Temple laughed, as she was meant to, and kicked up a high heel to indicate just how deeply she might sink in the stuff if it were around. "Maybe I would have been in deep doodoo ... if I'd been around when Charlie Moon was killed."
A new tension coiled both figures.
"How'd he get that huge horse in here anyway?" she went on.
"Simple as cow pies, ma'am," Troy said. "Unload 'im out back, at the hotel loading dock. Take 'im down in the freight elevator and bring 'im back up in the stage elevator, the one behind the scenes."
"How do you know all this?"
"Shoot, ma'am. I helped with the critter."
"Then you knew Charlie."
Husband and wife consulted glances again. Both their eyes seemed permanently narrowed, maybe from regarding distant, bright Western horizons, maybe from natural skepticism.
"We did," Nance said at last. "From the previous pageant. And he had done some rodeo, too."
"Rodeo! Really?"
"Naw, not really. Local kid stuff, years ago," Troy said. "Just enough to ride that pony on stage and look like Cochise. Sharp shtick."
"So was the arrow that stabbed him."
Nance winced, but Troy never stirred, his thumbs hooked in his hip-hugging belt, fingers arrowed toward the tight crotch of his jeans.
"Real thing, too," he said.
Given his pose, Temple had to resist a double take as well as a double entendre. "What do you mean
'real'?"
Troy ducked his curly cowboy head. "Shoot, it was an old arrow, that's all. Artifact, you could say.
Charlie got the whole getup from a place out on the highway that deals in genuine Indian gear. Not so old it would be in a museum, but collectors' stuff."
"Why do you think he was killed?"
"Who knows? Could have been jest about any reason. I figure it for an impulse thing. Somebody saw him alone backstage waiting to go on and grabbed the arrow, then, whoomph." Troy's fist made an effective, thrusting gesture.
"But if Cheyenne was on the horse, the killer would have to be eight feet tall."
"Hey, the police know all that angle-of-entry stuff. Anyway, there's a whole elevated ramp section backstage. Anyone standing on it would be in great shape to do in ole Charlie."
Temple let her expression curdle. "How awful to think of him riding out on stage, already wounded.
And his career ... I hear he had done some work in Europe even."
Troy shifted in the seat, creating a scrape of denim and creak of leather belt. "Yeah, well, Charlie Moon's look does okay in Europe. He could do greased-back hair and Armani suits. Me, I'm too all-American to get much work overseas. It might mean good money, but that there jet set is an unhealthy crowd, kind of corrupt. Nance is just as glad I do my modeling at home."
She nodded seriously.
"You don't mind your husband up on stage, getting ogled by hundreds of women?"
"Honey, that's fine with me. We're married. He's been around both loose and hitched, an' I figure he knows enough to keep away from anything too sticky. This pageant is pretty harmless stuff. These ladies jest like to look. Most of 'em would faint dead away if one of these guys put a real move on em."
"Most?"
Nance shrugged. Temple noticed that her shoulders were broad for a woman. If a raised walkway had run alongside where Cheyenne sat astride his horse, his attention focused on controlling the animal and his imminent entrance, anyone--including a woman--could have struck down at his bare back with the assistance of gravity.
"Are you so sure all of these women are so innocent? Really?" Temple pushed for an answer. "Have you never heard of any hanky-panky between the cover models and the women, whether fans or authors?"
"Hey, stuff happens," Troy said. "We don't know for sure, and we don't want to know. We just do our thing."
"How bad can it be? Some of the guys bring their wives along."
Nance's fingers toyed with the pearlized buttons on her half-open shirt front.
She wasn't a shy sort of filly, either, Temple thought. The Tuckers were two of a kind: above-average attractive and used to showing, using, enjoying it. Their behavior wouldn't threaten each other.
Nance said as much. "Why would the guys bring wives along if they were up to anything special?"
"Especially murder." Temple rose suddenly, dropping her weight to her feet.
The pair jumped as if she had snapped a whip.
"This murder stuff does make us skittish." Troy's earnest true-blue eyes looked out from under sun-whitened eyebrows.
He was a real appealing galoot, all right. "What about a rival?" Temple asked abruptly.
"You mean some other contestant?" Troy demanded incredulously.
"That's who's back there." Temple's thumb jerked toward the stage and its behind-the-curtain labyrinth.
"And a whole lot more," Nance said quickly, with emphasis. "There are the technical guys, the stage crew, and a whole lot of lady volunteers eager to lace some he-man into his open shirt or his tight leather pants that open all down the sides. And"--her eyes, a muddy green, were flicking Temple up and down--"there are a whole lot of lady authors hanging around checking out the contestants, supposedly eager to get the lay of the land for their walk-ons with the guys."
"What walk-on with the guys?"
"Every contestant comes out first on the arm of what they call 'a romance industry professional,' "
Troy explained. "That could be a cover artist or even an editor, not jest a book-writer."
Nance grinned. "Gives the ladies a chance to get all gussied up and get their names and their book titles or whatever called out," Nance said. "They do put on the pooch."
Troy frowned. "Speaking of dogs, I sure hope I don't get one for my escort this year," Troy said.
"Honey, that batch of ladies are worrying the same thing about you guys right now, don't you fret."
Nance was laughing.
"So the matchups aren't announced yet?" Temple asked.
"Naw, we do that on pageant day," Troy said. "It don't keep the ladies from coming around, though.
They want to know what the setup is, and what they have to do. 'Course, they gotta wear high heels and those long dresses, and this runway is pretty dicey. They're in and out of here all of the time."
"Speaking of which, I have to check on something backstage."
Temple excused herself to follow Molina's route up to the stage, her mind churning. It sounded like everybody and anybody at the convention could find an excuse to be backstage, and as if no one would be noticed. Temple hoped Molina had somehow found her way out. She arrived behind the curtain, relieved to spot no familiar face, although she recognized the various portions of male anatomy hustling to and fro in an undressed condition. She'd just think of England and forget about it.
But where was Danny Dove?
She asked that question of a guy nailing down a section of the raised backstage ramp Troy had mentioned. He gestured left, so she edged into the wings to find Danny consulting with the sound man.
"Let's set a level and keep it," Danny was saying, "no matter what. I hate it when the sound goes up and down like a see-saw. So unprofessional."
He turned away and saw Temple waiting.
"Hello, Miss Muffett. What can I do for you?"
Temple edged nearer the wall, for more privacy. "I need a favor."
"You need only ask."
"I want to get closer to the pageant. I need a reason to hang around."
"You can be my assistant and carry my clipboard." Danny slapped this everpresent artifact against his blue-jeaned leg.
"Something that gets me in greater contact with the contestants."
Danny's lowered blond eyebrows forced his forehead into corrugations of worry. "I thought we had a boyfriend."
"I did, too. Had, past tense. And that has nothing to do with my request. My aunt Kit said the best way to get acquainted with the contestants was to be a model in the pose-down."
Danny's eyebrows seemed to be leaving the planet.