Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

“Out trying to nail down the identity of who’s got your friend’s money. It’s taking me longer than I expected.”

“You’ll be paid for it,” Temple reassured him, wondering how much her American Express card would cover. “What happened?”

“The package stayed there for a while. Then a party comes along that acts nervous. Sure enough, one bend and the bait is gone. The trail led to the Last Vegas Hilton.”

“You saw the person who picked up the money? That’s worth every penny! Who?”

“That’s the trouble. The Las Vegas Hilton is the third-largest hotel in the world. It ain’t easy getting a make on one person scooting through their doors.”

“But you saw the person.”

“They was wearing disguising clothing.”

“How disguising can it be?”

“Hat, sunglasses. You’d be surprised how hard it is to identify somebody by their clothes.”

“Not Electra,” Temple mumbled.

“What’s wrong with your electricity?”

“Nothing. So you don’t know exactly who picked up the money, just that it was picked up.”

“Yeah. I been leaning on the Hilton staff, but so far no one can identify her.”

“Her?”

“A woman, yeah. Big hat, big gauzy scarf, big dress, not a little woman like you, kinda... big. A chubby, middle-aged woman.”

“Do you know how many women in Las Vegas fit that description?” Temple demanded, mentally making her own private list. Lorna Fennick, Mavis Davis, Rowena Novak. Electra Lark, for that matter.

“So I’m working on it. Unless you want me to stop.”

“No. I guess the kitty can underwrite a few more hours of detection.” The word “kitty” reminded Temple of her immediate dilemma.

“By the way,” she said, deciding to tell Eightball that Baker and Taylor would be back by six-thirty. Eightball could check on Louie while Temple was stuck here waiting for the B & T express to arrive!

The line died without so much as a drone.

Temple stared at the receiver incredulously. Did Eightball just hang up once he figured the conversation was over, or had someone... cut... them off? She held down the disconnect button, then let it up again. Dead silence. How would someone pull the plug on a phone system? Where was the switchboard? Just how well did the catnapper know the building?

Better than you, Temple told herself. This was her first convention center job; most of the massive structure remained a mystery to her. She sat back; her stomach felt like a hollow-core door. It was not a pleasant sensation.

At six twenty-five Temple rose from her chair. She dared not show up early for her appointment with Baker and Taylor. Catching the catnapper in the act of restoration would be dangerous.

She hefted her tote bag over her shoulder and moved briskly out of the office. The high-rise heels of her shoes, a snappy pair of Weitzman sandals with multicolored straps, snapped on the hard-surface floor like firecrackers at her steps.

No sense in discretion at this late date, she told herself.

A few fluorescents shone high in the East Exhibition Hall rafters; otherwise, the exhibition floor was darkened. Booths and displays resembled huge, hunkering bears—regularly spaced but rough-silhouetted. Unpredictable.

The zebra-striped carousel figure leaped out of the darkness as she passed and the wan light tangled in its glitter-strewn mane.

Temple didn’t scream but her heart was pounding faster than her shoes. What if she got there and Baker and Taylor weren’t there? What if the catnapper had defaulted?

Or if she arrived and the catnapper was still there? Or if the catnapper was the murderer? Well, why not? She could think of no reason why he—she—should be, but Royal had been stabbed with a knitting needle—a woman’s weapon. Now a woman had picked up the ransom money.

Baker and Taylor and bears. Baker and Taylor and bears. Baker and Taylor and—uh! Temple breathed again. She backed away from a life-size cutout of Mel Gibson that promoted a series of Mad Max novels. She remembered now. Only an apocalyptic cardboard man.

The Baker & Taylor booth was just ahead. Temple stepped more measuredly, crossing onto the carpeting that defined the B & T area as soon as possible.

The silence was stunning. Her steps had hailed on the hard floor. Now, not even an echo rattled in the steel rafters above. Light reflected from the Plexiglas sides of the Baker & Taylor cat house. Temple saw indistinguishable humps within—real, or Electra’s handiwork? She edged closer, hoping, really hoping.

It was too dim to tell; her own reflection jeered back at her, an out-of-focus doppelganger. Temple leaned her face against the transparent plastic. Come on, Baker, shake a leg! All right, Taylor, do something. Twitch a whisker or wash an ear....

No. Nothing but a pair of pillows. A flicker of motion in the murky Plexiglas mirror. Something behind her—

Temple whirled. Something struck her, pushed her into the display case so hard she would have fallen if it hadn’t been there. Her stomach hurt, possibly because her bulky tote bag had knocked into her ribs with tremendous force. She couldn’t catch her breath, and then it exploded free.