Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

“Earnest Jaspar—with two e’s and three a’s. But I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him all ABA.”

Temple smiled. “Right now I’d say that’s a lucky thing for Mr. Jaspar.”

“Yes, it is. I’m not a violent woman, Miss Barr,” Mavis said mildly, “but I do think I’d be tempted to, to—trip Mr. Jaspar if I saw him now.”

“Heaven forbid.”

Mavis looked down at the orange drink can as if she were reading her fortune in its gaudy contours. “You know, I’m beginning to realize that Mr. Royal had some old-fashioned ideas. Styx—that’s the house I’ll be writing for now—wants me to do a really Big Book. Not two days ago, I’d have said I couldn’t have done that without Mr. Royal. Now—”

“Now you think you couldn’t do it with him?” Temple prodded gently.

“Yes! He never wanted me to put the doctors in a bad light, but Styx says that people love to know that doctors have Achilles’ heels like the rest of us. And, frankly, Miss Barr, I’ve seen some stuck-up stinkers of doctors.” Mavis suddenly recognized her anger and retreated. “Mr. Royal was a bit naive, I’m afraid.”

“It’s possible,” Temple said with a straight face.

“Still, what if these new people don’t know how to edit my books? What if they don’t like what I do on my own, all by myself?”

“Didn’t you write your first book that way?”

“Yes.” Mavis sounded uncertain nevertheless.

“I’ll tell you what you do.” Temple leaned forward and donned her most emphatic expression. “You think about everything you ever saw or thought in those years as a nurse when nobody—doctors, patients, hospital administrators—thought you were looking and you write it all down to make the most exciting, true story you can. And you don’t worry a bit what Mr. Royal might think. He’s not here anymore.”

“You’re sure I can do that? Just write what I know and it’ll be all right?”

“Yes, I am, Mavis. Now you just sit here and finish your soft drink. I have to run along. Deadlines, you know.”

“Sure. Thank you, Miss Barr.”

Temple loved a source who thought you’d done her a favor by grilling her.

She waved goodbye and darted off, only to pause in the hall outside the conference room. Where—or how—would she find a low-profile loner like Earnest Jaspar in the waning hours of the ABA? He wouldn’t make a booth his base of operations, and apparently he handled only Royal’s authors.

She headed for the exhibit floor again. Had it only been three days ago she’d been tracking a rogue cat through the setting-up clutter? Pennyroyal Press’s booth looked as shiny and ferocious as it had Friday morning. The glittering, blown-up book covers resembled graphic teeth about to snap at the idle book browser. Those horrific covers made Temple nervous, brimming as they were with barely hidden hostility and ill will.

And who should be holding up a corner of the display other than Lanyard Hunter and Owen Tharp in rapt consultation? They made such an unlikely pair that Temple stopped to watch them with a smile.

Hunter, tall and angular, slouched into a suit that so replicated his thin frame it seemed to cover hangers rather than flesh and bone. Tharp, shorter and stouter, bristled as he talked, his compact body tense with unleashed energy, his gestures almost abrupt.

Why, Temple wondered, had Owen Tharp shaven off the mustache shown on his publicity photo? Was he vain and unwilling to ditch a younger photograph? Did he now think not having a mustache made him look younger? He had to be fifty at least. Or had losing the mustache been a ploy to make himself less recognizable at the ABA? If Molina hadn’t spotted him, Temple certainly wouldn’t have. He was ordinary-looking to begin with. He could have easily remained behind unnoticed on Thursday night and killed Chester Royal.

And Lanyard Hunter. He acted so resigned to Royal’s demeaning little ways, as if constant editorial ego-flaying were no skin off his back. Was he really so cool under that smooth, patrician manner of his?

It was Lanyard Hunter who spotted Temple. He straightened, a movement that alerted Tharp to her presence. Both men stopped talking and regarded her. Some women might have accepted this sudden pall in the conversation as due homage to their beauty and charm, but Temple was just irritated that her chances to eavesdrop had plummeted to zero.

“Still tidying up Chester’s messy PR blooper?” Hunter asked. “So crude, getting killed at an ABA.”

“It was tidily done, though,” Temple said. “The police still haven’t arrested anyone, and you’ll all be leaving soon.”

“Except Chester,” Tharp said roughly. “He was shipped off by Cadaver Express yesterday.”

“I can see why you write the books you do, Mr. Tharp. Lorna Fennick said you added a macabre twist to the list.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I suppose it’s in bad taste, but then so’s a lot of horror fiction, and I have the bad taste to write it. What I meant was, they flew Royal’s body out.”

“Where?” Temple wanted to know.

“Who’s the ghoul here now?” Hunter put in. There was a touch of pique in his voice. She guessed that her blithe rejection the other night had not sat well with his male ego.

“I just wondered who would claim Chester Royal, since his wives are long gone and glad of it. And there were no children.”

“He didn’t need children to abuse,” Tharp said bitterly. “He could make us writers do what we were told—most of the time—but we’re all out of the nest now, and he’s dead matter.”

“Are you staying with Pennyroyal?”

Both men flashed nervous looks around, but only weary ABA-goers slogged past, book-bloated and indifferent to gossip.

“Sure,” Tharp admitted. “Reynolds-Chapter-Deuce is a good house. The imprint might perk up with some new blood running it.” He grinned at his gruesome cliché.

Hunter smiled faintly. “Owen, you’re a consummate actor, always entering into the spirit of a new part. Now you’re the cheeky, press-on employee, eager to support the house in the face of catastrophe. I’ll stay if it suits my mood or my wallet.” Hunter eyed Temple. “Tharp here was just trying to persuade me to let him ghostwrite a series for me. He thinks my production level could stand beefing up, even if he has to do it personally.”

“Will you do it?” she asked.

“If it pays, why not?”

Temple turned to Tharp. “You might be in line for a promotion under your own name, anyway—or I should say your own pseudonym.”

“What do you mean?”

“With Mavis Davis over at Lodestar-Comet-Orion-Styx, doesn’t a lead spot open up?”

Both men looked shocked. Hunter’s hands came out of his pockets white-knuckled. Tharp’s very stillness broadcast his disturbance.

“So Mavis has flown the coop,” Hunter finally said. “With the big bucks,” Tharp added. “We may be on a sinking ship, pal.”

“Or,” Temple interjected cheerily, “dueling for the position of captain—of the Titanic.”

With that she veered into the dispirited passersby and wove her way to the exhibit entrance and the Rotunda where awaited, like an apple dangling from the Tree of All Knowledge, the registration center.

A lone woman now commanded the long counter that only days before had thronged with eager ABA-goers demanding immediate attention and name badges. Now the attendant watched the occasional passerby through bored eyes adorned with lurid aqua contact lenses that perfectly matched the paint on Temple’s Storm. Little did the woman know that she had one shiny red apple to hand over.

Temple approached her briskly.

“Hi. I’m with ABA publicity. I need to contact a member of the convention at his hotel. Can you look that up?” First the woman looked down at Temple’s badge, to make sure it bore a stripe in the proper color. Staff was red this year, red like a Roman Beauty apple.