Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

Ingram admits as how he sees one of my ex-lady-friends lately, purely on a platonic basis, he adds. This particular acquaintance is just out of the hoosegow, otherwise known as the Animal Pound, and mentioned that a couple of out-of-towners had gotten rounded up.

Scottish folds are out-of-towners, all right. I inform Ingram that this is not much of a lead and inquire as to the appearance of this so-called pal of mine.

Ingram is not flattering. Two-tone low-life with a grizzled mug and a tail kink, says he.

Sassafras, say I, that being the name of the cat in question, not an expression.

Ingram yawns again. He is openly dubious about Sassafras being a genuine nomenclature and implies that my friends trade names as often as they switch humans and in general are a promiscuous lot.

I am forced to growl my disagreement. Ingram can be a schnook with whom I find my temper growing short. I point out that “Ingram” is a somewhat less than riveting moniker also, and that his usual ready rumor-mongering has come up pretty thin soup. He gets on his hind horse and says that he is named for a major wholesaler in the book business and that Thrill ’n’ Quill owner Maeveleen Pearl has a computer that instantly connects her to Ingram Central and takes the name quite seriously, or she would not have conferred it upon him.

Further, it has been a slow week, Ingram admits, rising to rub his chin on the corner of the building. He complains that he does not get as good info with The Substitute on duty while Maeveleen Pearl is trudging around with loaded book bags at the convention center. She returns every night with bound galleys, catalogs and more posters of Baker and Taylor. It is obvious by now that Ingram does not care if those two bozos ever show up again, in person or not.

I glimpse the green-eyed demon in Ingram’s expression, even though his eyes are old-gold-colored. If one is a bookstore mascot it would no doubt be a trifle aggravating to find some outside pinup boys tacked to every wall. Me, I would not give you an empty Tender Vittles bag for any of them, including Ingram, but there is no accounting for tastes.

I bid Ingram an insincere goodbye and pace back to headquarters, pondering. No matter how I shake it, an unauthorized call on the city pound is in order, if only to eliminate possibilities. I am not overjoyed. I also have not failed to note what number falls on this chapter of my reminiscences. Thirteen does not look like a lucky number for Baker and Taylor. Maybe not for Midnight Louie, either.

14

Behind the Eight Ball

T emple ripped apage from the D section of the Las Vegas Yellow Pages, folded it into quarters, and skidded her rolling office chair to the wall where her tote bag rested.

It took her a minute to contemplate the jam-packed but admirably organized contents for a place to stash this most precious cargo of the moment. Suddenly she was aware of being alone in the office—and of being intently observed.

Living with Max had cultivated that sixth sense. She’d often pottered around the apartment in happy self-absorption only to feel the abrupt pull of someone’s utter attention.

Temple would look up, or around, and Max would be staring at her with the sphinxlike intensity of a cat, as if he were dreaming deep, dark dreams just as she happened to cross his focal point. Or he’d arrive in a room unheard and unseen.

At first, Temple had decided that Max liked surprising people, that the lax attention span of most people was one of the bridges to his magic. Later, she suspected that he’d been training himself, training her, to heed stimuli only heard or seen half-consciously. Either way, goose bumps blossomed on her forearms as she looked up.

Claudia Esterbrook stood in the doorway staring at Temple’s Stuart Weitzman kicky black-patent-and-hot-pink heels as if the ABA PR woman were the Wicked Witch of the West browsing for something in the way of ruby-red slippers.

The shock of seeing her wasn’t as bad as if it had really been Max, but was still unpleasant. Claudia’s face had dropped its professional perkiness. The flesh had curdled, sagging and hardening. Claudia stared at Temple and her high-spirited shoes as if they embodied everything that she saw slipping from her own life.

The insight was fleeting. Then Claudia’s face and voice sweetened. She stepped into the room and might never have posed unhappily on the threshold.

“Breaking news on the Royal death,” she announced.

“They haven’t found... somebody?”

Claudia measured Temple’s surprise, her ebbing vulnerability, and loosed her most impervious smile. “Oh, they’ve found somebody—not the killer. More like one of Royal’s victims. A wife, ex variety. Right here at the ABA. That Lieutenant Molina did some biographical backtracking. It leaves us PR people looking like horses’ derrieres—or like we’ve got something to hide. Here’s an addendum to the group press release. A postmortem statement from the ex-Mrs. Royal.”

Temple slipped the twice-folded Yellow Page into the tote’s side pocket. Some instinct told her to keep Claudia from seeing it. She took the sheet of scanty double-spaced type Claudia offered and skimmed the contents.

“An editor at Cockerel-Tuppence-Trine? Why didn’t she come forward immediately?”

“I imagine that’s what Lieutenant Molina wanted to know. She also wanted to know why Lorna and I didn’t tell her.”

“And?”

“We don’t keep track of everyone’s exes. With the musical chairs at publishing houses today, it’s tough enough to keep tabs on who’s in whose job, much less who’s in whose bed.”

“Or out of it. So when Molina asked you about this Rowena Novak, you cleverly scurried over to CTT and got a statement. Great thinking. The ex-wife wasn’t too shook up, I suppose?”

“About the death—hard to tell. About Molina’s interrogation, probably. That lieutenant means to find the murderer before we all pack up on Tuesday.”

Temple nodded. “Thanks, Claudia. I doubt I’ll be involved in any more PR on the case, but it’s good to be up-to-date. Now, I’ve got an urgent errand to run—” Temple left the release on her desk and headed for the door.

“Oh,” Claudia called after her, “got to change some kitty litter?”

Temple whirled in the doorway and studied Claudia, noting the same bitter expression she’d observed earlier. Then Temple blithely shook her head.

“Nothing so important—just a shoe sale at Pay Less. ’Bye.”

In five minutes Temple was at the Cockerel-Tuppence-Trine booths on the crowded exhibit floor, eyeing name tags.

“Miss Novak?”

The woman nodded. She was plainer than dry toast, a spare, Persian-lamb-haired woman of forty-something with eyeglass frames that echoed her jaundiced skin tones. Trendy shades of chartreuse and rust underlined her enduring homeliness.

“Can we... talk? I’m Temple Barr. I’m assisting with public relations for the convention and also helping Lieutenant Molina with orientation.”

“I’ve talked to Lieutenant Molina, and Claudia Esterbrook.”

“I know, but I hoped you might spare a few more moments. The police don’t understand how an ABA works. They need a translator, and it’s my job to get the information out and the facts right.”

Rowena Novak’s big-boned face screwed tighter, then she sighed. “All right. The refreshment area should be quieter with the lunch rush done. I could use a soft drink.”