “You’ve been waiting for me?” he asked, sounding a little smug and a lot satisfied. “How long?”

  What girl couldn’t play along with a moment like this. “All my life.”

  He paused, then laughed. But his brown bedroom eyes were melting like the ice in her pitcher. “And you want—?”

  “You. When was it ever different?”

  “For a lot of months when you were busy elsewhere, but let’s not count that.”

  “I thought so too.” Temple edged away from the door so he could get his key in the lock.

  He started to open the door, then paused. Took her and the pitcher into close custody again. “What do you want?”

  “Number one or number two?”

  Matt’s eyes squeezed shut to consider. “Number two?”

  “Shucks. Your help.”

  “That’s it? My help? Not my love, my support, my endless passion.”

  “You asked for ‘number two.’”

  “So I did. Come on down then.” He opened the door to let her eel through.

  She put the pitcher on the nearest kitchen counter. Her hand was icy and it was heavy.

  “What am I being bribed with?” he asked.

  “Margaritas. You brought two to my door when we first met, remember?”

  “I remember when we first met, but not the Margaritas.”

  “It was after I solved my first case, when you altered my TEMPLE BARR, PR card to read TEMPLE BARR, PI.”

  “You’ve got a long memory.”

  “You’ve got a long . . . never mind,” Temple said, getting out a pair of vintage martini glasses she’d given him with frosted Art Deco bubbles etching the clear glass bowls.

  “I could use a drink,” he admitted. “It’s hot out there.”

  “It could be hotter in here,” she said, pouring.

  “Temple, you are gorgeous and I can’t resist you worth a darn, but you’re sometimes as transparent as glass. What do you want?”

  “Oh, too bad,” she purred. “You could have milked this one for at least twenty minutes.”

  “I’m guessing neither of us has the time right now.”

  She handed him a glass, then lifted her own to chime rims. “Okay. I’m in a really, really tight spot. It could cost me the Crystal Phoenix account.”

  Matt stopped sipping, his forehead corrugating with worry. “That’s not possible. They love you. Almost as much as I do.”

  “Yeah, but one disastrous round of bad publicity, and love ain’t enough in the PR biz. I am hoping, praying, it is in the Personal Relations biz.”

  “ ‘Praying’?” You must need me bad.” He sounded pretty pleased about that.

  “Matt, I promise, just this one time!”

  “Really bad.”

  “I’m on record about it. Sorry! The cameras were rolling, I had to do major spin control. You just popped into my mind. Maybe because you’re always on it.”

  “Sure, flatter me. Into what?”

  “A great media gig. Really. It’ll be huge for your radio show.”

  “My radio show doesn’t need to be huger.”

  “You can always use the right good publicity. The crowd just oohed when they heard your name.”

  “This crowd heard my name because—?”

  “I gave it to them. I needed an instantly recognizable moderator for a live debate tomorrow on the roles of aging men and women in our society.”

  “Temple!”

  “You’ll be perfect. The media are chomping at the bit. Your radio station will love it. Better phone ’em to start hyping it now. They’ll probably want to cover it live.”

  “Temple.”

  “Five nights.”

  “What?”

  “Tied to your four-poster. You can do anything you want.”

  “I’m new at this. I don’t have five nights’ backlog.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “You don’t have to bribe me. You just have to explain the situation.”

  She did, while they sipped the first Margarita.

  Matt heard her out. He finally nodded. “I’m thinking a week.”

  “Whatever. I’ll pull the whole thing together. Get you a list of possible questions, panelists, everything.”

  He glanced at his watch. “In less than twenty-four hours?”

  “That’s why I gotta get going. I can count on you, then? Salud! Skoal! Cheers! ’Bye now. Adios. Au revoir. Ta-ta. Gotta fly.”

  She pecked him on the lips. He caught her before she could dash away and made a minute of it.

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “The Phoenix lobby, 1:00 P.M., to get you up to speed. I’ll be the ‘little blond filly’ in the pink hat. Thanks a million!”

  She skittered away on her festive slides, heart flying too.

  This was the first time that Matt, and not Max, would be assisting her, not only in a skin-saving PR capacity, but maybe in a crime-solving one. Who knew what could come out in a heated debate between these warring men and women?

  Temple hit her own place, kicking off her heels and skating barefoot over the slick wood floor to her office, where she riffled through her trusty Rolodex and started making a list and checking it twice. Everything was on computer, but the Rolodex kept her grounded.

  Her first calls were to her best sources, so it was easy to slip in a casual question about who alerted them to the protest.

  “One of the Red Hat women,” Sunny Cadeaux, a sister PR woman-around-town, said. They hadn’t talked in ages, but it was instant girl chat.

  “You’re sure?”

  “She didn’t leave a name. Just said they were all meeting there and it was very upsetting.”

  The anonymous Red Hat tipster proved to be a universal source, until Temple got tired of hearing it.
She punched in a number she usually didn’t have much reason to use.

  “Pete,” the woman on the phone yelled to a passing colleague, “how’d we end up sending a videographer to that nothing mini-protest at the Crystal Phoenix?”

  Temple held her breath as she heard a muffled answer.

  “One of our stringers,” the reporter reported, sounding disgusted. “Usually is more reliable.”

  “You have a name?”

  “You flack the Crystal Phoenix. I don’t want to get an associate in trouble.”

  “Actually, I’d like to thank whoever it was. I’ve set up a debate between the Red Hat Sisterhood and the Black Hat Brotherhood moderated by Matt Devine, Mr. Midnight at WCOO-AM.”

  “No kidding. Mr. Midnight, hmm. Nobody ever gets to see him in person. When is it?”

  Temple told her, listening to the faint scratch of pencil on paper.

  “Good thinking,” the reporter said. “People are dying to see what he looks like off the syndicated airwaves, given that dreamy voice. Probably bald and three hundred pounds, like your usual radio personality.”

  “Decidedly not,” Temple promised.

  “Okay, we’ll send someone. Oh. The tipster was someone who hadn’t worked for us in a long time.”

  Temple crossed her fingers.

  “Natalie Newman, Mark says. She goes back with us to before she got married and was Natalie Markowitz. She used to be a lot savvier than to call us out on a silly story like this.”

  No, Temple thought. She was still savvy. And a lot of other things.

  Temple thanked the woman, then cut the connection to listen to the lullaby of the dial tone.

  Natalie Newman clearly had a double agenda at the convention. Her two cameras proved that. But maybe she had a triple one, and maybe Oleta Lark’s murder proved that.

  Proving that would be a tough assignment for Temple, but she suspected it involved something in the past, something she wasn’t seeing yet. She’d keep her eyes and ears on the alert and on Natalie Newman.

  Maybe by the time she was through, the local media would think she was Santa Claus, offering the gift of exposing a murderer.