"I knew him," Temple began.
"Oh, gosh! Sorry." Trish smiled an apology. "We get a little melodramatic down here."
"That's all right." Temple sat on an empty chair near the door, still clutching the boot like a stuffed toy. She rested her chin on the conveniently notched tops. "It's funny. I've been running all over town in search of a Cinderella shoe, and I end up with a glitzy, mystery cowboy boot on my own home turf."
"You want some great shoes, cheap?" Midge asked, enthusiastically spraying the only part of her hair that wasn't covered by a begemmed headpiece--her bangs. "Try the Shoes Galore Discount Emporium."
"Not just any shoes," Temple explained glumly. "The new Stuart Weitzman store in the Forum Shops at Caesars is offering a free pair of custom Austrian crystal-covered high heels to whoever can spot a similar shoe somewhere in Las Vegas."
"They used rhinestone shoes in the Tropicana show a few years ago. Like to blind the sun."
"Not rhinestones," Temple explained patiently. "Genuine Austrian crystals."
"What's the diff?"
"The same as between a jam jar and a brandy snifter. Crystal has more fire, and costs more."
"These shoes must be worth a fortune."
"To me, they would be. And the worst part is, he's on them." Temple pointed at Midnight Louie.
"Louie? He's always on shoes, on makeup tables, on g-strings--" Darcy laughed as she pulled a string of pearls from under Louie's red velvet pillow.
He batted lethargically as the pearls swung past, then yawned.
"It's nice to have him calling on us again," Darcy said.
"That's because Louie has a lady cat to visit on the premises."
"That little black one we see around all the time?"
"Heavens no." Temple was shocked. "Midnight Louise is his namesake. She's like his daughter.
Besides, she's fixed. Louie's ladyfriend is an out-of-towner who breezes in now and again."
"I bet he's been keeping 'midnight' hours," Midge speculated. "Now that he's back, we have to box our tap shoes again, or he'd gnaw their straps off."
Not even mention of Louie's past misdeeds could rouse Tern-pie from her vision of shoe-heaven lost. "Oh, I suppose it isn't Louie, in person, pictured on those prize pumps, but these shoes are sooo wonderful, and just made for me! Black-cat figures on each heel. For Halloween. I just know that's Louie."
"For you, it's Louie. For me, it's bad luck." Trish's shudder set her costume swaying in all the best places. "I'd never wear black cat shoes; everyone I'd walk in front of would panic. This is Las Vegas, children, where gamblers are so superstitious that they wear crossed suspenders."
"If you only saw these shoes," Temple keened softly. "You'd love them."
"Not really," Jo said. "I don't wear heels off the job."
"Me, neither," added Trish.
"You should discuss your lost shoes with Savannah, the vamp of Ipana; she's up to her ankles in oddball shoes," Darcy suggested.
"Savannah, the vamp of Ipana?"
"La Ashleigh with the bleached overbite. What a pain-a! She's emceeing the hunk pageant, and demanded her 'old' dressing room. Even though this area is off-limits to pageant people, she got it.
All the prima donnas aren't in the opera."
Temple stared at Midnight Louie, who stared right back.
"Savannah Ashleigh . . . shoes. Of course! Not only is she back in town--with her cat Yvette, I bet, which explains the return presence of your G-string warmer"--she nodded at Midnight Louie nodding off again on the pillow--"but she's going after my shoes!"
Temple leaped to her feet.
Four sets of double false lashes blinked at her in the mirror, then dipped as they glanced as one to her feet.
"Not these shoes I'm wearing, the prize shoes. Have you seen Eightball O'Rourke around lately?"
The queens of diamonds, clubs and spades shrugged their naked shoulders, but Darcy's frown ended the group gesture.
"Little guy, wiry. About seventy," Temple prompted.
Darcy turned from the mirror. "I have seen Eightball down here a couple of times. I figured he was visiting Jill and Johnny Diamond."
"He was working, the rat! He was after the black-cat shoes for that Hollywood has-been. If Savannah Ashleigh can afford to hire a private detective to find them, she can afford to buy them!"
"I hear Savannah's been on her last uppers for some time," Midge noted with a cocked eyebrow.
"Well, she can keep her greedy hands off my last uppers! Look at me. I hunted up and down the Strip, risked drowning and pirates and breaking my neck and being arrested for getting fresh with a witch, yet all I've got to show for it is one odd boot with a virgin sole and rundown rhinestone heels.
Life is not fair."
"Temple?" Darcy clopped over on her silver tap shoes, sounding remarkably like Cheyenne's Appaloosa. "Are you all right?"
Temple sat again, knowing the answer was no, and knowing that she didn't want to explain why finding the Midnight Louie shoes seemed like the only sane act in a world gone mad, a world of murdered models (one, so far) . . . dueling boyfriends (two, so far) . . . and undercover pose-downs with a herd of handsome hunks (one dreaded dress rehearsal coming up)
"I've been working pretty hard," she said, "between the pageant and the shoe hunt, that's all."
She hefted the boot. "I just hope this thing isn't an essential part of somebody's costume and they're missing it."
"So what part do you play in the pageant?" Darcy returned to the mirror to powder her makeup.
"Wench."
"What?"
"Wench of all work, with neckline down to here. They need warm bodies for the cover pose-down."
"Pose-down. That's a new term."
"They photograph embracing romance-novel cover models for the cover artist. The Incredible Hunk candidates need willing females to pose with them for the pageant's last competition: serial, live-action lusting."
"You volunteered for this?" Trish sounded incredulous.
"Let's say I was drafted by a relative."
Midge shrugged and grinned. "It could be kind of fun."
"So," said Temple, taking up her boot and preparing to walk, "could acupuncture."
Temple returned to her dressing room, a cubicle identicle to the one Jake Gotshall and the late Charlie Moon had shared. She stored the odd boot--odd both for being only one of a pair, and for its garish decoration--deep in her costume duffel bag. One never knew what someone else would mistake for a valuable.
Her costume hung from one of the curtain-draped pipes that defined the limits of each dressing area. According to her wrist-watch, in only half an hour she'd have to change for the pose-down dress rehearsal.
Still, half an hour was longer than the absent Quincey was going to spend dolling herself up for the main event. Temple plucked her wallet from the duffel bag and moved into the aisles between the dressing rooms.
The Incredible Hunk candidates themselves were not about to skimp on preparation time; not one was to be seen, since all were closeted in their cubicles, primping. Voices murmured and curtains bulged here and there with sudden movements as Temple passed.
The aisles were filled with anonymous scooting forms, though-- the hunks' lady-volunteer dressers. Most were safely past middle age, like priests' housekeepers. Unlike priests' housekeepers, they weren't automatically indifferent to their charges' boyish charms. With the outstanding exception of Matt Devine, most priests weren't blessed with looks gorgeous enough to pose for a romance novel cover.
Thinking of Matt had made Temple think of Max, which was an awkward juxtaposition in any event. What had brought these two strangers together, besides her? That mystery was more aggravating than the conundrum of Charlie Moon's dramatic death, if not as serious.
Think about Charlie Moon, Temple advised herself. Then think of England.
Moon first. Alone in the wings. Preoccupied with his entrance, mentally a million miles away from what was happening around him. Temple could believe that. Nothing was as isolated as the stage wings in the few, nervous moments before an entrance, especially if you were trying to manage almost a ton of horseflesh in an alien situation. The animal would be mincing around, its hooves slapping the wooden stage floor, making a racket, distracting the rider.