Cat In A Leopard Spot

Groucho stares into the darkness, sniffing. “But there is nothing that way but empty desert for miles and miles.”

You can guess which trail we end up following.

Chapter 34

Calling on Agatha

“What we need,” Temple said, “is an Agatha Christie moment.”

“You mean,” Max said, “an Agatha Christie climax.”

“Really, Max! Agatha Christie didn’t put those sorts of things in her books. Although…”

“What?”

“Her husband’s first name was Max. One of them, anyway.”

“How did you learn so much about Agatha Christie?”

“Read a few of her books, ages ago.” Temple eyed him seriously. “Do you know what I mean by an Agatha Christie moment?”

“You want to call all the suspects together.”

“I dream big.”

“And then finger a murderer.”

“No, I’d be happy with just a little more insight.”

“That’s dreaming big?”

“A little insight that would point toward a murderer.”

“Let me think.” Max thought, rather as theatrically as Hamlet did.

He finally glanced at Temple with an expression both amused and promising a dramatic solution. “Do I look like someone who needs to shoot animals to you? A weekend game hunter?” Max’s expression grew craven. “Moneyed, maybe.”

“‘Moneyed’ may be all we need to ‘open sesame’ at the Rancho Exotica,” Temple agreed. “Okay. Here’s the setup. You’re a client. A Phoenix high roller. I want to impress you with the very special services the Phoenix has to offer.” Temple made a face at the iffy ethics of her own scenario, nothing she’d do in a million years for real. “But why would I be there with Mr. High Roller?”

“Maybe you put a lot of yourself into your job.”

“Hey! I’m no floozie. I’m a PR professional.”

“You haven’t had me for a client yet.”

“Well, I guess if I can covet chain-mail bikinis from Macedonia Jones, I could pretend to be impressed with a client’s special customer.”

“Especially if he bought you a bauble from Fred Leighton’s at the Bellagio.”

She made another face, this one stronger. “I’ve heard PR people called corporate prostitutes before. I just never thought I’d be living up to the lowest level of the profession so soon. I don’t think I need a bauble as a cover.”

“No, but you’re missing a ring.” Max’s expression was even more masked than usual. Temple couldn’t tell if the emotion behind the mask was anger or sorrow, but it was something much darker than his deliberately whimsical tone. She wished he and Louie didn’t share a certain catlike inscrutability. “I can provide another,” Max said a trifle wistfully.

“You’ve given up on getting the other one back?” She found herself talking around a sudden lump in her throat, as if they were discussing replacing a dead pet.

“I never give up on getting anything back.”

“Are you just talking about the opal ring? Or about me, or even your preundercover, fancy-free lifestyle?”

“How about all of the above?”

“You dream big.”

He took her hand, her bare left hand. “I know nothing will replace the ring Shangri-La stole onstage at the Opium Den in front of God, Lieutenant Molina, and everybody. I promise you, I’ll find her and I’ll get it back.”

“It’s all right, Max. Really. Rings like that are only worth what they mean. You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

His grip tightened. If she’d been wearing a ring, it would have pinched her finger. “No. I don’t.”

Who could look away from the Mystifying Max when he was being this intense, and this truthful? Not Temple.

She smiled around the lump that still hadn’t gone away. “I know you don’t, and I know you will. Get it all back.” His grip eased as he smiled and gave her hand a small shake. “So, about the stage prop. From Fred Leighton’s? Really?”

“Just as a cover, of course,” Max amended, careful not to crowd her. But was it a cover for something more than the current charade? Was Max still insecure about her?

“I’d need a pretty convincing cover,” Temple said airily, moving onto less serious ground. “And you’d have to look like a pretty convincing high roller.”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s returnable, of course.”

“Absolutely.”

That was how Temple reentered the Van Burkleo household wearing a ten-carat vintage emerald ring surrounded by diamond baguettes. Temple always found it intriguing that bread—a slang term for money, like dough—also came in baguettes. French bread, of course. From Paris.

Even Leonora Van Burkleo’s mascara-smudged, mourning eyes widened to do a quick mental computation.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” Temple began.

It wasn’t clear if she was apologizing for the ostentation of her ring or for an intrusion on a house of mourning.

Leonora Van Burkleo spread beringed, inarticulate hands.

It wasn’t clear if she was acceding to or expressing the callous fact that the universe must go on. As the heart must go on. Après le Titanic, le déluge, c’est commerce.

“Mr. Maximilian”—Temple gazed moistly at her escort—“has most-favored-nation status at the Crystal Phoenix. Perhaps you can guess why.”