Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

“Were you a classics major?” Matt was asking innocently, as if his mind had eluded the natural but racier connotations.

At least he was interested. “Communications. I did some TV reporting, then ended up in public relations at a repertory theater company in Minneapolis. You tend to learn Greek gods’ names when the director favors five-hour revivals of Aeschylus. Generally in the form of ancient curses. But that melody is really Bob Dylan’s?”

“Really.” Matt pressed his hand to his heart.

Temple eyed the Devine physique. Talk about Greek gods.... Great-looking, good-counseling Matt. Honestly, this guy was too good to be true. Well, Max had seemed pretty spectacular at first. The trouble was that Max had seemed pretty spectacular at last, too. Damn Max. Damn runaway cats. Damn hope springing eternal....

“Thanks for the lemonade,” Temple said, standing. “I better see what that half-full open can of tuna is doing to my refrigerator.”

“Electra probably wouldn’t have wanted to set a precedent with pets, anyway.”

“Midnight Louie is not a ‘pet,’ ” Temple announced loftily. “He is his own person, free to come and go, as I was informed today. And I guess he’s gone—from my life, anyway.”

“Maybe you could get another cat. Mrs. La—Electra— seems something of a pushover.”

“You noticed that, huh? No, I work such long hours sometimes it really wouldn’t be fair. All’s for the best. I should be glad my brilliant idea for an article not only cooled the ABA murder, but got M.L.—as my associate Crawford Buchanan would say—back home.”

“Too bad about the murder. I don’t blame you for getting down about it.” Matt’s brown eyes narrowed against the surrounding sunlight. “An ugly thing: one human being feeling such hatred toward another that he—or she—would actually end the other person’s life. Have the police any theories?”

“They don’t exactly consult me, although I spent half the day in the custody of Lieutenant Molina of LVMPD Sex and Homicide.”

“Why was he bothering with you?”

Temple smiled. Matt Devine’s laudable care with the gender of the possible murderer had fallen victim to the automatic assumption that a sex and homicide detective must be male—but then, maybe C. R. Molina was, in a way.

“Lieutenant Molina needed a tour guide to the American Booksellers Association convention. I learned more today about publishing than I want to know—and discovered even more reasons why an author might want to ax an editor than the ordinary reader would ever suspect. Remind me never to get the book-writing bug.”

“You’re not getting seriously caught up in the case?”

“No, I’m a definite fringe element, but I can’t help noticing things.”

“Leave it to the police; noticing too much might get dangerous.”

“Yeah, but it’s that communications major of mine. I have this insatiable need to know—and tell. Besides, people naturally seem to confide in me.”

“Not always an easy position to be in.”

“No.” Temple thought of Mavis Davis mauling her cocktail napkin not two hours before. “No.”

She couldn’t sleep that night. First she’d had a hot idea—she was always getting hot ideas after hours—and had consulted with Electra, who’d been only too happy to volunteer her talented fingers for a worthy project.

Then Temple had returned to her apartment and a sultry night alone. Visions of Matt Devine backing up Bob Dylan on an organ, wearing nothing but a pair of bathing trunks, revved her active imagination, along with scenes of Midnight Louie’s presumed triumphal welcome back into the bosom of the Crystal Phoenix.

And then there were the trio of authors she met that day. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Lanyard Hunter, but he was scheduled for an interview tomorrow—today—and she probably could catch him then....

Could Mavis Davis really have smitten down Chester Royal? She was a sturdy-looking woman. A nurse would know how to manhandle large, inert bodies—and Chester Royal had been small-statured. Like Owen Tharp. No wonder they got along! Was Royal as controlling of Hunter as he was of Mavis Davis? Was it because she was a woman; or did Royal keep all his authors terminally insecure?

Temple had seen stage directors like that: men (and they always were; few women directed even nowadays) who used their entree to the artistic ego to twist it, to find and manipulate the self-doubting child that lurks in every adult. Such men were vicious egotists who claimed credit for their victims’ talent even while bending it past the breaking point.

No passion was more terrible than that of an artist who has given all and been betrayed. Temple had seen normally rational theater people ready to kill a klutzy critic for an undeserved insensitive review—could writers be any less intolerant of meddling with their words?

Temple shivered in her hot, limp sheets, under the lazy breeze of the ceiling fan’s Plexiglas blades. It clicked ever so slightly as it turned, sounding like the snap of distantly chewed gum.