Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

17

Missing Purrsons

Eightball O’Rourke was waiting for Temple and Emily Adcock next to the equestrian statue of Julius Caesar that stood, appropriately, kitty-corner from Caesars Palace.

At a distance, the famous hotel and casino glittered frosting-white in the hot sunlight. An endless driveway from the Strip bracketed fountains that led to a reproduction of the headless Winged Victory statue. A semicircular facade of columns fronted the hotel proper and framed a line of oversize marble goddesses, replicas of world-renowned statues. Cars swept up the curved approach—Mercedes, Cadillacs and costly custom jobs wearing more chrome than paint.

The scene at the foot of Caesar’s statue was more humble. Emily had brought the money, neatly wrapped in brown paper. Temple was impressed by the solid brick formed by $5,000 in small bills.

She didn’t try to pay O’Rourke by check, but handed him three fifty-dollar bills.

“This is our money, Mr. O’Rourke,” Emily said after the terse introductions. “Mostly mine. I’ve got to get those two cats back. What are our chances?”

He stuck the parcel in the crown of the Western hat he carried. “Not good. Odds are never good on kidnapping. Too easy to lose the object of the game once they’ve got the cash. Kidnapper don’t care, and if the victims is cats, well—some folks don’t care for cats. Usually crooks. Hell, crooks don’t care for their kinfolk or womenfolk. Why should they care for cats?”

“There’s no guarantee, then?”

“Nope. But I’ll do my best to make the drop so it looks like this here young lady done it.”

“Me?” Temple said. “If I’ve got to be involved, why pay you?”

O’Rourke flipped up the rear skirt of his shapeless polyester-knit sport coat to reveal the gun butt in the back of his jeans. “I’m muscle.”

“You’re muscle!” Temple snorted impolitely. “Even I can see your bald spot when I’m wearing my Charles Jourdans.”

Eightball O’Rourke most likely had no idea that Charles Jourdan French pumps were not only expensive, but arch-breakingly high-heeled. However, he immediately absorbed the gist of her words.

“I’ll do my best to tail the wrong-doer, ladies. More than that you cain’t ask in a kidnapping. If those cats are safe, the napper’s the only one who can lead us to ’em. Now, you with the stilt shoes, wander along the road there behind me and make a big deal of stopping to fix your heel when you reach the third statue of whazzits from the entrance. If you got the ransom note, they expect you to show some interest in this-here drop.”

“It’s Venus,” Temple said. “The statue. Then what?”

“Then amble off. Speaking of statues, you know what happened to Lot’s wife.”

“Salt?”

O’Rourke nodded soberly. “Enough for a whole box of soda crackers. Don’t look back.”

Temple had not expected to play a part in this drama, if only a walk-on. Even at ten on Monday morning, tourists were trickling out the doors and hoofing up the long expanse of curved front walk, just as Temple was doing behind Eightball O’Rourke.

While Temple watched, Eightball suddenly paused, whipped an automatic—camera, that is—from his coat pocket, planted a booted foot on the raised concrete rim and shot the facade of Caesars. He doffed his hat, swept his sleeve over his brow and bent as if to adjust his boot. Though Temple didn’t see it, this had to be the moment when he placed a plain brown paper parcel (chock-full of some very fancy green paper) at the feet of the proper goddess.

Eightball strolled on. By the time Temple reached Venus, her watch said three minutes to ten, the assigned hour of delivery. She peeked over the whitewashed rim. A brown parcel lay at the goddess’s bare feet, which matched most of the rest of her.

Temple sat on the rim and fiddled with her shoes. She twisted to regard the larger-than-life-size looming goddess, which for some reason reminded her of Lieutenant C. R. Molina, and trailed a hand over the edge until she touched the package. Then she rose, shook her apparently pained foot and gamely limped into Caesars Palace.

Then it was through the crowded lounge area, along the marble-paved Appian Way mall of exclusive shops, out a side door, then around to the back and a rendezvous with Emily at the statued Caesar’s feet.

“Well?” Temple was, justifiably, breathless.

“I don’t know.” Emily said. “I watched, but... Several people came along after you stopped. Couples, a street person in a wheelchair, a really pitiful man—Lord, he can have the money if he found it; um, some kids.”

“Did you see O’Rourke again?”

“No.”

“That’s either very good or very bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Either he’s an expert tail and even we couldn’t detect him, or he took our fee, made the drop and went home to twiddle his thumbs.”

“I had to try, Temple. Surely if they’ve got the money they’ll release the cats. Maybe Baker and Taylor will suddenly show up at the ABA in time for the last day.”

“Maybe,” Temple said. “Does it really end tomorrow? I can hardly wait.” She bent to fuss with her left shoe. Somewhere on her circuitous route, she’d picked up a genuine grain of sand.

The Pennyroyal Press press kit came in a copper-colored folder with the imprint’s logo embossed dead center, a coin depicting— not the familiar profile of Lincoln—but a crowned king in profile. The word “Pennyroyal” curved above the coin; the word “Press” smiled modestly below it.

Temple sat at her desk skimming the accumulated paper trail on the personalities in the case. Most of the ABA’s hubbub had peaked. In twenty-four hours, the five-day mania would end for another year with a whimper. To every thing there is a season.

This was Monday; already some booksellers were leaving. Tuesday afternoon the exhibitors would decamp. On Wednesday the center setup crew would tear down and put up; by Thursday a new crew of conventioneers would throng the vast complex.

And Lieutenant Molina would have an unsolved murder on her books to make this an ABA to remember.

Temple frowned at the photographs of Pennyroyal’s reigning authors. Mavis Davis made an unlikely candidate for cold-blooded murderer, and neither Lanyard Hunter nor Owen Tharp had a motive, to hear them tell it. At this point Temple wasn’t inclined to credit anyone’s declaration of disinterest.

Look at Lorna Fennick, who’d never mentioned her time as an assistant to Chester Royal. Apparently the experience had been enough to discourage Lorna from becoming an editor and she’d fled to the safer—more ethical?—field of public relations. Then there was the choice of weapon—a knitting needle. The more Temple considered it, the likelier it was a woman’s weapon.

Mavis Davis, Lorna Fennick, Chester’s editor ex-wife Rowena Novak—all made excellent candidates for the author of the ‘stet’ scrawled across the dead man’s chest.

Stet. It meant “let it stand.” In this case, it meant let him end as he began, as nothing. A bitter epitaph even for a murder victim, as if a man’s life were only so much editorial dead matter. Or did Royal’s death restore something in the murderer’s mind? Self-esteem? Justice? Who would be bitter in that way but a wronged wordsmith? Possibly a writer, possibly another editor who’d been overruled. Or a would-be editor who’d been abused.

Almost anyone could have done it. It didn’t require great strength or cunning, just surprise. Anyone could smuggle a knitting needle into the ABA, though a woman would have a better pretext. If Chester Royal had secretly remained behind after the center closed on setup day, someone else could have, claiming an after-hours meeting, say. Getting out later would be much easier than leaving and trying to get in again. Maybe Royal himself had requested the meeting with the killer.

Temple eyed her desk phone, an innocuous beige business model. She ought to look further into Royal’s malpractice conviction, but the only one with clout enough to do that was C. R. Molina. She’d rather give a hot tip to Hitler’s grandmother. Still....

While she was talking to the lieutenant, she could mention the string of cat disappearances—B and T and now Louie. Might as well multiply culpability times humility and beg help across the board. None of this was Temple’s business, anyway, except for Louie.

That’s what she told herself as she looked up the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police number and dialed. It took ages to get through to Molina. Temple couldn’t decide whether she was lucky or unlucky to find the lieutenant in.

“Yes.” It was said so abruptly that Temple almost hung up. Instead she gave her name.

“Yes.” The lieutenant didn’t sound even vaguely interested.

That made Temple mad enough to ... talk.

“I don’t know how the Chester Royal investigation is going—” Pause. Perhaps Molina would tell her. Naw. “But I’ve discovered something in his background that you may not know about.” Pause. Molina was not forthcoming with the encouraging little murmurs that make a phone conversation a two-way street. “Royal was a doctor. Until he was forced to stop practicing medicine because of a malpractice conviction.”

“Where? When?”

“Why do you think I’m calling you? You must have access to stuff like this on some computer. Had to have been in the early to mid-fifties, because he couldn’t have finished medical school until about 1950, and according to the press release he started dabbling in publishing in 1957. He was an ob/gyn. I bet the case made the papers, wherever it was.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“Great! Could you let me know what you find out?”

A dial tone; Molina had hung up. No chance to mention the missing cats.

“You’re welcome!” Temple cradled the phone with an emphasis that could not be termed polite.

“Whew! Who pushed your buttons?”

Lorna Fennick stood in the doorway, with raised eyebrows.

“A public official. I’m sorry you saw me being petty and unprofessional, but the line was dead.”

“Don’t apologize. I feel like flinging some office equipment today, too.” Lorna came over to perch on the desk edge, pushing her lank hair behind one ear.

“Oh?” Temple prepared to be sympathetic.

“The first fallout from Royal’s death. Mavis Davis is abandoning Pennyroyal.”

“Mavis Davis? She’s the last one I’d suspect.”

Lorna nodded morosely. “The Reynolds-Chapter-Deuce biggies are hugely upset. When the big fish thrash, we minnows are in for a bumpy swim. Apparently, it’s a done deal. Mavis is going with Lodestar-Comet-Orion-Styx.”

“Can she do that? Aren’t there option clauses?”

“Sure, but option clauses are easy to wriggle out of if you can get big enough money from another house or you do a different kind of book.”

“What about her wimpy agent?”

Lorna studied Temple with surprise. “How’d you know about that?”

“Isn’t that one of the things that cured you of editing? Watching Chester Royal steer his unknowing authors to an agent who was in his pocket?”

Lorna sat up straighter. “You know that, too? Yeah, he did that, and I left. I never told anyone why. How’d you know?”

Temple shrugged. “I’m around. I hear things. I listen. It’s part of my job.”

“Please don’t breathe a word of the Davis defection. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I’m so depressed. This has been a hell of an ABA for RCD. Hell on public relations personnel, too. I had to tell someone.”

“I know what you mean. I haven’t had the world’s best day, either.”

“What happened?”

“My cat’s missing, for one thing.”

“You mean that big black tom from the feature story?”

“Yeah. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Sorry. But, hey, he was a stray. He probably just ran away. Cats’ll do that.”

“I know,” Temple said with feeling, mentally adding Baker and Taylor to that toll. “But I have a hang-up about critters that skip out on me.”

Lorna nodded. “So does RCD. God, it’s been frantic. Now Avenour wants me to set up a small memorial service for Chester. I just hope the local police let the staff leave town on schedule.”

“There’s been no progress on the murder investigation?”

“Nothing visible. Maybe it’s the lull before the lasagna hits the plate glass.”

“That’s what you call it in New York, huh?”

“That’s what I call it anywhere—damn messy. Got any ideas where I can stage a respectful service in a hurry?” Temple ransacked her tote bag and pulled out one of Electra’s cards—an embossed blue ribbon tortured into a rococo knot on a pink pearlized background. “Try her; she can switch from white to black in a flash.”

“Okaaay. You’ve got an answer to everything. At least the worst of your work with this circus is done. Hope you find your kitty.”

“Thanks.”

Temple remained desk-bound after Lorna left, her face propped on her hands, the Pennyroyal Press folder swimming before her vision in a hot metallic haze.

Chester Royal had been the perfect murder candidate. He had hubris and a lifelong history of maltreating people’s hearts and minds as well as their bodies. That was the trouble. He was too perfectly odious. Anyone could have done it. Heck, the man had managed to rile Temple in the two minutes their paths had crossed at the ABA. If she had been the sort to get mad and get even, she might have grabbed the nearest knitting needle and purled his chest cavity, too....

But only one candidate for killer had made a major lifestyle change for the better since Chester’s universally unmourned demise. Temple snagged her glasses and tote bag and headed back out to the acres of exhibition.