Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

At the Circle Ritz, Temple sprinted for her apartment, Louie’s legs dangling like furred pendulums from under her arm. The cat was plopped onto the parquet and presented with a fresh mound of tuna before he got his sea legs.

Temple showered before he finished it. She was redressed, remade-up and ready to rush into the torpid evening by the time he’d finished his postprandial ablutions and had settled by the French doors, keeping one sleepy eye cocked on the patio.

Temple sped from the bedroom, cramming necessities from her tote bag into a small, dressy purse. Her flame- colored floaty dress was a tribute to the heat, the sunset and Lanyard Hunter’s apparent weakness for the color crimson.

After waving goodbye to the cat and turning her air conditioner up to 80 for the evening, Temple slammed her mahogany front door locked. She was back in the car, the air-conditioning on Max as in maximum, or Max the bum, her shoulder-length red earrings swinging maniacally, at one minute to 6 p.m.

By six-twelve, she was in the long line of vehicles queuing up the semicircular drive at the convention center’s Rotunda entrance. Lanyard Hunter’s silver hair and patrician height were readily recognizable. So was Lorna Fennick, to whom he was talking as they waited. Temple zoomed the Storm to the curb, waved at Lorna, who waved back as she spotted her own ride, and leaned across the seat to open the door.

Hunter bent down with a charming smile. “Miss Barr, I presume. Lanyard Hunter. I wouldn’t want you accepting a strange man in your car without a formal introduction.”

“How thoughtful. Do come in, Mr. Hunter. I thought we’d dine at Dome of the Sea at The Dunes, unless you hate seafood?”

“Perfect,” Hunter said obliquely enough that the comment could apply to anything, including the driver. “After all the bloody beef dinners it takes to maintain the strength to deal with one’s publishers, I’d prefer something subtler.”

Temple lifted an eyebrow and eased the Storm into the traffic. She’d be willing to bet that she was “something subtler” than Lanyard Hunter expected.

The geodesic Dome of the Sea restaurant offered an aquatic dimness into which it was possible for the neon-weary diner to sink like a peaceful pearl. In tanks surrounding the upholstered banquettes, tropical fish massaged illuminated azure waters to the accompaniment of a harpist plucking liquid melodies.

“Very nice,” Hunter said, the object of his compliment again ambiguous but his eyes resting exclusively on Temple. He had a compelling, platinum-gray stare that sliced past normal social barriers as intimately as a hot scalpel.

Temple took refuge behind a long, glossy menu specifying double-digit prices. A slice of the adjoining casino was visible behind Hunter. One of the many crystal-hung chandeliers haloed his dramatic silver locks like a diamond-toothed circular saw.

He’s no angel, Temple reminded herself, but a skilled and shrewd con man equipped with the smarmy charisma and florid handsomeness of a televangelist. She’d had enough of the type, plus Hunter was a little past her age limit. She was apparently not out of his.

‘‘Charming,” he murmured again.

“Thanks so much for making yourself available, Mr. Hunter,” she said briskly. “I’m sure your insight will be helpful in creating a correct picture of the late Mr. Royal’s achievements. It’s a big responsibility to generate an obituary on a stranger, and an out-of-towner to boot.”

“Lorna said you wanted some information, but could we order drinks and appetizers first?” He regarded her with an understanding tolerance, well aware that his practiced charm made her nervous.

“Certainly. Everything, of course, will be on my PR tab, so order as lavishly as you wish.” That ought to reestablish control, Temple thought. Independent career woman picks up the check.

“I will.” Hunter’s smile broadened into an amused grin. “And the bill is mine; I insist. Experience before beauty.”

She saw little point in playing the liberated career woman in the face of Hunter’s determined role of gracious host. Temple smiled back and proceeded to order a martini, the crab pâté appetizers, scallops, a twice-baked potato with cheese and shrimp sauce, and a Caesar salad.

“That’s a little rich for my blood,” Hunter commented. “High cholesterol.”

“Mine’s one hundred sixty-eight. How’s yours?”

“Well enough. I’m curious; how can I help you with anything involving Chester Royal?”

Temple’s martini had arrived, brimming, a stemmed glass almost wider than it was tall. She managed to lift it without spilling and sipped the level down.

“I’ve heard fascinating things about you, Mr. Hunter, your medical savoir faire included. Surely you, more than anyone, would know how Mr. Royal made such a success of the medical thriller books he packaged.”

“The public fixates on physicians, Miss Barr. May I call you Temple? Doctors are perceived as benign, all-powerful beings who reveal little of themselves while probing into their patients’ most intimate matters.”

Hunter paused, while Temple considered that the foregoing wasn’t a bad description of the Hunter modus operandi either.

“We all fall into their hands sooner or later,” he went on, spreading his. “The medical establishment is a perfect environment for exploring our most irrational fears of death—and sometimes of life.”

“Don’t some people hate their doctors?”

“Only if they’ve been mistreated—misdiagnosed or overmedicated or ignored when a genuine problem was present. Otherwise, they’re ready to canonize them.”

“And you? Do you admire doctors also? Is that why you tried to ally yourself with them?”

“No doubt the ever-efficient Lorna has mentioned my medical ‘record.’ ” He paused again, as if to consider a revelation. He spoke more quickly, without the ever-present smile. “My... mother became seriously ill when I was only in my teens. I matriculated in medicine because of it. I became fascinated by the milieu. My pretending to be a doctor was simply a youthful enthusiasm—and proved to be the perfect education for my current career.”

“Why were you compelled to masquerade as a doctor? Why do others do it?”

“I can’t speak for others, Temple.” Analysis rumpled Hunter’s smooth face. “And I don’t characterize my exploits as ‘compelled.’ It was a... hobby of mine. I functioned quite well as a doctor, as well as my peers did. What tripped me up was the constant record-keeping this society is addicted to, not any mistake on my part.”

“What specialties did you practice? Family physician? Pediatrician?”

“No, no! Nothing so pedestrian. Once I was an oncologist. I was a surgeon another time.”

“But people’s lives were at stake! And you knew you were a fraud.”

“I knew I had no medical degree. And how many real M.D.s are frauds? Medicine wouldn’t be any fun if people’s lives weren’t at stake. We wouldn’t worship Dr. Welby and Dr. Christian and Drs. Kildare and Casey without something vital in the balance—our lives.”

“You wouldn’t have enjoyed the masquerade if that same vital something wasn’t at question?”

Hunter’s dove-gray eyes narrowed. “You make me sound quite bloodthirsty, Temple. I was younger then.” His glance softened as his tone sharpened. “Young men like risk. They race cars, they chase other men’s wives, they practice medicine without a license. It is much the same thing. We all thrive on excitement.”

Temple couldn’t miss the throbbing challenge in his voice. This man intended to devour life. To him, living dangerously included pursuing his spur-of-the-moment attractions. And she could be the current one.