He checked his wristwatch. "Yup."
"Darn, no time for seduction. It'll have to wait until later."
Matt stood. "Still, I'll be waiting for another call from my man. If he never calls again--"
"We can't second-guess the living any more than we can the dead."
"I've certainly seen that in the case of Cliff Effinger. Can you get me a copy of that clipping?"
"Sure. I'll keep a few for myself too."
"Molina might--"
"No. I especially don't want Molina to know I walked into that Cooke setup thinking I was Nancy Drew."
"It'd be handy to know what the police were thinking."
"You think you can get that out of Molina?"
He shrugged. "She did suggest I contact a police artist about Effinger."
"And look how that turned out! About as well as my going to Darren Cooke's brunch and listening to his tragic tale of the letters from an unknown daughter."
"People do catch you up in their own agendas, don't they?"
"And you better realize that Molina is better at that than most. Why'd she point you to a police artist? She wanted you to do her footwork for her."
"But I might have heard something on the phone Sunday night that means more than I could guess."
"Do what you want. But don't expect to get from Molina anything like what you give to her."
"You're probably right. I wish I'd heard the mystery woman's voice."
"No, you don't. Besides, you can't get a sketch on the evidence of voice alone."
Matt stood. "Looks like we're stymied."
"Stymied, stalled and hip-deep in slush," Temple summed up as she walked him to the door.
There he turned to her. "Don't worry. I'm sure you had nothing to do with Cooke's suicide."
His hands rested on her shoulders.
"I'm sure you said nothing to encourage his self-destruction, either."
"We're both absolving each other," he noted.
"That keeps it between friends, at least."
His hand lifted from her shoulder as his face bent down. Temple expected a religious gesture, a blessing, even a sign of the cross.
She was confused when his free hand cupped and tilted up her chin, even more shaken when he kissed her. Not the way Max kissed her, but long and sweet and so deliberately she thought it would never stop, which was fine with her.
But it was over, and he was gone, in the same empty instant.
She had really hamstrung herself between two men, between two hot-and-cold-running relationships, Temple thought soberly. She felt like one of those insipid classical ballerinas, tippy-toeing en pointe from one side of the stage to the other, from one male partner to another. Back and forth, to and from. Make your mind up, girl! she admonished herself, always a fruitless exercise.
Kisses only confused her more, like too many hors d'ouvres before the main course. She would have to put her little arched foot down someday soon, stamp a definitive high heel and choose a dancing partner for real. But then somebody would get hurt, and she couldn't abide the idea of leaving either man out in the cold.
Brrrr. Temple shivered with indecision and self-disgust. She shut and locked her door as if to bar the north wind, then wandered into the living room. Louie had resumed full possession of the sofa, stretching out over all three cushions.
Temple picked up the newspaper again. Nothing in the story had changed. Darren Cooke was dead, and she was sorry. Matt's conversations with his mysterious caller might be over as well. Temple was sure that he would be sorry on some level too. Their separate but similar guilt probably made them the best mourners Darren Cooke would ever have.
Chapter 19
Gossip Never Dies
The next morning, Temple returned to Gangster's, Louie in his carrier beside her.
She was on time, 11:30 a.m., but she didn't expect to see much action today. Surely they would have to reshape the commercial tied into Darren Cooke's opening number.
She had not taken into account another famous musical number:
"The Show Must Go On."
Everyone was there: the chorus line, the choreographer, the commercial director, even the Divine Yvette in her pink tote bag, with her airheaded mistress, Savannah Ashleigh.
Savannah looked as shaken as anyone with so much plastic surgery could. The apples in her cheeks had slipped and the sagging skin around her eyes, normally drawn back into a slightly Asian tilt, looked as if it had been carved from sun-melted suet.
**********************
"Don't look glum," Kyle counseled Temple. "The show's not down yet.
Gangster's is negotiating with a substitute."
"Are there any substitutes for the likes of Darren Cooke?"
"How about Steve Martin?"
"Steve Martin? Really?"
"This is Las Vegas, dearie. Dreams come true here, especially after nightmares."
"On such short notice?"
"Not Martin Short; I said Steve Martin. All show biz thrives on short notice."
"I heard the name right the first time. He's a bigger star than Darren Cooke."
"Extreme emergencies require extreme solutions. Gangster's is not about to choke on spending money for its first revue. When fate hits you in the guts in show biz, you've got to bounce back swinging."
"And the cat commercial?"
"Same deal as before. Today we'll get some establishment shots in the car museum. Want help toting your cat back there?"
Temple actually didn't feel like going it alone today. She nodded, so Kyle whistled over the cat stylist. The trainer was watching sullenly from under her Nazi-like hairdo, definitely not a willing cat-toter.
"Gosh," Marcy said as the carrier exchanged custodians. "I swear this guy gains weight between assignments just to be ornery."
"Louie is never ornery," Temple said, defending her mute young. "Sometimes he's just too big to move easily."
"Let's go," Marcy said with a laugh. "This big guy gains weight just by sitting here, wishing."
She was off, the carrier bumping her jeans-clad legs on every step.
Temple hustled after her, glad to be leaving the theater behind, where the ghost of Darren Cooke had sat beside her, requesting help. Maybe she should tell the police about the letters from his reputed daughter.
It was while the commercial crew was parading through the lobby on the way to the old-car wing that a briskly moving figure intercepted them.
"Miss Barr," came the salutation of a familiar voice.
The entire party stopped to stare at Temple.
"Lieutenant Molina, Las Vegas MPD," the tall, advancing woman in a navy pantsuit added, producing a verifying badge. "I understand you cat-commercial people had brief encounters with Darren Cooke in the past few days."
Molina included them all in her roundup glance, but her eyes ultimately fixed on Temple.
"He came down to the seating area to welcome us," Temple conceded.
"And some he welcomed more than others."
Molina's assertion brought no answer but a guilty silence. Everyone resisted glancing at Savannah Ashleigh.
"I think," Molina went on, "the female contingent could answer that best. I understand that Darren Cooke was quite a ladies' man."
When no answer came, Molina flipped back her notebook cover and began to scan the contents. "I should say that some of you were spotted at his hotel suite in the past few days."
Temple felt her high heels turn into carpenter's nails and impale her to the floor.
"I'll have a word with you over there." Molina waved the notebook at the mostly deserted Prohibition Bar. "Kyle Conrad." The director. "Savannah Ashleigh." Savannah looked as guilty as Temple and twice as rebellious. "Sharon Hammerlitz." The animal trainer from hell, now that was interesting. "And Temple Barr. The rest of you can go do what you were planning on doing. I don't believe I'll need to interrogate the cats."
"Yvette does not leave my side," Savannah burst out in a hysterical falsetto. "You will have to wait to shoot her until my grilling is over."