Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

“And a few million haven’t,” Tharp finished.

“How long have you been in Las Vegas, Mr. Tharp?”

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant.” He looked down. He looked up. The only place he didn’t look was at the thick, twisting line of Lanyard Hunter fans, all bookstore owners likely to order mega-amounts of the new fall title. “I’ve been here since Tuesday. I like to play the slot machines and a little craps. I coulda killed Chester, easy. Anybody could have, that late and that lonely. But I didn’t. Without Pennyroyal Press, I wouldn’t have the modicum of success I do; I’d be writing porn or Ninja Turtle novelettes. He never axed my stuff, wasn’t any fun in it. He never owned me enough to push me to the top. It was a comfortable arrangement for us both.”

“Now that he’s gone, you might be given first-title status.”

“Lead title, it’s called. No, it doesn’t work that way. Now he’s gone, the whole imprint could be cannibalized and I could be out a gravy train. I had no reason to dust the dude, honest.”

Molina remained silent but skeptical.

“Oops, I’m sounding like Sam Spade or something. Sorry. Habit. Anything more?”

“Not for now.”

“Good. I’m gonna hit the slots. The odds are better there.”

Tharp pushed off the pillar he’d been upholding and melded with the crowd. Temple regarded Molina expectantly.

“Thanks for the tour,” the detective said absently. “I’m going to have a long talk with Hunter about his white-coated past as soon as the signing is over.”

It was a dismissal, which Temple acknowledged with an internal clench of disappointment. Asking people personal questions was a stimulating pastime. She’d hoped to eavesdrop on more of Molina’s interviews. But she gave way gracefully.

“I’ll introduce you to Lorna Fennick, the PR director. She’ll arrange everything with Hunter.”

“Oh, good, Temple!” Lorna greeted the pair as they approached the besieged autograph table.

Lorna took the introduction of Molina calmly and bent down to pass the police officer’s request to Hunter. He showed no alarm. Sterling-silver hair only enhanced youthful features. His light gray eyes flicked up from the flyleaf he was inscribing in a flowing hand, resting on Temple with interest.

“It’ll be another fifteen minutes, Lieutenant Molina,” Lorna said. “There’s a private area in the RCD booth where you can talk.”

When Molina nodded and resumed her place at the pillar until the signing ended, Lorna clutched Temple’s wrist to detain her.

“Listen, Temple! I had to leave Mavis Davis in the green room. She is not in good shape. Chester’s death really ripped her up. And the stress of the mass interview... I shouldn’t have left her, but I had to get Lanyard set up and I can’t leave until everything’s squared away, including this police interview all of a sudden. Be a doll and baby-sit Mavis for me. You know.”

Temple did know, and nodded. She also did a mental jig of glee. There was nothing she’d like better than to sit down with a distraught Mavis Davis and ask a few uncensored questions.

Waving a cheery goodbye to the unimpressed Lieutenant Molina, Temple skittered her way through the throngs. Even as she kept one eye out for the delinquent black cat, a thrill of intuition and excitement zinged from her toes to her scalp. Temple scented something electric in the convention hall’s chill, icily conditioned air, a hot lead scintillating like heat lightning in the distance.

She almost forgot that her feet hurt.

8

Feline Follies

“T here you are, T.B.!”

Temple stopped dead amid a maelstrom of passersby. “Amazing. Twenty thousand people and you find me just like that.”

Crawford Buchanan produced the expression he expected to pass for a smile. “The Baker and Taylor people want to talk to you pronto.”

“Hasn’t Security explained that they’re looking into it?”

“Apparently B and T places more faith in you, T.B., for whatever reason.”

She eyed her watch. The tempting Mavis Davis would have to sit unconsoled for a few minutes. Certainly a suspect-starved cop like Lieutenant Molina would not let a proven medical con man like Lanyard Hunter slip away without at least a half-hour grilling, so there should be time to placate Baker fit Taylor and still interrogate... comfort the Davis woman.

“Well, don’t thank me,” Buchanan whined as Temple sped away on winged Liz Claiborne pistachio-colored heels.

Baker & Taylor—the wholesaler—occupied a handsomely accessorized string of booths directly off the Rotunda, which was the entire vast length of the exhibition area away. Temple finally sighted their mock-mahogany-paneled pillars towering above surrounding exhibits. Rich tones of emerald, wine and teal fostered the impression of a well-to-do library. Amidst all this tasteful opulence sat the pièce de résistance, all forlorn.

Baker and Taylor—the actual felines—had, for their first in-purrson ABA appearance, been provided with a royal setting. An eight-feet-tall display case was painted all around with a waist-high trompe l’oeil mural of bookcases holding forthcoming fall titles.

Above that, a large custom Lucite habitat had showcased the famous pair for their public. Inside were cat beds shaped like easy chairs. Chintz draped the “windows” on all four sides; carpet-padded ladders climbed to an upper reach of painted library shelves equipped with such apparent feline classics as The Brothers Katamazov , Ben-Purr , A Tail of Two Kitties , Androclaws and the Lion , The Feline Comedy and, of course, a complete set of Lilian Jackson Braun’s The Cat Who mysteries. Perhaps the most poignant—and properly prophetic—title was The Cat Who Walked Through Walls by Robert Feline.

An enclosed area entered through a curtain no doubt housed the sanitary facilities.

Although the cats in question were absent in body, they were well represented in the booth—glossy calendars and posters pictured them perched on towers of best-sellers, in round spectacles and assorted bookish poses. Despite their stardom, Baker and Taylor were short-haired, sensible- looking felines with large patches of pepper-and-spice-seasoned white fur. Their undersize ears—a trademark of their unusual breed—were tucked neatly against their sagacious Highland heads.

The booth contact person was a sleek, reassuringly friendly woman Temple’s age wearing—since Baker and Taylor’s absence had been discovered early yesterday morning before Chester Royal’s removal—a now-constant frown of anxiety.

“Miss Barr! Have you heard anything?”

“No”—Temple swiftly consulted the name tag depending from the lapel of a teal silk blazer—“Miss Adcock, I haven’t. To be quite honest, I’ve been caught up in the other crime.”

“Other crime? Oh, the murder.” Emily Adcock absently jabbed the ballpoint pen behind her ear more firmly in place. “But what about the cats! I’ve had a chance to ask everyone who was on duty when we were setting up the booths. Nobody took the cats home for the night, as I’d hoped some misguided animal lover had done. Good grief—this cat palace is equipped with every comfort known to exhibit engineers. Baker and Taylor are library cats. They’re used to mingling with the public. They like the attention. They wouldn’t run away!”

“How did they become corporate cover cats?” Temple asked.

“The sponsoring library got Baker on its own, and wrote the company, which gave them a grant a couple months later to purchase Taylor. These cats are famous among librarians and libraries everywhere. If anything’s happened to them... who could have taken them?”