Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

“That’s it. Well, people lose someone close, they don’t want to think that person would be driven to do something they’re not supposed to. But who knows better than a doctor—or a lawyer—what the client really wants, huh? “Denial, that’s what the psychologists call it nowadays. Those Gilhooleys were into denial up to their face freckles about Mary Ellen and what she needed and wanted, believe me. Husband’s name was Michael—that’s it! Michael and little Mary Clare, and Eoin and Liam and Brigid and Sean, and—let me see—there was a Cathleen, of course, and maybe a Rory. Irish as they come. Enough kids; Chester was just trying to do a good deed. You can’t blame him, ’cept it was out-and-out illegal. So they took his license and he went on to different work. I hadn’t thought about that in years, but I remember it clearer than what I had for breakfast this morning. Cost a mint, too.”

Earnest Jaspar’s pale aging eyes suddenly focused on Temple’s. “Don’t get old and forget, like me and Chester. Some people, it’s like they forget to get old. Others, they just get old to forget.”

Temple, lost in the implications of a possibly hot lead, assured Jaspar that she would never forget meeting him. He fussed about planning to attend Chester Royal’s memorial service tomorrow once he knew where it would be, but she took his home address and phone number anyway—to justify her snooping to Molina if it should ever come up. She said goodbye and thank you, then paused again in the lobby and phoned home to inquire into the action on other fronts.

“Electra? Have you heard from a woman named Lorna Fennick? Great. What’s on in the background? I can hardly hear here and it sounds like you’ve got a soccer match in your living room.” Temple put a finger in her free ear.

“Just the MTV, hon,” Electra answered. “I like the sound on high. And I’m on the portable phone in your living room. Mr. Marino is home sick so Matt is seeing if he can fix your French door latch.”

Temple shifted her weight onto one foot and realized that she was hot, tired and depressed—and that Electra had Matt Devine all to herself in Temple’s living room.

“Listen, have you seen anything of Louie? Louie! The black cat. Yeah. Well, look now, please. On the patio, or in the yard.”

Temple tapped a toe and stonily eyed the person waiting behind her for the pay phone. Let him go stuff a slot machine, that’s what Vegas was for.

“Nothing? No sign? Okay. Yeah, I’m coming home later if the traffic will let me. Keep the MTV warm for me.”

Where the devil was Midnight Louie? But she had other felines in the fire. Temple pulled the now-worn Yellow Page from her bag and dialed Eightball O’Rourke. No answer, the same story as when she’d tried the number several earlier times that afternoon. He was probably on his way to the Maldives with Emily Adcock’s $5,000.

“You sure know how to pick ’em,” Temple admonished herself.

On the other hand, O’Rourke still could be hopping up the money trail in pursuit of the ransom collector. It was possible. Or maybe he’d been hurt—knocked out—by the napper. That was possible, too.

Temple was beginning to feel as flummoxed about the murder of Chester Royal and the snatching of the Scottish folds as she was about the disappearance of the Mystifying Max.

She’d just about had it with being left totally in the dark.

20

Midnight Louie, Dead Matter

 

It is hot as hell in this joint, but then I have not seen the Afterlife yet, thank Bast.

(Bast is reputed to be the head deity of cats since Ramses hot-rodded up and down the Nile in a two-tone chariot. Talk about your low-riders.)

I do not ordinarily put my faith in supernatural agencies, especially since those ancient Egyptians used to mummify my forebears—no way to treat a gent of any species. Longevity in a form resembling dried parsley flakes does not appeal to my sense of dignity, not to mention myjoie de vivre.