Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

That got Buchanan out of her chair, but he never stayed angry. He smiled smarmily and rapped his fingers along the top of the cat carrier. “All I can say is, you better uncover those cats and cool this murder, or the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority, not to mention the ABA, will not be pleased with you. Ta-ta.”

Temple watched his grizzled mop of curls saunter out of the office, just visible over assorted cubicle tops.

"Shark!” she spit after him under her breath. Then she regarded the almost-forgotten carrier. “Are you okay, kitty? Did the mean little man hurt you? I thought not. Come on, let’s hit the road. I’m tired of this place.”

4

New Boy in Town

The catcarrier banged Temple’s ankle in four-four time as she plodded through the late afternoon sunlight softening the Circle Ritz’s asphalt parking lot to the consistency of a half-baked Toll-House cookie.

Her high heels sank in and stuck at each step, making her feel like a prospector trudging through a desert of hot fudge. She set down the carrier, unlatched the stockade gate, moved the carrier inside, and relatched the gate.

Temple paused to soak up the indigo shade of an overarching palm tree and eye the cool blue apartment pool flanked by yellow calla lilies. Her favorite lounge chair sat empty near the water, just waiting to cradle her weary physique and frazzled psyche in the shade of a spreading oleander bush.... Home, sweet home.

Temple had nearly reached the lounge chair before she spotted the stranger six seats over.

“Oh.”

He looked up from a Las Vegas guidebook. Born-blond hair, caramel-brown eyes, light tan, bright green short-sleeved shirt, muscles subtle enough to be interesting, and a quizzical look—mostly at the cat carrier. “Help you with that?”

“Nope.” Temple resented any deference to her petite size. She deposited the carrier on the flagstones and sat primly on the edge of the lounge instead of collapsing full-length as usual. “I wonder if I dare let the poor thing out.”

“What kind of poor thing is it?”

“I’m not sure. Black. Feline. Heavy. Has a fearsome yowl.”

“A stray?”

“More like an unauthorized intruder. God, what a day!” Even a handsome stranger could not forestall Temple’s long-anticipated collapse. She groaned, then wriggled way, way back on the lounger, putting her feet up.

The man came over, encasing her briefly in cool shadow before he crouched beside the carrier. “Take a look at it?”

“But don’t lose it. The contents are a material witness in a murder.”

“You’re kidding!”

Temple shook her head. She debated removing her sunglasses to study her new acquaintance in full living color, but restrained herself.

“You weren’t kidding.” The man hauled a long black boa of fur from the cramped carrier. “He must weigh close to twenty pounds.”

“He?”

“Definitely.”

“You a vet?”

“I spent a few weekends on the grandparents’ farm,” He cautiously released the cat to extend a tan hand, accompanying it with a smile that would blind a mole. “Matt Devine. I’m staying here now—I guess. Mrs. Lark was cordial but a little vague.”

“Only a little? You must have made a real impression on her. Hi, Temple Barr. I’ve lived at the Circle Ritz for almost a year. You’ll love it, but you’ll have to like ‘a little vague’ a lot. Say, he is a big galoot, isn’t he?”

Temple sat up to inspect the cat, who sniffed long and intently at the heel of her shoe, the aluminum tubing of the lounge chair and Matt Devine’s hand.

“Did you mean that,” Matt asked, “about him witnessing a murder?”

Temple sighed. “I was exaggerating, a mortal sin for a public relations specialist.”

Matt flinched a bit at her words. Maybe he had something against PR people, Temple thought. A lot of ordinarily nice folks did. PR people as a group were often stereotyped as devious, shallow and phony.

“Actually,” she admitted, “Boston Blackie here should get a medal. If he hadn’t been AWOL at the convention center, I wouldn’t have found the body when I did, chasing him.”

“That must be rough, finding a body.” Matt had moved to chaperon the cat’s explorations of the landscaping.

“It’s not in my job description, for sure. Now I’m supposed to downplay the murder before it ruins the whole convention. Darn! This is my first assignment for the convention center. Booksellers sounded so stuffy; who’d have guessed? I need a drink.”

“Sorry.” Matt displayed empty hands and ranged toward the calla lilies, where a black tail was vanishing. “Try Mrs. Lark.”

“Didn’t she tell you to call her Electra?”

“Yes, but—” Matt bent into the chest-high leaves. “I bet she doesn’t want this guy taking a dip in her lily pond, whatever she’s called.”

“God, no! Back in the hoosegow for him. I gotta get to my apartment and find out if I’ve got any tuna fish; he can have the run of my place then.”

An ungentlemanly yowl from the lilies indicated the cat’s capture.

“What does Mrs. Lark—Electra—think about pets on the premises?” Matt Devine wondered.