Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

It was a dismissal, which Temple acknowledged with an internal clench of disappointment. Asking people personal questions was a stimulating pastime. She’d hoped to eavesdrop on more of Molina’s interviews. But she gave way gracefully.

“I’ll introduce you to Lorna Fennick, the PR director. She’ll arrange everything with Hunter.”

“Oh, good, Temple!” Lorna greeted the pair as they approached the besieged autograph table.

Lorna took the introduction of Molina calmly and bent down to pass the police officer’s request to Hunter. He showed no alarm. Sterling-silver hair only enhanced youthful features. His light gray eyes flicked up from the flyleaf he was inscribing in a flowing hand, resting on Temple with interest.

“It’ll be another fifteen minutes, Lieutenant Molina,” Lorna said. “There’s a private area in the RCD booth where you can talk.”

When Molina nodded and resumed her place at the pillar until the signing ended, Lorna clutched Temple’s wrist to detain her.

“Listen, Temple! I had to leave Mavis Davis in the green room. She is not in good shape. Chester’s death really ripped her up. And the stress of the mass interview... I shouldn’t have left her, but I had to get Lanyard set up and I can’t leave until everything’s squared away, including this police interview all of a sudden. Be a doll and baby-sit Mavis for me. You know.”

Temple did know, and nodded. She also did a mental jig of glee. There was nothing she’d like better than to sit down with a distraught Mavis Davis and ask a few uncensored questions.

Waving a cheery goodbye to the unimpressed Lieutenant Molina, Temple skittered her way through the throngs. Even as she kept one eye out for the delinquent black cat, a thrill of intuition and excitement zinged from her toes to her scalp. Temple scented something electric in the convention hall’s chill, icily conditioned air, a hot lead scintillating like heat lightning in the distance.

She almost forgot that her feet hurt.

 

 

8

Feline Follies

“There you are, T.B.!”

Temple stopped dead amid a maelstrom of passersby. “Amazing. Twenty thousand people and you find me just like that.”

Crawford Buchanan produced the expression he expected to pass for a smile. “The Baker and Taylor people want to talk to you pronto.”

“Hasn’t Security explained that they’re looking into it?”

“Apparently B and T places more faith in you, T.B., for whatever reason.”

She eyed her watch. The tempting Mavis Davis would have to sit unconsoled for a few minutes. Certainly a suspect-starved cop like Lieutenant Molina would not let a proven medical con man like Lanyard Hunter slip away without at least a half-hour grilling, so there should be time to placate Baker fit Taylor and still interrogate... comfort the Davis woman.

“Well, don’t thank me,” Buchanan whined as Temple sped away on winged Liz Claiborne pistachio-colored heels.

Baker & Taylor—the wholesaler—occupied a handsomely accessorized string of booths directly off the Rotunda, which was the entire vast length of the exhibition area away. Temple finally sighted their mock-mahogany-paneled pillars towering above surrounding exhibits. Rich tones of emerald, wine and teal fostered the impression of a well-to-do library. Amidst all this tasteful opulence sat the pièce de résistance, all forlorn.

Baker and Taylor—the actual felines—had, for their first in-purrson ABA appearance, been provided with a royal setting. An eight-feet-tall display case was painted all around with a waist-high trompe l’oeil mural of bookcases holding forthcoming fall titles.

Above that, a large custom Lucite habitat had showcased the famous pair for their public. Inside were cat beds shaped like easy chairs. Chintz draped the “windows” on all four sides; carpet-padded ladders climbed to an upper reach of painted library shelves equipped with such apparent feline classics as The Brothers Katamazov, Ben-Purr, A Tail of Two Kitties, Androclaws and the Lion, The Feline Comedy and, of course, a complete set of Lilian Jackson Braun’s The Cat Who mysteries. Perhaps the most poignant—and properly prophetic—title was The Cat Who Walked Through Walls by Robert Feline.

An enclosed area entered through a curtain no doubt housed the sanitary facilities.

Although the cats in question were absent in body, they were well represented in the booth—glossy calendars and posters pictured them perched on towers of best-sellers, in round spectacles and assorted bookish poses. Despite their stardom, Baker and Taylor were short-haired, sensible- looking felines with large patches of pepper-and-spice-seasoned white fur. Their undersize ears—a trademark of their unusual breed—were tucked neatly against their sagacious Highland heads.