Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

The envelope was standard business issue, midget-size. An ink smudge decorated the comer where a stamp would be had it been mailed. Temple felt uneasy as she withdrew the note-size sheet of paper.

Typed letters uneven in pressure and alignment skipped across the page.

IF YOU WANT THEM CATS BACK, PUT $5,000 IN A BROWN BAG AND LEAVE IT AT 10 A.M. MONDAY BY THE THIRD GODDESS ON THE LEFT IN FRONT OF CAESARS PALACE. OTHERWISE, THEY IS STEW MEAT.

12

. . . And Apostrophe

“Would youlike a drink, Temple?”

“Yes. A stiff one. I’ve got to come to grips with an extremely delicate matter after lunch.” Temple winced, recalling the urgent message she’d left for Emily Adcock to meet her at 2 p.m. Passing on the “stew meat” threat would be no fun.

Lorna Fennick grimaced sympathetically. “Me, too.”

“Now it’s catnapping.”

“Cat, not kid?”

Temple nodded as the waiter placed before her a cool white gin and tonic featuring Bombay Gin’s lethal Sapphire brand. Anything purportedly good enough for Queen Victoria’s menstrual cramps should do the job. “This is for our ears only, but Baker and Taylor lost their mascots to an ambitious animal-grabber.”

"I wondered why they made such a big deal in their ads about ‘meeting’ Baker and Taylor at the convention, then put a couple of stuffed shills in an elaborate display case. Of course, Baker & Taylor always invites booksellers to ‘meet’ their mascots at the convention, and it’s always in purely photographic form. Importing them in person was a great publicity stunt.”

“ ‘Was’ is the operative word. It’s a shame, but I’m not going to let this latest crisis interfere with keeping on top of the Royal murder.”

“Speaking of which.” Lorna pulled a canvas book bag up from the floor, the Time-Life, Midnight-Louie-toting kind. “Here’s a bunch of titles by Pennyroyal’s Top Three. I even found some of Owen Tharp’s other pseudonymous efforts knocking around. I thought you could use a crash course in the Pennyroyal medical thriller.”

“Thanks a million,” Temple said, eyeing the bag. As she took it, the unexpected weight nearly jerked her arm out of its socket, recalling her first fond moments of custody of Midnight Louie. “These will be great. And I deeply appreciate your arranging for Mr. Big to drop by our lunch table later, Lorna.”

The Reynolds-Chapter-Deuce PR director sipped her murky orange Manhattan and nodded soberly. “We could have had lunch with him, except that ABA meals are working occasions. You’d be amazed at the megabuck deals that go down at this superficially innocuous convention. He’s eating here anyway, and if you recognize his lunch date, don’t let on! The deal isn’t signed yet. But he will stop by for a few minutes. He wants to insure that Chester Royal’s death causes as little scandal as possible.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t know the name brands in publishing. I’m too ignorant to blow a deal. Trust me.”

“I do, that’s the funny part. Emily at Baker & Taylor thinks a lot of you.”

“You know her?”

“We behind-the-sceners responsible for making the ABAs run smoothly year after year get to know each other.”

“How did Lieutenant Molina’s grilling of Lanyard Hunter go yesterday?”

“I wasn’t invited, but Hunter was in a vile mood afterward.”

“So was Molina, probably. This is definitely not her normal turf.”

“I don’t blame the lieutenant. How’s she going to nab a murderer in four days flat with twenty-four thousand strangers in town?”

“Somehow I don’t feel too sorry for her.”

Lorna Fennick laughed. “No, I wouldn’t want to negotiate a deal with that one.”

“Did you? Ever negotiate a deal, I mean?”

“Some small ones. I started as an editorial assistant and worked my way up to editor.”

“How’d you get into public relations?”

Lorna looked uneasy. “I didn’t have the stomach for nitty-gritty editorial matters. It can be a frustrating, petty business. Now, what did you want to know about my liege lord?”

The waiter descended. To save time Temple ordered the first thing that popped into her mind—tuna salad. Lorna had some nouvelle concoction with chard and assorted alien vegetables whose repugnant appearance was exceeded only by its outrageous price.

“Tell me about an imprint, Lorna,” Temple suggested after forking her tuna salad. The sight and smell repelled her for some reason. “How is one born, how does it grow, how is it grafted onto a big mother of a plant like a major, multi-slashed publishing house?”