Douglas Nelson - Cat On A Blue Monday

"I couldn't find a job anywhere else," he admitted after a moment, "Too much Catholic education."

Her smile was wry, but not unfriendly. "I couldn't either.

Do me a favor and get Miss Barr to drive you home or something. I could use a vacation from her inquisitive face."

He nodded and waited in another patch of shade by Temple's Storm, Las Vegan enough to know to get out of the UV's. In Chicago, snow had been the element worth fearing; here, it was unheard of, and something as simple and treasured as sunshine could be lethal.

When Temple did come out, it was from Miss Tyler's house. She joined him by the car.

"That is an excessive number of cats," she commented, "especially when you feed them and clean their boxes."

'That going to be your job for a while?"

"Super pooper-scoopers, I hope not! Peggy was busy selecting clothes for the funeral with Sister Seraphina, so I pitched in, literally." Temple pantomimed pitching out something, presumably feline waste. "Say, you don't want a cat or two, in case they're not covered in the will?"

"Not after what you've described," Matt said hastily.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah, I want to close down the cat show and make sure no more malicious tricks have been pulled." She started around to the street side of the Storm, then stopped and stared almost as narrowly as Lieutenant Molina, down the road to the church. "Say, isn't that the wimpy lawyer we met yesterday who just pulled up at the rectory in the silver Camry?"

Matt squinted into the bright sunshine. "I'm not sure--"

"Well, let's find out."

Temple threw her jangling key ring back into her tote bag, hoisted the bag high on her shoulder and began pacing toward the car in question in a no-nonsense manner.

Matt was startled to find himself jogging to keep up.

"Temple! It's none of your business."

"Do you spell that 'nun'?" she shot back over her shoulder with a grin. "Sister Seraphina called you in as a consultant, and I came along for the ride, or the drive, rather. I bet what's-his-name has got the will, and inquiring minds want to know what's in it."

He caught up with her. "Do you think the lawyer or Father Hernandez will tell you?"

"No, but I'd bet that Father Hernandez will tell you. He looks like a man desperately in need of a sympathetic ear of the right sort."

"What sort do you mean?"

"Someone in your unique position."

They were huffing up to the rectory door now, the effort of walking fast in unshaded sunshine sheening their faces.

Matt began to see what Lieutenant Molina meant about a leash. He stopped Temple at the threshold by grabbing her arm. She did not seem to take exception to the contact.

"What's so unique about my position?" he asked, knowing he was asking for it, whatever it was, but inquiring minds need to know, as she had pointed out.

"You know the priesthood, its pressures and rewards.

You're out of it, so you're hardly one to point fingers, no matter what Father Hernandez has done."

"And what has he done?"

"Dived into a bottle, for one thing." She bit her bottom lip. "But there's more to it than that. I bet you could find out if you went about it the right way."

"Why would I want to?" he asked stiffly.

"Because it might be important to why Miss Tyler was murdered."

"The jury isn't in on that yet."

Temple sighed and rolled her eyes. "Of course she was. And maybe all the other stuff--the phone calls, the cat shaving and crucifixion--was just diversion." She shrugged.

"You can keep me in custody if you want, but what would it hurt to go in and ask?"

He released her quickly, realizing that his grip had become tight, almost desperate. He definitely did not want to become unofficial confessor to Father Raphael Hernandez. He had left all that, hadn't he?

Temple was shameless. Public-relations work must do that to even the most sensitive soul, Matt concluded. Once inside the rectory, she clicked down the hall on her pert high heels and didn't pause until she reached the ajar office door. Then she nudged herself through.

"Sorry to disturb you, Father Hernandez," she apologized brightly. "I didn't know you had company. Oh, Mr. Burns!

Do you happen to know yet if the cats were covered in the will? I've just been feeding them, and I don't know how long poor Peggy can fend off the animal-control people once their number is generally known."

Matt groaned inwardly at her bull-in-a-china-shop routine, except that with Temple, it was more like Bambi in a Baccarat-crystal showroom. Unlike Lieutenant Molina, she was not physically impressive; in retaliation, she could on occasion become as cute as hell and achieve the same ends. Her victims talked, despite themselves.

He heard the surprised--and dazed--voices invite her over the threshold and tagged along behind.

A legal-length white document of several pages was indeed splayed atop the flotsam on Father Hernandez's desk.

The pastor was looking far more dazed than the attorney. Neither man challenged the newcomers' right to know. Matt suspected that had less to do with Temple's unruffled chutzpah than with the contents of the will. He found himself becoming seriously curious.

Temple settled with Shirley Temple confidence in one of the comfortable chairs built to hold more than twice her bulk. Matt took another and assumed a neutral expression.

"The cats." Father Hernandez ran his fingers through his thinning, sterling-silver pompadour. "It appears that they are indeed in limbo." He quirked an apologetic smile at Temple. "You may not be familiar with the term."

"Oh, but I am. Does that mean that they're to be . . .evicted?"

"No, no . . ." He waved a soothing hand.

Matt recognized all the proper murmurs and gestures--patented Good Shepherd, parish-priest style--and recognized that they were being performed by an automaton.

Father Hernandez had just had an unexpected shock. He turned, as Temple had, to the lawyer.

Lawyers love an audience.

Burns riffled lovingly through the long pages that had been folded four times and tended to curl shut.

"I know that this document created much speculation," he admitted, "but I couldn't reveal the late Miss Tyler's latest will until it was a matter of record, as it certainly is with her unfortunate death. Father Hernandez has just had some excellent news." He cast a puzzled, almost hurt glance at the shell-shocked priest.

Lawyers are not often the bearers of good news and when they are, they like to enjoy it. But Father Hernandez wasn't doing that, so he turned to his new audience, announcing with a smug flourish, "Miss Tyler did not change her will as she supposedly threatened to do. She was more bark than bite, if you will forgive a canine analogy used in connection with a feline-lover of such long standing."

He bowed to Temple, then glanced triumphantly back to Father Hernandez.

"I happily report that Our Lady of Guadalupe is the sole beneficiary of the will. That means a considerable boost to the parish-development fund, but first I must inventory the contents of Miss Tyler's safety deposit box to estimate the exact amount."

Father Hernandez silently tented his prayerful fingers and propped his long face upon them. He did not look like an administrator who had been granted his dearest wish.

"She made no provision for the cats at all?" Temple asked in surprise.

Burns shrugged. "No. I mentioned it, as a matter of fact, but she insisted that when one is facing the afterlife, one must not be bound by the things of this world."

"But--" Temple was not taking this well. The intrepid investigator had vanished into the persona of a crusading animal advocate. "They'll be caged and shipped off to the animal shelter! In sixty hours, most of them will be dead, and they're house pets, not feral animals. It's . . . awful. Can't anything be done?"