Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

“That a professional opinion?” Molina asked.

The police lieutenant was still somewhat dazed by the lines of people—four across weaving in and out like human plaid—blocking the long tables of authors signing their books.

Temple shrugged off the question. “Your press release describes Lanyard Hunter as a ‘medical buff” and medical suspense novelist. She”—Temple pointed impolitely, but in this mob, who would notice?—“says he masqueraded as a doctor for years. He’d know how, and where, to plant a knitting needle in an editor’s heart.”

“That horse-faced woman hovering over Hunter, she was in the press room with Mavis Davis.”

“Lorna Fennick, PR director for Reynolds-Chapte-Deuce.”

“And you think because this”—Molina consulted the press material—“Lanyard Hunter was devious, and loony enough to pose as various doctors once, he wouldn’t stop at homicide now?”

“Look at that wavy silver hair, that air of benign attention, those slick, reassuring aviator bifocals. Was that man born to pull wool, or what?”

“You oughta know,” Molina cracked with a sideways glance and a veiled reference to Max. “How’d this Fennick woman beat us here from the press room?”

“She knows the ropes. She probably dumped Mavis Davis at the RCD booth and raced here to offer aid and comfort to Pennyroyal’s star author. Signing a few hundred books ain’t pickin’ cotton, but it’s close to it.”

Molina nodded. “Too bad Hunter didn’t have his autograph session before Royal was murdered; I’d never suspect him of having the strength to wield so much as a tweezers afterward.”

“Was that... humor, Lieutenant?”

“Naw.” Molina gave a discouraging shake of her head and heaved an unconscious sigh.

Temple nodded. “Now, if we only could find Owen Tharp.”

“Owen Tharp. The name of another author?”

“Not really. A pseudonym, but you’ve got his picture—yup, that’s him. I don’t know where we’ll find him; he’s not scheduled for an interview or a signing, but Lorna said he was here.”

Molina’s sharp blue eyes scanned the mob. “How about—there?”

“Where?” Temple went on tiptoe to strain in the direction Molina was looking, but saw nothing.

Moments later the lieutenant was striding through the press of humanity, her impressive physical presence clearing an automatic path. Temple clicked after, feeling a bit like a glum pet Pekingese.

On the sidelines, positioned to watch Lanyard Hunter sign every hardcover, lounged a man of middling height and age. About fifty, his hair blended brown and gray into a peppery mix. A stocky build and air of contained energy advertised three-mile runs and oat-bran muffins. He’d ditched a mustache and cut his hair since the press kit photo, but Molina’s professional eye had ID’d him in an instant .

Temple examined a grudging flare of respect, then stifled it as she spotted a too-familiar shape melding with the inky shadow at the pillar’s foot. Yikes! She must’ve left the storeroom doorknob unturned so the cat could shoulder it open again. The police detective was too intent on human prey to notice the feline, which was fine with Temple. She was getting tired of apologizing for the cat’s peregrinations.

“Mr. Tharp?” Molina said briskly. “Got a few minutes?”

The man spread his hands. “Lady, I’ve got a few hours, seeing as how my publisher hasn’t seen fit to schedule me for one of these hosanna sessions.”

“Lieutenant,” Molina corrected impassively. “Las Vegas Metro Police. I take it you worked for the late Chester Royal.”

Owen Tharp straightened to give himself as much height as he could manage toe to toe with the long Amazonian of the law. He was so mesmerized by the police presence and its personal implications that he failed to notice when Midnight Louie ingratiated himself against his trouser legs by rubbing back and forth. Temple chuckled and felt much better; at least someone else felt intimidated by Lieutenant Molina.

“Sorry, sir,” Tharp said. “I mean, ma’am. Being a writer isn’t exactly ‘working for’ an editor, or even a publisher. We’re all free-lancers, at bottom. Certain publishers buy certain of our books, and that’s the extent of it.”

“And they put them out under certain names?”

“Sometimes.”

“What’s your real name?”

Tharp’s cocky smile became both gentle and bitter. “Would you buy Indigo Atwill? Two hundred thousand historical romance readers did. Maeve Michaels? Sean Owen, then? Kevin Gill? How about Owen James and Jesse Wister? It’s bad strategy to use the second half of the alphabet for an author’s last name, but I have an affinity for bad strategy. I see, Lieutenant, that none of my aliases rings a bell—good for my continuing freedom but bad for my writing career. No wonder I’m out here in limbo while the sainted Lanyard Hunter, who under his own name sat out three years in Joliet, basks in the adjacent limelight.”

“Are you saying Hunter has a record?”

“I’m not saying anything. I am merely venting a bit of authorial bile. I presume that an autopsy of the late lamented Mr. Royal has returned a verdict of death by unnatural adventure?”

Molina regarded the writer with polite wonder until the man shook his head as if emerging from a mental fog. The black cat, unacknowledged and perhaps miffed, stalked behind the pillar and vanished. Temple hoped he was heading back to the storeroom like a good kitty.

“Sorry.” Tharp offered a final head-clearing shake and a wry smile not without charm. “I was talking like a character out of Agatha Christie, wasn’t I? I’m a natural mimic. My personal, as well as my literary style adapts to suit the subject matter. How can I help you, Lieutenant?”

“If you didn’t work for the late Mr. Royal, how would you describe your relationship?”

“I wrote books; he bought ’em. I could always churn something out when one of his prima donnas was overdue. Or when one of theirs required a complete rewrite. I was Royal’s safety net. He could always take my stuff and ram it through with just some copy-editing.’ Course, that wasn’t enough for Pennyroyal Press to pull me out of third-lead position or onto the best-seller list.”

“Lorna Fennick said you were one of the imprint’s bestselling authors,” Temple put in.

Owen/Tharp/Gill/Michaels/Et cetera regarded her pityingly. “High production. None of my titles sold that much, but I sold ’em a lot of my titles. It adds up. But the big-buck advances, the sure thing, no, that’s never been my role.”

“I’m puzzled,” Molina began, surprising Temple, who’d never expected to hear her admit any such problem. “You say the other authors turned in unpublishable work? Not big sellers like Hunter and Davis, surely?”

Tharp snorted with gusto. “Are you kidding? They were the worst of the wimps. Look, I’m a writer. Day in, day out; trends in, trends out. In the late sixties I wrote Gothics; in the seventies it was historical romance; the eighties were Westerns and male adventure, and horror; now I’ve hit this medical gore vein, excuse the expression, and at least Owen Tharp earns some royalties even. But Hunter, he’s a medical con man, an obsessive, if you wanta know the truth. Sure, he knows the underbelly of a hospital, but pacing, story, structure—phooey! And Davis is just a Kankakee nurse with a weird sense of horror who wrote this strange little book which somehow found its way to the Pennyroyal slush pile and, bingo, she’s a star. Editors always like writers they can remake better than ones they have to take as is, because they know what they’re doing.”

“Slush pile?” Molina inquired faintly.

Temple was feeling beneficent. “Unsolicited manuscripts, sent without benefit of agent or introduction. Some best-sellers have been plucked from the slush pile—”