Cat In A Topaz Tango

Temple sighed heavily. “We’ve all got someone at stake here. We better solve this thing.”

“What if it’s more than one thing?” Molina asked.

Rafi turned a desk chair around to straddle it. “What have we got for incidents so far? Motives? Suspects?”

“You always wanted to make detective,” Molina charged. Remembered. Her tone had been dangerously . . . personal.

Rafi winced. Temple read his reaction. He was so far from that lost uniformed officer position. Molina was a lieutenant of detectives. He looked at Temple to escape staring the implications in the eyes.

“You have any ideas, Ms. Ozone?”

“Ah . . . yes.”

Crime Seen

“Something about these incidents is bothering me,” Temple said.

Rafi regarded her raptly, but only because he wanted to shut Molina out at the moment. Molina was frowning at her hotel notepad, doodling.

“Matt’s getting to be the only one who hasn’t had a personal mishap,” Temple noted.

“Other than getting engaged to you,” Molina put in without even looking up.

“Yet,” Rafi said.

“He’s the only celebrity who doesn’t have a visual presence in the media,” Temple went on.

“You mean he’s the most obscure and least celebrated,” Molina suggested.

Temple went speechless. Molina was in a major down-on-men mood.

“And the best-looking,” Rafi put in, “as if you hadn’t noticed.” He turned back to Temple. “You’re right. We’ve had enough ‘incidents’ to look for similarities and differences.”

“Unfortunately,” Temple said, “the contestants were chosen for their variety. Entertainers, athletes, and quasi-glamorous careers like chef and radio show host.”

“Except they are all celebrities of one sort of another,” Rafi added. “They have fans, and fans can get obsessed.”

Molina turned in her chair to face them fully again. “That’s what I meant. You’re assuming that one mischief-maker is at the root of every troubling incident. What if more than one motive and one person were behind these ‘accidents’ that are coming too fast to be accidental?”

“It would have to be somebody involved in the show, near it every day,” Temple mused. “Or who could seem to be legitimately near it. You’re saying there are several freaked-out fans here all at once?”

Molina was unshaken. “This is a variety show as far as the competitors go. Why not a surfeit of suspects all working separately?”

“That’s an Agatha Christie novel,” Rafi said sourly. “Murder on the Orient Express. It narrows down nothing.”

“You read Christie?” Molina pounced.

“They make movies,” he retorted. “Look. The Oasis Hotel is one huge interior metropolis of support staff and the public milling around together. Temple is right. Looking for suspects starting from the outside in is futile. We’ve got to work from the victims out. There are five of them.”

“And only three who haven’t been victims,” Molina pointed out, “which may be more telling.”

“Let’s go through the possible attacks,” Temple suggested. “First would be Glory B.’s jungle gym fall.”

“Pure accident,” Molina said. “She’s a kid practicing new tricks.”

Temple disagreed. “Danny Dove tested that equipment and took it apart. He said it could have been rigged and if anyone in Vegas knows stage equipment and rigging, it’s Danny Dove.”

“The second was Olivia Phillips,” Molina said.

“Nothing suspicious there,” Rafi said. “How do you figure that?”

“You’re the assistant security chief here. Guess, or figure it out yourself.”

“He’s a guy,” Temple told Molina. “He’s handicapped.” She eyed Rafi, who was starting to look steamed. “Olivia Phillips’s wardrobe malfunction, when the heel of her pump collapsed. It could have been rigged too.”

“Was rigged,” Molina corrected.

“A guess?” Rafi jeered.

“I checked it after the show, and bagged the shoe for evidence. They were faint, but forensics found half-moon imprints in the red satin: a small hammerhead hitting the inside of the spike heel. The nails holding it on were weakened, and it snapped. Next?” she suggested, consulting Rafi.

“The most blatant case of tampering so far involves the chef, Salter,” he said. “Appropriate name for a cook, huh? Poisoning is the easiest method to pass off as an accident unless you can identify the toxic substance, and the toughest to bring home to any one suspect.”

“You do read Christie,” Molina pounced again.

He shrugged. “Had to do something on all those sit-down security jobs after I left the L.A. Police Department.”

She was smiling like the cat who’d nailed the Camembert.

“Okay,” said Temple. “Agatha Christie is not going to solve this thing for us, no matter who reads her, including me. It’s interesting that Salter is such a persnickety chef he didn’t eat from the buffet the hotel provided the cast. He would be easy to poison without hurting anyone else.”

“A suspect with a conscience?” Molina asked. “No collateral damage.”

“Or,” Rafi said, “a suspect who wanted to make dead sure he or she got the intended victim. Any diagnosis yet on the cause of Salter’s tummy upset?”

“The forensic staff is overworked, as usual here.”