Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

Temple mushed the lieutenant onward through the mob. “Think of it as a convention of strippers or bookies and it’ll all fall into place. These are book people—most of them utterly respectable and perfectly nice—but they’re people first, and murder will out, even at an ABA.”

7

Writers Anonymous

“Now there’sa man who could murder,” Temple mused aloud.

“That a professional opinion?” Molina asked.

The police lieutenant was still somewhat dazed by the lines of people—four across weaving in and out like human plaid—blocking the long tables of authors signing their books.

Temple shrugged off the question. “Your press release describes Lanyard Hunter as a ‘medical buff” and medical suspense novelist. She”—Temple pointed impolitely, but in this mob, who would notice?—“says he masqueraded as a doctor for years. He’d know how, and where, to plant a knitting needle in an editor’s heart.”

“That horse-faced woman hovering over Hunter, she was in the press room with Mavis Davis.”

“Lorna Fennick, PR director for Reynolds-Chapte-Deuce.”

“And you think because this”—Molina consulted the press material—“Lanyard Hunter was devious, and loony enough to pose as various doctors once, he wouldn’t stop at homicide now?”

“Look at that wavy silver hair, that air of benign attention, those slick, reassuring aviator bifocals. Was that man born to pull wool, or what?”

“You oughta know,” Molina cracked with a sideways glance and a veiled reference to Max. “How’d this Fennick woman beat us here from the press room?”

“She knows the ropes. She probably dumped Mavis Davis at the RCD booth and raced here to offer aid and comfort to Pennyroyal’s star author. Signing a few hundred books ain’t pickin’ cotton, but it’s close to it.”

Molina nodded. “Too bad Hunter didn’t have his autograph session before Royal was murdered; I’d never suspect him of having the strength to wield so much as a tweezers afterward.”

“Was that... humor, Lieutenant?”

“Naw.” Molina gave a discouraging shake of her head and heaved an unconscious sigh.

Temple nodded. “Now, if we only could find Owen Tharp.”

“Owen Tharp. The name of another author?”

“Not really. A pseudonym, but you’ve got his picture—yup, that’s him. I don’t know where we’ll find him; he’s not scheduled for an interview or a signing, but Lorna said he was here.”

Molina’s sharp blue eyes scanned the mob. “How about—there?”

“Where?” Temple went on tiptoe to strain in the direction Molina was looking, but saw nothing.

Moments later the lieutenant was striding through the press of humanity, her impressive physical presence clearing an automatic path. Temple clicked after, feeling a bit like a glum pet Pekingese.

On the sidelines, positioned to watch Lanyard Hunter sign every hardcover, lounged a man of middling height and age. About fifty, his hair blended brown and gray into a peppery mix. A stocky build and air of contained energy advertised three-mile runs and oat-bran muffins. He’d ditched a mustache and cut his hair since the press kit photo, but Molina’s professional eye had ID’d him in an instant.

Temple examined a grudging flare of respect, then stifled it as she spotted a too-familiar shape melding with the inky shadow at the pillar’s foot. Yikes! She must’ve left the storeroom doorknob unturned so the cat could shoulder it open again. The police detective was too intent on human prey to notice the feline, which was fine with Temple. She was getting tired of apologizing for the cat’s peregrinations.

“Mr. Tharp?” Molina said briskly. “Got a few minutes?”

The man spread his hands. “Lady, I’ve got a few hours, seeing as how my publisher hasn’t seen fit to schedule me for one of these hosanna sessions.”

“Lieutenant,” Molina corrected impassively. “Las Vegas Metro Police. I take it you worked for the late Chester Royal.”

Owen Tharp straightened to give himself as much height as he could manage toe to toe with the long Amazonian of the law. He was so mesmerized by the police presence and its personal implications that he failed to notice when Midnight Louie ingratiated himself against his trouser legs by rubbing back and forth. Temple chuckled and felt much better; at least someone else felt intimidated by Lieutenant Molina.

“Sorry, sir,” Tharp said. “I mean, ma’am. Being a writer isn’t exactly ‘working for’ an editor, or even a publisher. We’re all free-lancers, at bottom. Certain publishers buy certain of our books, and that’s the extent of it.”

“And they put them out under certain names?”

“Sometimes.”

“What’s your real name?”