Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

T emple sat ona chair in the convention center offices while the same guard who had insulted her ancestry for several generations and in several anatomically inventive ways offered Temple a Styrofoam cup brimming with nice cold water. And ice even.

“I wondered where the guards were hiding,” she croaked after a sip of glorious coolness. Her larynx sounded as if it had been operated on by a hacksaw.

Temple swung her bare feet; they never quite touched the floor no matter the chair. She stopped swinging them when C. R. Molina came in with a uniformed officer.

Sweet jumping Charles Jourdans, that had been Molina Temple had glimpsed during the chaos when the police had arrived (along with the fire department) only minutes after the guard had found her!

She’d taken it for a post-throttling mirage, the Black Dahlia of Death or something come to carry her home, but no, here was Molina in the flesh, poured into an ebony crepe street-length number with a sweetheart neckline and copper sequins festooning opposite hip and shoulder like tarnished orchids. A vintage cocktail dress? C. R. Molina? Lieutenant Molina? On a date? The mind boggled, even if the throat was still sufficiently froggled to force her to keep mum momentarily. Temple sighed, punchy and knowing it.

“So you’re the fire. I should have known.” The lieutenant sounded as crisply disapproving as ever.

“How... how’d you get here? So fast, I mean?” Temple knew how George Burns must feel talking after about fifteen stogies. She tried to glimpse Molina’s shoes but couldn’t crane her neck without wincing.

“You oughta know,” Molina said. “You rang. I was off duty.”

“I... see.”

“Apparently you set off the fire alarm.”

Temple nodded.

“Apparently someone attacked you.”

Temple nodded.

“You’ll have to talk.”

“But how did you—?”

“It’s not important, but when the alarm came in the fire department notified key convention center staff. Bud Dubbs immediately reported seeing you entering the building late. The police dispatcher rounded me up since this smelled of more dirty deeds at the center.”

“All that hullabaloo outside was just to rescue me?” Temple was flattered.

Not even the guard had been able to restrain her from peeking out front where five squad cars had squalled up under the overhead racket of a police helicopter. That had been only minutes before. Even as they spoke, the convention center and environs were getting a good going-over.

“I’m amazed myself,” Molina admitted with a wry glance from under one dusky eyebrow that still could use plucking. “Apparently you really did need rescuing.”

“Apparently?” Indignation lifted Temple’s raw voice into an almost inaudible soprano.

Molina eyed the adjacent desktops and finally hoisted an empty manila envelope. And something else.

“Hey,” Temple protested. “Those are my best summer Stuart Weitzmans!”

“Evidence,” Molina pronounced with visible pleasure. She studied the dainty shoes as a German Shepherd fancier might regard a Yorkshire Terrier, with amazed disdain. “We need to do lab work on the blood and hair on the heel. You’ll get ’em back. Sometime.” She jammed the shoes into the envelope.

“You don’t need both of them.”

“What are you going to do with one high-heeled shoe?”

“Well, don’t scuff ’em.”

“Now”—Molina sat on the desk beside Temple—“it’s time we had a serious interrogation here.”

Temple summoned her huskiest Kathleen Turner voice. “Not a word. Not a syllable. Not until I get to the pound and see if Midnight Louie’s there and all right.”

“The cat?”

“I think he’s at the pound, but it’s closed for the night. The attendant is leaving at seven, and they might accidentally kill him. It’s happened! I won’t cooperate otherwise.”

“We can take you into protective custody and take you downtown.”

“Why? You won’t get a word that way, either. The pound.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’s my cat—kind of. Besides, he’s a material witness.”

“You’re more material. You can talk. And you don’t even know the damn cat’s there.”

“I don’t know he isn’t—and until I do I don’t tell you so much as my Social Security number.”

Molina’s eyes narrowed to cobalt slits. “You won’t have any social security if you give the police a hard time.”

“What hard time? I’ll tell you everything I know on the way there.”

“I’d rather get it downtown, where it can be recorded.”

Temple smiled. “Then we’d better hurry to the pound before my short-term memory starts fading out from stress.”

The guard and the cop, both wearing billed caps with shiny reassuring badges on them, regarded Molina expectantly. Temple, sure of victory, took the opportunity to check out Molina’s shoes—black suede pumps that didn’t disgrace the vintage dress, with two-and-a-half-inch heels! The nerve of some tall women!

Molina stood, looming even higher above Temple. Despite her civilized appearance, she spoke in her usual professional monotone—flat as a stiff’s EKG. “This case has been an operetta since you and that damn cat did a pas de deux with the body on the convention floor. Might as well end it with a wild-goose chase.”

Temple rose, barefoot. That made Molina tower like a redwood. She consulted her watch—only 6:53, could you believe it?—and slit her eyes to match Molina’s steely blue stare.

“I want to get there by seven, Lieutenant.”

“Rawson,” Molina instructed the uniformed officer with weary resignation. “We’ll use the siren.”

22

Temple on Ice

T emple sat alonein a tiny room equipped only with table and chairs. The sole door had a window in the upper half, smudged as if a lot of noses had been pressed against it. Chicken wire reinforced the glass on a diagonal pattern, looking like fishnet hose.

The dreariness of her surroundings matched her mood. A noisy and speedy arrival at the city pound had found the cupboard bare of Midnight Louie. The surly attendant swore a big black cat had been there, but the indicated cage was empty. Temple believed in her heart of hearts that Louie had been prematurely put to sleep, even though the attendant swore no “terminations” had occurred that night. Whatever the reason, Louie wasn’t there.

Temple and Molina had both looked like prize fools, something Temple felt far too depressed to worry about. Surely Molina wasn’t.

As the detective entered the room, her impressive brows collided in a frown, reminding Temple that publicly embarrassing a police lieutenant was not a good way to preface an interrogation.

Molina had vanished without a word after their arrival at the police station. Now she again wore her khaki poplin slacks and blazer. The warm interrogation room quickly encouraged her to doff the jacket, revealing a short-sleeved red polyester blouse with a V-neck, in the style called a camp shirt.

“Do I need a lawyer or something?” Temple asked nervously.

“You’re not being charged with anything,” Molina said. “There’s no statute against stupidity.”

“Are public servants supposed to resort to name-calling?”

“So sue me.”

Molina sat across the scar-topped Formica table from Temple, who felt reduced to an unhappy twelve-year-old called in for a lecture by the big-girl camp counselor. She swung a nervous foot.