Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

Temple consulted her watch. The little hand was on ten and the big hand was edging toward twelve. Where was Lieutenant Molina? Temple caught Electra’s eye at the front of the house... er, chapel. This was not a theater, after all, and Temple was no longer doing PR for the Guthrie. That didn’t mean she couldn’t stage-manage a bit. So she eyed Electra and tapped her wristwatch with a forefinger.

Stall, the gesture said, you know how.

Electra knew—not what was going to happen, but that something more than a memorial service and a morose scent was in the air. Still, she had all the relevant press releases stacked on her lectern and was prepared to ruminate long and loudly on Chester Royal’s life and death as well as the nature of things physical and spiritual.

Totally unexpected, the last guest ambled through the ever-open breezeway door... Midnight Louie, his coat freshly groomed to its fullest, most funereal glory, his white whiskers spanking clean after a morning repast of shrimp.

But where was Molina?

The long hand ticked the twelve and there was no postponing the moment of truth and consequences.

Electra nodded solemnly to Matt, who coaxed a series of doleful sounds from the Lowrey’s liquid throat. Louie deserted the vicinity of the organ for Temple’s ankles. Temple didn’t recognize the melody, probably some Michael Jackson ditty played at thirty-three-and-a-third speed, but it was ripe with ponderous chords.

She swallowed a smile. From the back of the house—the chapel, that is—the dummies’ showy black was reminiscent of a mob funeral.

The chapel had never held so many living spectators. Las Vegas weddings were famed for their lack of encumbrances—waiting periods, blood tests, expensive attendants and witnesses who might not forever hold their peace. The ceiling fans spun with syrupy laissez-faire. The room was warming up with the crowd and the day, or maybe Temple was just nervous about what she was about to do.

Or about Molina’s continuing absence... didn’t the woman know the meaning of the word “important”?

“We are gathered today,” Electra began, “in this city of extravagance, to honor a life that has not so much ended as evolved onto another plane.”

Heads swiveled toward each other at this overoptimistic invocation. No one present was eager to imagine Chester Royal as evolved in any respect, especially if it meant his survival, his transportation via some unearthly airline that might return any residue of his noxious personality back to earth.

“He is not gone,” Electra declaimed, “he is... removed.”

Temple glanced at Matt. He had spun away from the organ and was watching Electra with polite wonder. Well, Electra was on the money. Someone had “removed” Chester Royal, all right.

“We must not mourn,” she continued vehemently. “Even now Chester Royal may be floating in the ether of our vaguest thoughts, a constant presence seeking a welcoming place. As you think of him, so he shall be with you all. He was a man to remember.”

With loathing, Temple thought, imagining the unspoken sentiments of the gathered “mourners.”

“An... endlessly affectionate human being.”

Five ex-wives.

“A brilliant entrepreneur of art and business.”

Who blended the crassest concerns of both into a mediocre hash.

“He always had time to consider a friend.”

And how to whittle a friend’s ego to matchsticks.

“A man responsible for the success of many beyond their wildest dreams.”

Their wildest dreams included killing him.

“Who asked nothing for himself.”

But others’ total surrender.

“And whom we shall all miss and mourn deeply.”

Even as we celebrate our freedom.

“And whom we will never forget.”

Until we can get out of this hot-plate town and home to business-as-usual....

Electra paused to gauge her audience’s numbness level. She eyed Temple, who looked at her watch, the door and shook her head. Electra forged on. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to discuss the healing power of crystals for those troubled by grief.”

A stifled groan came from someone among the congregation. It acted as a secret signal. Both of the chapel’s outer doors whisked open. Light flooded in like a blare of trumpets as Molina and three uniformed officers entered the back of the chapel.

Temple rushed over. “Have you got it?”

Molina flourished a handful of limp fax paper. Temple reached for it. Molina wasn’t about to let go.

“Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” the detective suggested sweetly, with rock salt under the sugar.

“Because if I’m wrong, you won’t end up looking like a fool again.”

The slick papers strained between their hands. Then Molina let go and Temple had sole custody. Hurriedly she glanced through them. Aha! The one she was sure would be there!