Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

The night is warm and dark as I streak through it, invisible and invincible. I expect to make the Circle Ritz before Miss Temple Barr.

As I ramble, I contemplate problems yet to come. For one thing, I know the culprit’s identity, yet have a long, unshakable tradition behind me (besides my tail) of keeping mum. Yet I am averse to keeping my dainty doll in the dark. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, some high churchman-type pundit once said, I believe, and Miss Temple Barr knows just little enough to get into big trouble.

So my feet fly over the tepid pavements, my mind churning ways of alerting my little doll without blowing my cover. Even as I ponder the future, I cannot help getting a warm, fuzzy feeling as I dwell on my triumphal escape from the Needles of Death. It is better than a magic act.

Especially my parting gesture. As I bound past, I give the cell door a one-pawed punch. It slams fast in one blow, and I have single-handedly created the LV pound’s sole locked-room mystery.

They can scratch their heads over it for days (and they will, given the parasite population tolerated in that fleabag), but my lips are sealed and sent COD.

What we have here is a failure to communicate.

24

The Name of the Game Is Murder

The pinkneon clock in Temple’s kitchen announced an incredible hour—ten p.m. Only. Temple’s mind and body floated somewhere on the dark side of midnight about sixteen light-years from reality.

She dropped the bulky manila envelopes on her kitchen counter, unmindful when her belongings spewed out like vomit. She’d already picked up her kitchen receiver to dial the penthouse.

“Yeah, home. Just questioning. A long story. Oh, Electra, I’m afraid Louie’s gone for good! Sure. I’d love company.”

Temple had changed into her favorite leopard-print sleep shirt before her doorbell rang—she loved having an apartment with a real doorbell, a melodic caroling that issued from a rank of long bronze pipes. Now it sounded like a dirge.

The lush tropical pattern of Electra’s most Hawaiian muumuu vibrated outside her door, but the landlady’s chameleon hair was sprayed jet-black, as if she’d known mourning was in order.

When Temple stared, Electra was quick to reassure her. “The hair’s for Lorna Fennick’s memorial service tomorrow—or rather Chester Royal’s. Don’t worry; just temporary.”

“I’d forgotten about that.”

“For you.” Electra offered the glass of scotch she clutched.

“Thanks, but I’m not up to it, even after an interrogation at Headquarters. Great hot-shot detective I make, retreating to a tumbler of Crystal Light when the chips are down.”

“How down are they, honey?”

“Low-down. I’ve been stalked through the convention center and grilled by Lieutenant Molina and it looks like Midnight Louie has been—Put Away.”

“How horrible!”

“For a while tonight, I never thought I’d see this place again. Poor Louie must have felt the same before they—”

Electra was looking at Temple strangely. In fact, Electra wasn’t looking at her at all, which was odd given the emotional fireworks that Temple was providing.

“Dear, what’s that on your coffee table?”

Temple glanced over her shoulder into the dimly lit room. Reflected street light shafts slid eerily across the rippled ceiling in shades of aqua and Mercurochrome. The furniture sat hunch-shouldered, downcast somehow. A foothill of silhouettes tumbled across the coffee table’s usually sleek glass surface.

“Some novels a woman at the ABA gave me,” Temple answered. “Want any free books? I’m not in the mood to read medical thrillers.”

“Not the books. That thing beside the books.”

Temple looked again. “I must have thrown a purse down. I don’t remember. I’ve had an awful day—”