Douglas Nelson - Cat On A Blue Monday

Temple looked up the stairs. The shadow had stopped in the leak of red light, pinioned by the glare of the incoming firemen's powerful flashlights.

"Upstairs," Temple shouted. Two men charged past in heavy rubber boots, smelling of cinders." Careful! That's a killer."

These men weren't the police, but they were armed against a bitter, flesh-eating enemy, fire, in body armor and with axes. Two thumped past her to collect the shadow, two thundered all the way up to confront the fire; another turned and stomped out again, perhaps to radio the police.

Beneath Temple, the burlap bag writhed and hissed as if housing a dozen snakes. Then it growled. Fascinated, the returning firemen, with the shadow in custody, stopped to watch, focusing their flashlights on the bag.

A portion of the burlap was soaking wet. It proved to be torn as well when a black snake shot out of a four-inch slit.

A furry black snake, Temple squealed hoarsely and scrambled away. The black snake retreated, to be replaced by a black muzzle.

Snarling, Midnight Louie boxed the bag until his shoulders and forelegs were through, then twisted and turned until the burlap was dragging from his hindquarters like a comical train. After a few more acrobatic antics, he finished delivering his bedraggled, nineteen-pound self from confinement.

Temple watched in admiring delight. "Louie! What are you doing here?"

"Are you all right?" A fireman plucked Temple up from the floor to her feet as easily as if she were a mislaid cotton ball. "You know this cat? What's going on here?"

Boots pounded down the stairs. "Fire's out. Arson."

"Can we get some lights on in here?" another big and booted man asked.

Footsteps pounded down the basement stairs behind a beam of powerful light.

In moments, lights blinked on around the house. The refrigerator burped into a happy hum again, and the distant air conditioner hiccoughed once, then began droning dully.

At Temple's feet, Louie growled and spit and tried to walk. He swayed like a drunken sailor and sat down suddenly, looking surprised and cranky.

"I think he's been drugged," Temple told the nearest fireman. One of the men keeping the shadow in custody kicked at a white rag half out of the burlap bag. ' 'Chloroform."

The fireman who had lifted Temple looked down at Louie, then addressed his mate. "We better get this fire victim some oxygen pronto." He scooped up Louie and strode outside. Temple followed on shaky legs.

A crowd had gathered around the huge, light-flashing fire trucks. If Louie had intentions of clawing the fireman who carried him, he was foiled by the heavy, waterproofed slicker the man wore. Thump-thump, the word was passed. Thump thump, clump-clump, a medic came to the front door with the needed gear.

Louie was pinned to the ground and treated, though he was not fond of the plastic mask and struggled as if his tom-hood were in jeopardy. He didn't relish the flash photo that was taken of him under care, either, but he calmed down when he could sit up and breathe ordinary air again.

Temple frowned at the photographer, who wore a Review- Journal I.D. card. She wanted to know Louie's name, anyway.

"I hope I'm not in that photograph," Temple grumbled after providing the information. It did not behoove a P.R. person to irritate the press. "I must look a mess."

Fire survivors often do," the woman noted dryly, moving away to take an overall shot of the crowd.

"What about the intruder?" Temple asked the firemen once the photographer was gone. She nodded toward the house.

"We're holding him for the police," said her fireman, who was young and freckled and struck her as fearless. "As is."

"Him? Are you sure?"

The fireman was amused by her incredulity. "Yes, Ma'am."

Temple thought about the suspect that assertion eliminated--Peggy Wilhelm--and breathed free again. She leaned toward the fireman, who didn't look too alarmed by a rescued maiden offering confidences.

"Couldn't we peek behind the mask before the police get here?" Temple whispered as close to his ear as she could get without hitting the hard and inconvenient fire hat. "I'm just dying to know who it is."

Chapter 34

The Bishop's Tea

"Temple!"

Sister Seraphina separated from the crowd and enveloped Temple in a big brown blanket that she definitely didn't need after so much exertion on such a warm night.

Temple was interested to know that formerly sleeping nuns wore voluminous navy-velour bathrobes that she had not seen the like of since a fifties' television sitcom. Sister Seraphina's bathrobe, especially with its long satin rope tied at the waist, more resembled Temple's notion of a habit than anything the nun wore in the light of day.

Sister Seraphina seemed unaware of her attire's fascination.

"When I heard that someone was found in there," she said, "I feared it might be Peggy--never you." She turned briskly to the identically clad woman behind her. "Sister Rose, you had better call Peggy Wilhelm and let her know.

She'll want to tend the cats--they're all right, aren't they?" she asked Temple in sudden anxiety. "What about this one?" She eyed Midnight Louie, who was remarkably content to sit at Temple's feet and groom his own, for the moment.

"That's not a Tyler cat; that's mine. He's been given some chloroform, but he's fine now. Sister, where is Father Hernandez

Sister Seraphina twisted to scan the crowd. "I ... I don't know. Perhaps he was sleeping and didn't hear--"

Sleeping like Peter in the Garden, Temple thought grimly. Or perhaps he was not sleeping at all.

"Sister Mary Monica saw the flames from her bedroom window," Sister Seraphina went on, "so we called the fire department. And then we did call Lieutenant Molina. And Matt."

Temple grimaced. Sister Seraphina had mentioned the two people she least wanted to see in her current state. Fire survivors, she guessed, couldn't be choosers.

In fact, one of the firemen was stomping over. He arrived to request the same information the news photographer had: name, address, a short statement. Temple complied and then asked a question of her own.

"What about--?" she began, still seriously seeking answers, when tires squealed and an unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up behind the Storm, followed by a squad car.

Like the Red Sea parting for Moses, the crowd parted for Molina, her partner and two uniformed officers. Temple cringed when Molina's crowd-scanning glance spotted her. Molina rolled her eyes and did not pause, disappearing into the house with an escort of police and firemen.

A uniformed officer remained outside to disperse the crowd, which was reluctant to return to late-night TV talk shows when something much more interesting to talk about was happening live on their very own street. Grumbling, people straggled off.

"We live next door," Sister Seraphina objected when her turn came.

"You the nuns?" the officer asked.

Temple, still clutching her blanket, bristled, but nobody noticed.

"The lieutenant wants to speak to you later at the convent." He frowned and looked up and down the street, obviously not seeing anything that resembled his idea of a convent.

"We'll go quietly, Officer." Sister Seraphina turned Temple toward the convent.

"I'll carry Louie." Temple bent down to scoop up the cat in her blanket and almost didn't unbend again.

What a mistake. Even freshly oxygenated, Louie weighed as much as a potbellied pig.

"Wait!" Temple cried, remembering. "My tote bag's in that house."

"Your purse?" The officer frowned again.

"In the bedroom where the fire was started."

He nodded. "I'll check. If we don't need to impound it for evidence, you can have it."

"Evidence? Impound? My daily organizer is in there, my apartment and car keys. I'll be helpless."