Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

Heads had turned to note the new arrivals, so Temple beckoned the emissaries of the law aside.

“Everybody who’s involved in the case is here,” she told Molina in a stage whisper. Temple nodded to Midnight Louie, who had leaped onto a pew to sit beside a well-stuffed gentleman in a top hat. “Even my missing, er, associate, who discovered the body in the first place.”

“Everyone except the catnapper,” Molina said.

“Even the catnapper.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to miss booking anybody on a major charge like that,” the detective said sourly. “Can we get on with it? I’m tired and I want to go back to headquarters and do paperwork.”

Temple nodded at Electra, who finished up with a rhetorical flourish about surviving personalities, channeling, loving thy neighbor and the benefits of brown rice.

Temple’s footsteps sounded ominous on the aisle’s white tile flooring as she approached the front. Whispers rose among the living members of the congregation. One of these nice people had tried to kabob and throttle her just last night. Molina and one officer followed her. The other two policemen stationed themselves at the chapel’s two exits.

Electra faded to the sidelines as discreetly as a woman of her size and personality could manage. Temple reached the front and turned. “I have some final words to say about Chester Royal,” she said. “I’m sure that none of you want to leave Las Vegas with his murder unsolved.”

This statement, expectedly, brought no response.

“A sign bearing four letters was found upon the body. Only the murderer, the police and myself, who was the first person upon the scene, would know that.”

Temple produced Exhibit A from Electra’s lectern, a placard she had prepared that morning, and held it up.

“You all know the meaning of this term ‘stet,’ with the possible exception of Mr. Jaspar.” He nodded gratefully. “Let it stand.” She paused. “Someone did not want to let Chester Royal stand. Someone struck him down. That’s what editors say when they delete type, they ‘strike it out’ when they turn it into dead matter. And another thing some of you may not know. The murder weapon was an old-fashioned steel knitting needle.”

Temple lifted an example off the podium. This time gasps greeted her display.

“It was used by someone who knew where and how to thrust it, someone with medical knowledge. Almost all of you had the access to that knowledge, through your association with Chester Royal, if nothing else.”

“Wait a minute,” said Raymond Avenour. “If this is a round-’em-up and declare-’em-guilty session, I respectfully withdraw. I know nothing of medicine, and little of Chester Royal personally. I’m here representing my publishing house, period, not to attend an amateur detective melodrama.”

“I am an amateur,” Temple agreed, “but a very real police detective is present to take matters in hand if necessary. And I have genuine evidence to present.”

“A mock-up of a sign and a knitting needle you bought in the five-and-dime?” Claudia Esterbrook said scathingly. “Get real.”

“I borrowed this needle,” Temple said, “from our esteemed... officiator. And whether this is the needle that killed Chester Royal doesn’t matter. It was always a symbolic weapon anyway.”

“Symbolic?” That was Molina, sounding disgusted.

Temple nodded. “I assumed, rather sexistly, that the use of a knitting needle indicated a woman perpetrator. No matter that anyone could easily smuggle it past the guards onto the convention floor. Never mind that, properly directed under the ribs and up into the vital organs, it could be swiftly fatal. Discount the fact that the bleeding would be internal and therefore discreet, or that the eccentric choice of weapon would baffle the police.”

Molina started to say something, but Temple pushed on.

“Some of you may not have known that Chester Royal was a practicing physician long before he was a nonfiction writer, a packager, an editor and the publisher of an imprint.”

The right faces showed apparent surprise... Lorna Fennick’s, Claudia Esterbrook’s, Mavis Davis’s—all the women in the case except Rowena Novak, who sat as if carved from headstone granite. She knew, she had always known.

“How did you know, Mr. Hunter? And you did, didn’t you?”

“Lanyard,” he corrected with oily grace and a condescending smile. “From my many medical masquerades. Chester showed a knowledge far beyond the enthusiast’s. I can smell doctors; I make quite a game at cocktail parties out of correctly identifying their specialties.”

“And Chester Royal, how did he react to your amazing ability?”

“He was not amused.” Hunter glanced rather fondly at Lorna Fennick, who had come to sit beside him. “Lorna was his assistant then, and quite innocently ran across his medical degree stuffed in a drawer. Chester was furious.”

Temple turned to Lorna with new insight. “So he fired you because you knew too much.”