Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

“That official?”

“It will be as soon as I talk to Bud.”

“Humph.”

“Humph is right! If the Crystal Phoenix can have a house cat, we can have one, too. He might become a valuable convention center mascot, like Baker and Taylor. Any news of the missing duo?”

Lloyd shook his head as he inspected the contents of the huge paper bag Temple carried. His eyebrows lifted almost to the brim of his ebbing cap.

“I swear that there are no hidden explosives, Lloyd. Terrorists wouldn’t pick Vegas to make a statement and there aren’t any incendiary books out this year, except maybe the new Pee Wee Scouts kiddie title. The one a couple seasons back that told kids there was no Santa Claus raised more of a ruckus than Salman Rushdie.”

When Lloyd finally nodded her in, Temple, bag and cat obliged him.

The office was still empty, but Temple made a quick call to Cyrus Bent, the security head, and told him her needs. Within twenty minutes she was meeting him at the Baker & Taylor booths. Within five they had managed a semiofficial break-in to the cat castle. Within eight they were out of there with an empty paper bag, mission accomplished.

“I hope those people appreciate your efforts,” was Cyrus Bent’s parting sentiment. Most men in private security were like stateside leftovers celebrated in song during World War II: either too young or too old. Bent was on the old side of that statistic, which meant that he knew that good security included being secure enough to bend a rule.

“Hope so,” said Temple, saluting him as she raced down the long exhibition floor toward the offices.

Once there she showed Louie his food bowls in the storage room—a source of much interest—and a new permanent site for the previously floating workplace litter box—a source of great disdain. She left the storeroom door open as a sign of Louie’s new status.

When Valerie came in, Temple’s word processor was chuckling with rapid-fire releases. Her messages would have to wait a little longer. By the time Bud Dubbs arrived at 9 a.m., Louie had selected Crawford Buchanan’s desk as the most congenial resting spot. Buchanan scowled in at 10:30; by then Louie’s presence was fait accompli and Buchanan was in serious danger of being supplanted as the office layabout.

“Get that monster off my desk!”

“Why?” Temple asked. “Every time he switches his tail he clears off two months of outdated clutter.”

“I hate cats!”

“You would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It takes a certain discrimination to appreciate a cat like Midnight Louie. Gosh, that’s a great name—I’d wish I’d known it before the Review-Journal article ran.”

“A disgusting name, surpassed only by its possessor,” Buchanan snarled. He was in a vile mood.

Just then Emily Adcock from Baker & Taylor came charging in with an exultant look.

“You found the cats!” Valerie guessed.

“Not quite. It’s either the most astounding thing... or—” Emily Adcock focused on Temple, who had not said a word or moved a muscle—“ you did it! What a wonderful idea!”

“I didn’t do it personally,” Temple said.

“It certainly takes us off the hook and makes the setup look intentional.”

“What is this wonder?” Bud Dubbs asked on his way from the coffee maker.

“You’ll all have to stop down and see it,” Emily went on. “When I came in this morning, there in the pathetic, abandoned cat display were the dearest stuffed versions of Baker and Taylor you ever saw!”

“My landlady does soft sculptures,” Temple explained. “She stayed up all night to do them.”

“But it was your idea,” Emily Adcock repeated.

“I figured that a faux Baker and Taylor were better than no Baker and Taylor.”

“A brilliant idea.” Emily smiled broadly. “I feel so much better with something on display. Now all we can do is hope the real B and T show up.”

She left looking vastly relieved.

In her wake, Buchanan fidgeted under all the good vibes flowing in Temple’s direction. He scowled at Midnight Louie, who was now grooming himself on the floor. “Could have killed two birds with one stone if you’d put this black brute into the crystal cage instead.”

They regarded him as if he had proposed barbecuing Baker and Taylor. Temple answered. “Louie doesn’t look anything at all like a Scottish fold cat. His ears are all wrong.”

“Fix ’em,” Buchanan said. “I’ve got a nail clipper with me.”

“Boo, hiss,” Valerie put in.

“I wouldn’t mess with that old boy,” Bud advised. “He looks big enough and mean enough to clip your ears before you’d lay a fingernail on him.”

Louie yawned and shut his eyes.

Temple saw a verbal opening and darted in. “Say, Bud, that story was so cute. Why not keep Louie on as a mascot through the ABA? It might focus attention off the absent cats. Okay if he hangs around?”

“As long as he doesn’t make any messes.”

Buchanan headed for the men’s room. “Great. This place’ll smell like a tuna factory in two days.”

“It does already,” Valerie said. “You guys always order tuna salad from the Pita Palace. It’s pretty ripe by the time it gets here.”

Temple finally began flipping through messages from late Saturday. One was actually in an envelope. She tore it open. The last time she’d seen her letter opener was when she’d used it to cut a loaf of zucchini bread Bud’s wife had sent in. Besides, her nails were long, strong and lacquered Aruba Red. They could open nonscrew-top beer bottles and type at 105 words a minute.

The envelope was standard business issue, midget-size. An ink smudge decorated the comer where a stamp would be had it been mailed. Temple felt uneasy as she withdrew the note-size sheet of paper.

Typed letters uneven in pressure and alignment skipped across the page.

IF YOU WANT THEM CATS BACK, PUT $5,000 IN A BROWN BAG AND LEAVE IT AT 10 A.M. MONDAY BY THE THIRD GODDESS ON THE LEFT IN FRONT OF CAESARS PALACE. OTHERWISE, THEY IS STEW MEAT.

12

. . . And Apostrophe

“W ould you likea drink, Temple?”

“Yes. A stiff one. I’ve got to come to grips with an extremely delicate matter after lunch.” Temple winced, recalling the urgent message she’d left for Emily Adcock to meet her at 2 p.m. Passing on the “stew meat” threat would be no fun.

Lorna Fennick grimaced sympathetically. “Me, too.”

“Now it’s catnapping.”

“Cat, not kid?”

Temple nodded as the waiter placed before her a cool white gin and tonic featuring Bombay Gin’s lethal Sapphire brand. Anything purportedly good enough for Queen Victoria’s menstrual cramps should do the job. “This is for our ears only, but Baker and Taylor lost their mascots to an ambitious animal-grabber.”

"I wondered why they made such a big deal in their ads about ‘meeting’ Baker and Taylor at the convention, then put a couple of stuffed shills in an elaborate display case. Of course, Baker & Taylor always invites booksellers to ‘meet’ their mascots at the convention, and it’s always in purely photographic form. Importing them in person was a great publicity stunt.”

“ ‘Was’ is the operative word. It’s a shame, but I’m not going to let this latest crisis interfere with keeping on top of the Royal murder.”

“Speaking of which.” Lorna pulled a canvas book bag up from the floor, the Time-Life, Midnight-Louie-toting kind. “Here’s a bunch of titles by Pennyroyal’s Top Three. I even found some of Owen Tharp’s other pseudonymous efforts knocking around. I thought you could use a crash course in the Pennyroyal medical thriller.”