Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

Of course I will make every effort to solve the foul deed so that my little doll’s job is no longer in jeopardy. I am relieved that she has tumbled so quickly to my unique value, even if it took a dream to do it. I return posthaste to my beauty sleep.

I know I will need my rest because I have a feeling (I am also a tad psychic, did I mention this?) that we are going to have a big day tomorrow.

6

Authors on Parade

The afternoonedition of the Saturday Las Vegas Review-Journal lay scattered on Temple’s desk, its second front— the first page of section two—faceup.

Also faceup was a photograph of the black alley cat, checked deerstalker cap tilted over one ear; magnifying glass cradled between his midnight paws.

The headline on the boxed feature read:

CONVENTION CENTER’S CRIME-FINDING CAT KEEPS MUM ON HIS OWN MYSTERIOUS PAST

An above-head kicker announced, A bookish sort, in 18-point italic type.

The local PR office staff had crowded around the first issues of the newspaper when they arrived just past noon—Bud Dubbs, Temple, the secretaries, everyone but Crawford Buchanan. Even the cat was present, although contained in the cat carrier and, in deference to the headline writer’s veracity, keeping mum.

“Fast work.” Dubbs, in shirtsleeves, stood cradling his elbows. He regarded the feature story with bemused fondness. “Don’t know how you managed it, Temple. This human—or inhuman—interest angle virtually wipes out the shock of the murder.”

“I know,” Temple purred. She had an earthy, flexible voice that reflected the emotions of the moment. “Smug” would not have been too strong a word to describe her present mood. “Betsy Cohen’s their top feature writer,” Temple added. “I just hoped she dug cats. But don’t forget our feline star. He was an angel; didn’t even try to eat the deerstalker. It does work, doesn’t it? Now the murder is a footnote to the cat story, and I love the way Betsy portrays this furry fellow as an undercover literary type lapping up ambiance at the ABA.”

“We couldn’t have bought better coverage,” Dubbs agreed, “for an unfortunate, er, accident. Any way you could use this big guy to put out an all-points on the missing Scotties? You know, without letting on that they’re actually gone?”

“I’m a publicist, Bud, not a miracle worker. Baker and Taylor may not be eager to announce the disappearance; might cause more problems than solve them. And the missing felines are not ‘Scotties,’ they’re Scottish fold cats. That means their ears come pretucked.”

“Whatever.” Dubbs broadcast his usual air of vague demand. “Round up those cats and I’ll forget about you dredging up dead bodies just before the ABA’s opening day.”

“Body. Singular.”

“Keep it that way,” Dubbs said gruffly.

The staff had melted away during the discussion, leaving Temple and the cat to absorb Dubbs’s directions. The man turned away, then paused. “Better stash that cat somewhere,” he said. “Lieutenant Molina is picking you up in a few minutes.”

“Picking me up? It sounds like an arrest—or a date. Why?”

Dubbs shook his head, one of his more commanding gestures. “She asked for you. Wants a guide to who’s who on the convention floor.”

“Rats! Even I don’t know that yet.”

“Just help her out. And try to keep it discreet.”

Temple sat at her desk to stare soulfully into the baby greens regarding her through the carrier portcullis. “The lieutenant is coming to take me away,” she intoned. “Sorry, pal; I’ll have to put you in the storeroom again; it’s the only place big enough for a roaster pan. Salmon tonight, I promise.”

Temple was shoving Louie into the storeroom when she heard the heavy footfalls of the law. She rushed back to find the police lieutenant looming over her desk.

“Cute.” Molina’s deliberate deadpan tone held no complimentary grace notes. She was staring at the second front feature. “Makes it sound like the force needs a feline division to find its own left foot, much less a dead body. Your creative PR, I assume.”

“It beats ‘Dead Editor at Convention Center.’ ”

“Fiction always looks better than truth. That’s why so many people turn to crime.”

“Hey, don’t look at me, Lieutenant. I thought you wanted a guide to the ABA, not a suspect.”

“I understand you had a run-in with the victim.”

“You must have consulted Claudia Esterbrook. She reminded me of that, too. Except it’s kind of silly to kill someone you never met before and whose name you don’t even know.”