Carole Douglas - Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“Oh, yes, definitely."

“A good lesson. Don't do this again."

“Oh, no. Not at all."

“What?"

“You're out of your league because you're not playing to the lowest common denominator. That's just what talk TV needs, so I think you should do as much of it as they ask you to.”

Matt did not look encouraged.

Chapter 5

Help Me

(Larry Gatlin wrote this for Elvis in 1973; his recording peaked at

6 on the country chart in 1974)

The knock on Temple's door that evening caught her trying to do something that seldom turned out well: cook.

She turned the heat down to simmer under a frying pan choked with softening vegetables and tough shrimp. If time could heal all wounds maybe it could mend a stir-fry that was too fried to stir.

She wondered what Matt might have to tell her now. His life had become a whirligig of news updates, spinning to the tune of a media frenzy.

She opened the door, stunned to find a strange woman waiting on the other side.

Temple stood there, spatula lifted as high as a homely wand, one curl of overcooked onion clinging like a comma to its nonstick surface.

“I'm sorry to bother you." The woman shuffled hershoes, reminding Temple of a door-to-door solicitor who had suddenly developed cold feet. "You're making dinner."

“That's debatable," Temple said wryly, The woman's voice sounded familiar. Even the face seemed familiar.

Or maybeTemple had just seen too many women like this when she had been a TV news reporter. The expressionless faces of women who were victims of whatever car-jacking/rape-drug/lost child/domestic violence case caught the public's attention for the blink of a battered eye.

“It's ... I'm Merle."

“Merle!" That rang a bell, even if Merle herself had eschewed using Temple's doorbell. The telephone callsTemple kept missing. Merle Who? Merle What. Above all, Merle Why.

“Sorry." The woman was turning to retrace her steps down the short neck of hallway that led to the circular building's curving central area.

“Wait!" Temple edged into the hall. "I remember now. You wanted to talk to me. So come on in. Talk. Share the spatter."

“Spatter?"

“I'm trying to stir-fry.”

Merle's noncommittal face twitched a little. It might have been an infant smile. "Smells more like smoked barbeque."

“Omigosh! That darn controller knob. I can never tell which way is hotter or cooler.”

Temple rushed back into the kitchen, where smoke was now billowing righteously to the ceiling. She swatted at it with the slotted spatula, managing only to flip the slimy onion slice onto her cheek.

“Here." Merle marched in, snatched a length of paper towels to use as a makeshift hot pad and transferred the smoking fry pan to an unheated burner. "Do you do this often?" she asked.

“Burn or cook? Obviously not, either one." Templewatched closely as Merle turned the control a tiny bit to the right.

“You just went past 'Low' to the highest setting," Merle said.

Temple peered at the still-sizzling contents of the pan. "The black charring kind of underlines the faded color of the vegetables. Maybe char-stir-fried is an innovation."

“Whew. Have you got a venting fan in this place?" "This building is a little old.”

Merle leaned over the smoky stove top to press a switch on the charming little copper canopy overhead. With a whirring roar, smoke was suctioned up into it like magic.

“I never knew that was there," Temple admitted.

Merle, speechless again, stood under the glaringly unkind kitchen light, uneasily dusting her palms together as if the crisis, being over, had left her with a case of the willies.

The last few moments had given Temple a chance to sum up her visitor. Besides lank dishwater-brown hair, Merle had nearly invisible eyebrows, wore lipstick in an unflattering shade of coral, and her oversized beige sweater had the same pulled-out-of-shape droop as her shoulders and her spirit.

“Come on," Temple said, "sit down in the living room and enjoy the haze."

“You don't remember who I am," Merle noted as she padded after Temple like a lost puppy.

“Gee. No. I'm sorry."

“We only met for a moment, and I wasn't the main event."

“What was the main event?"

“Not what. Who."

“Well?"

“Crawford.”

Temple's face must have betrayed her estimation of the hearer of that name. because Merle hastened on, tripping over her own words like a nervous teenager.

“It was at the hospital. When he was in for that hear trouble. And you took over handling some event for him I don't remember what."

“You're his . .." Oops, Temple didn't have a quick descriptive phrase at her fingertips. She should never have started such a clumsy sentence.

“Girlfriend, I guess you'd call it. Insignificant other.' Merle's laugh tried for self-deprecating and—like Temple's stir-fry dish—fell far short of expectations.

“I was going to say, Quincey's mother!" Templecoasted on a saving burst of memory, trying to lend the woman a more glorious role than unsanctioned consort to Temple's least-favorite male in the entire world. Accentuate the positive. "How's Quincey doing?”

Merle's crumpled doily of a face collapsed into shattered silk.

“Sit down," Temple insisted, finally hitting her stride, Solving face-shattering problems was a PR woman's specialty, even if stir-fry was not. "I'll whip up what I'm really good at, instant anything, and you can tell me all about it."

“This is really good tea," Merle said enthusiastically about eight minutes later.

“It ought to be. The hot water's the only thing I contributed to it"

“The, ah, lime slices are an original touch.”

Temple decided it was better to accept undeserved praise than to give it. "Thank you.”

Now that Merle Conrad had shed her shapeless cardigan sweater and had settled into the sofa, she looked more relaxed and less harassed. Maybe it was the comforting pillow of Midnight Louie that had curled up next to her, gazing up at her pale face as if he were all ears.

“What a pretty cat," Merle said, patting his head.

“Pretty cat" did not exactly describe twenty pounds of muscular, vasectomized tomcat, but Temple was just glad Louie was on his best behavior. He apparently got along best with the female of the species, any species.

Having given Louie his due, Merle turned sad hazel eyes back to Temple. "Crawford keeps saying that you should come to work with him at the Scoop."

“ I left journalism a long time ago," Temple said, politely refraining from mentioning that the Las Vegas Scoop was to journalism what lumps of coal are to diamonds.

“It's just a joke. Then, he says, you could have a column called 'Scoop Snoop Sister.' “

Temple was not amused. "Merle, is this about a .. . criminal matter?”

Merle put her mug atop the morning paper on the coffee table.

“It's about a worrywart mother, I suppose. But Craw-ford's dragged Quincey into another one of his crazy schemes, and I'm worried about her.”

Temple had been worried about Quincey too. The sixteen-year-old had a diffident mother who was under the thumb of a pseudo-stepfather she loathed. Naturally, she retaliated by acting like Biker Chick.

“I got to know her a little," Temple said, "when we were working in the pageant together last fall.”

Merle nodded, frowning. "As 'pose-down models.' That doesn't sound too savory, but I supposed if an adult woman like yourself was doing it—"

“You didn't see the pageant?"

“No. Quincey said it wasn't much of anything." Temple nodded, more to indicate information absorbed than agreement.

The romance cover-hunk contest had been something, all right, even without murder on the menu, which there had been. The pose-downs involved steamy simulated embraces with ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredth percent impurely unclad male cover models. Templehad wondered why any mother would let her teenagedaughter participate. As for herself, well, she had been undercover at the time.