Cat in an Alphabet Soup Read online

  C. R. Molina turned and fixed one eye on the local newsman behind her. “Come to the police briefing for that, Hentzell. There’s so much fiction floating around here, you’re likely to confuse it with the facts, as if you aren’t liable to do that anyway.”

  “How to win friends and influence people,” Temple whispered to an unheeding world.

  “What was that?” Molina had turned on Temple with dispatch.

  “You’d make a horrible PR person.”

  C. R. Molina looked momentarily abashed. Then the instant passed. “It’s my job to uncover what people want hidden, not to help them hide it.”

  “You really think hiding the truth is what PR is about?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No more than police work is about civic politics and corruption. Sure, PR has a downside. Most of the time it’s a necessary link in the vast chain of communications that the modern world depends upon.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Why not?”

  Molina regarded her piercingly. “Maybe you really don’t know anything about Kinsella’s vanishing act.”

  “Does that mean that you think I’m näive?”

  Molina shrugged. “Your profession requires looking for the silver lining. If you’d seen some of the things that I have in this city—”

  “You mean on the force.”

  “That, too. But I grew up in L.A. and came to Las Vegas as an adult. Neither place is Kansas, Dorothy.”

  “I once was a big-city TV reporter, Lieutenant. I’ve seen more than the merry old land of Oz in my time, too.”

  “Maybe.” Molina consulted the Timex on her wrist. “When can we catch the next Royal author?”

  Temple squared her shoulders. “Follow me.”

  Molina did. After the stone-faced security personnel at the portals eyed them both in the name badges, they were admitted to the vast exhibition area where Chester Royal had set up his inadvertent last stand.

  Crisscrossing hordes flooded the exhibition floor. Everyone was draped with canvas saddlebags choked with books that swung erratically, bruising shins and hips of brushers-by. Dismayed yips punctuated the din.

  “Who are all these people?” Molina demanded in exasperation after they’d progressed only three jam-packed aisles in five minutes.

  Temple unleashed her best informative downpour. “Only about six thousand are booksellers—owners of independent bookstores and small chains, and buyers for the big bookstore chains like Waldenbooks, B. Dalton’s and Crown. More than thirteen thousand are publishing personnel—editors in chief, subsidiary rights heads, senior editors, publicists, PR people and the all-important sales reps. The reps are the ones who actually sit down to flash the fall covers past the booksellers and take orders. What happens here determines what you’ll find on the bookstore shelves up to Christmas.”

  “I go to the library,” Molina snarled, resisting the pulse of free enterprise throbbing all around her.

  “Librarians are here, too. They’re part of the miscellaneous five thousand. Purchasing librarians, book reviewers, oh... everybody.”

  “And authors.”

  “Of course, but only selected authors. The ABA isn’t open to anyone outside the trade. If the publishers let all their authors in, the place would be swamped. Plus, authors don’t sell books, except indirectly or in their own imaginations. Above all, the ABA is a marketplace. Think of this as a trade show.”

  A man in a gorilla suit passed them, escorting a girl in a metal bikini. Molina stopped dead. “There’s nothing genteel about this scene; it’s like any big convention, except for the book fever.”

  “There’s nothing genteel about publishing, from what I hear,” Temple said. “It’s a multibillion-dollar entertainment business, with an iron-clad bottom line now that movie and oil companies own most of the publishers.”

  “What about ivory towers, men of letters and women of blue pencils—?”

  “Are the police anything like their stereotypes—men of steel and long, blue lines?”

  “Of course not. I see.” Molina said the last two words as if they closed the subject, and her mind, forever. “The ABA is a perfect environment for murder, then; the high pressure point of the entire industry. Victim, suspects and perpetrator all obscured in a sea of’—Molina looked around piercingly—“bound galleys and free Winnie-the-Pooh posters.”

  C. R. Molina having a revelation standing in her conservative khaki blazer and slacks amid a tide of book-happy conventioneers was a sight to cherish.

  Temple mushed the lieutenant onward through the mob. “Think of it as a convention of strippers or bookies and it’ll all fall into place. These are book people—most of them utterly respectable and perfectly nice—but they’re people first, and murder will out, even at an ABA.”

  7

  Writers Anonymous

  “Now there’s a man who could murder,” Temple mused aloud.

  “That a professional opinion?” Molina asked.

  The police lieutenant was still somewhat dazed by the lines of people—four across weaving in and out like human plaid—blocking the long tables of authors signing their books.

  Temple shrugged off the question. “Your press release describes Lanyard Hunter as a ‘medical buff” and medical suspense novelist. She”—Temple pointed impolitely, but in this mob, who would notice?—“says he masqueraded as a doctor for years. He’d know how, and where, to plant a knitting needle in an editor’s heart.”

  “That horse-faced woman hovering over Hunter, she was in the press room with Mavis Davis.”

  “Lorna Fennick, PR director for Reynolds-Chapte-Deuce.”

  “And you think because this”—Molina consulted the press material—“Lanyard Hunter was devious, and loony enough to pose as various doctors once, he wouldn’t stop at homicide now?”

  “Look at that wavy silver hair, that air of benign attention, those slick, reassuring aviator bifocals. Was that man born to pull wool, or what?”

  “You oughta know,” Molina cracked with a sideways glance and a veiled reference to Max. “How’d this Fennick woman beat us here from the press room?”

  “She knows the ropes. She probably dumped Mavis Davis at the RCD booth and raced here to offer aid and comfort to Pennyroyal’s star author. Signing a few hundred books ain’t pickin’ cotton, but it’s close to it.”

  Molina nodded. “Too bad Hunter didn’t have his autograph session before Royal was murdered; I’d never suspect him of having the strength to wield so much as a tweezers afterward.”

  “Was that... humor, Lieutenant?”

  “Naw.” Molina gave a discouraging shake of her head and heaved an unconscious sigh.

  Temple nodded. “Now, if we only could find Owen Tharp.”

  “Owen Tharp. The name of another author?”

  “Not really. A pseudonym, but you’ve got his picture—yup, that’s him. I don’t know where we’ll find him; he’s not scheduled for an interview or a signing, but Lorna said he was here.”

  Molina’s sharp blue eyes scanned the mob. “How about—there?”

  “Where?” Temple went on tiptoe to strain in the direction Molina was looking, but saw nothing.

  Moments later the lieutenant was striding through the press of humanity, her impressive physical presence clearing an automatic path. Temple clicked after, feeling a bit like a glum pet Pekingese.

  On the sidelines, positioned to watch Lanyard Hunter sign every hardcover, lounged a man of middling height and age. About fifty, his hair blended brown and gray into a peppery mix. A stocky build and air of contained energy advertised three-mile runs and oat-bran muffins. He’d ditched a mustache and cut his hair since the press kit photo, but Molina’s professional eye had ID’d him in an instant.

  Temple examined a grudging flare of respect, then stifled it as she spotted a too-familiar shape melding with the inky shadow at the pillar’s foot. Yikes! She must’ve left the storeroom doorknob unturned so the cat could shoulder it ope
n again. The police detective was too intent on human prey to notice the feline, which was fine with Temple. She was getting tired of apologizing for the cat’s peregrinations.

  “Mr. Tharp?” Molina said briskly. “Got a few minutes?”

  The man spread his hands. “Lady, I’ve got a few hours, seeing as how my publisher hasn’t seen fit to schedule me for one of these hosanna sessions.”

  “Lieutenant,” Molina corrected impassively. “Las Vegas Metro Police. I take it you worked for the late Chester Royal.”

  Owen Tharp straightened to give himself as much height as he could manage toe to toe with the long Amazonian of the law. He was so mesmerized by the police presence and its personal implications that he failed to notice when Midnight Louie ingratiated himself against his trouser legs by rubbing back and forth. Temple chuckled and felt much better; at least someone else felt intimidated by Lieutenant Molina.

  “Sorry, sir,” Tharp said. “I mean, ma’am. Being a writer isn’t exactly ‘working for’ an editor, or even a publisher. We’re all free-lancers, at bottom. Certain publishers buy certain of our books, and that’s the extent of it.”

  “And they put them out under certain names?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  Tharp’s cocky smile became both gentle and bitter. “Would you buy Indigo Atwill? Two hundred thousand historical romance readers did. Maeve Michaels? Sean Owen, then? Kevin Gill? How about Owen James and Jesse Wister? It’s bad strategy to use the second half of the alphabet for an author’s last name, but I have an affinity for bad strategy. I see, Lieutenant, that none of my aliases rings a bell—good for my continuing freedom but bad for my writing career. No wonder I’m out here in limbo while the sainted Lanyard Hunter, who under his own name sat out three years in Joliet, basks in the adjacent limelight.”

  “Are you saying Hunter has a record?”

  “I’m not saying anything. I am merely venting a bit of authorial bile. I presume that an autopsy of the late lamented Mr. Royal has returned a verdict of death by unnatural adventure?”

  Molina regarded the writer with polite wonder until the man shook his head as if emerging from a mental fog. The black cat, unacknowledged and perhaps miffed, stalked behind the pillar and vanished. Temple hoped he was heading back to the storeroom like a good kitty.

  “Sorry.” Tharp offered a final head-clearing shake and a wry smile not without charm. “I was talking like a character out of Agatha Christie, wasn’t I? I’m a natural mimic. My personal, as well as my literary style adapts to suit the subject matter. How can I help you, Lieutenant?”

  “If you didn’t work for the late Mr. Royal, how would you describe your relationship?”

  “I wrote books; he bought ’em. I could always churn something out when one of his prima donnas was overdue. Or when one of theirs required a complete rewrite. I was Royal’s safety net. He could always take my stuff and ram it through with just some copy-editing.’ Course, that wasn’t enough for Pennyroyal Press to pull me out of third-lead position or onto the best-seller list.”

  “Lorna Fennick said you were one of the imprint’s bestselling authors,” Temple put in.

  Owen/Tharp/Gill/Michaels/Et cetera regarded her pityingly. “High production. None of my titles sold that much, but I sold ’em a lot of my titles. It adds up. But the big-buck advances, the sure thing, no, that’s never been my role.”

  “I’m puzzled,” Molina began, surprising Temple, who’d never expected to hear her admit any such problem. “You say the other authors turned in unpublishable work? Not big sellers like Hunter and Davis, surely?”

  Tharp snorted with gusto. “Are you kidding? They were the worst of the wimps. Look, I’m a writer. Day in, day out; trends in, trends out. In the late sixties I wrote Gothics; in the seventies it was historical romance; the eighties were Westerns and male adventure, and horror; now I’ve hit this medical gore vein, excuse the expression, and at least Owen Tharp earns some royalties even. But Hunter, he’s a medical con man, an obsessive, if you wanta know the truth. Sure, he knows the underbelly of a hospital, but pacing, story, structure—phooey! And Davis is just a Kankakee nurse with a weird sense of horror who wrote this strange little book which somehow found its way to the Pennyroyal slush pile and, bingo, she’s a star. Editors always like writers they can remake better than ones they have to take as is, because they know what they’re doing.”

  “Slush pile?” Molina inquired faintly.

  Temple was feeling beneficent. “Unsolicited manuscripts, sent without benefit of agent or introduction. Some best-sellers have been plucked from the slush pile—”

  “And a few million haven’t,” Tharp finished.

  “How long have you been in Las Vegas, Mr. Tharp?”

  “Lieutenant. Lieutenant.” He looked down. He looked up. The only place he didn’t look was at the thick, twisting line of Lanyard Hunter fans, all bookstore owners likely to order mega-amounts of the new fall title. “I’ve been here since Tuesday. I like to play the slot machines and a little craps. I coulda killed Chester, easy. Anybody could have, that late and that lonely. But I didn’t. Without Pennyroyal Press, I wouldn’t have the modicum of success I do; I’d be writing porn or Ninja Turtle novelettes. He never axed my stuff, wasn’t any fun in it. He never owned me enough to push me to the top. It was a comfortable arrangement for us both.”

  “Now that he’s gone, you might be given first-title status.”

  “Lead title, it’s called. No, it doesn’t work that way. Now he’s gone, the whole imprint could be cannibalized and I could be out a gravy train. I had no reason to dust the dude, honest.”

  Molina remained silent but skeptical.

  “Oops, I’m sounding like Sam Spade or something. Sorry. Habit. Anything more?”

  “Not for now.”

  “Good. I’m gonna hit the slots. The odds are better there.”

  Tharp pushed off the pillar he’d been upholding and melded with the crowd. Temple regarded Molina expectantly.

  “Thanks for the tour,” the detective said absently. “I’m going to have a long talk with Hunter about his white-coated past as soon as the signing is over.”

  It was a dismissal, which Temple acknowledged with an internal clench of disappointment. Asking people personal questions was a stimulating pastime. She’d hoped to eavesdrop on more of Molina’s interviews. But she gave way gracefully.

  “I’ll introduce you to Lorna Fennick, the PR director. She’ll arrange everything with Hunter.”

  “Oh, good, Temple!” Lorna greeted the pair as they approached the besieged autograph table.

  Lorna took the introduction of Molina calmly and bent down to pass the police officer’s request to Hunter. He showed no alarm. Sterling-silver hair only enhanced youthful features. His light gray eyes flicked up from the flyleaf he was inscribing in a flowing hand, resting on Temple with interest.

  “It’ll be another fifteen minutes, Lieutenant Molina,” Lorna said. “There’s a private area in the RCD booth where you can talk.”

  When Molina nodded and resumed her place at the pillar until the signing ended, Lorna clutched Temple’s wrist to detain her.

  “Listen, Temple! I had to leave Mavis Davis in the green room. She is not in good shape. Chester’s death really ripped her up. And the stress of the mass interview... I shouldn’t have left her, but I had to get Lanyard set up and I can’t leave until everything’s squared away, including this police interview all of a sudden. Be a doll and baby-sit Mavis for me. You know.”

  Temple did know, and nodded. She also did a mental jig of glee. There was nothing she’d like better than to sit down with a distraught Mavis Davis and ask a few uncensored questions.

  Waving a cheery goodbye to the unimpressed Lieutenant Molina, Temple skittered her way through the throngs. Even as she kept one eye out for the delinquent black cat, a thrill of intuition and excitement zinged from her toes to her scalp. Temple scented something electric in the conv
ention hall’s chill, icily conditioned air, a hot lead scintillating like heat lightning in the distance.

  She almost forgot that her feet hurt.

  8

  Feline Follies

  “There you are, T.B.!”

  Temple stopped dead amid a maelstrom of passersby. “Amazing. Twenty thousand people and you find me just like that.”

  Crawford Buchanan produced the expression he expected to pass for a smile. “The Baker and Taylor people want to talk to you pronto.”

  “Hasn’t Security explained that they’re looking into it?”

  “Apparently B and T places more faith in you, T.B., for whatever reason.”

  She eyed her watch. The tempting Mavis Davis would have to sit unconsoled for a few minutes. Certainly a suspect-starved cop like Lieutenant Molina would not let a proven medical con man like Lanyard Hunter slip away without at least a half-hour grilling, so there should be time to placate Baker fit Taylor and still interrogate... comfort the Davis woman.

  “Well, don’t thank me,” Buchanan whined as Temple sped away on winged Liz Claiborne pistachio-colored heels.

  Baker & Taylor—the wholesaler—occupied a handsomely accessorized string of booths directly off the Rotunda, which was the entire vast length of the exhibition area away. Temple finally sighted their mock-mahogany-paneled pillars towering above surrounding exhibits. Rich tones of emerald, wine and teal fostered the impression of a well-to-do library. Amidst all this tasteful opulence sat the pièce de résistance, all forlorn.

  Baker and Taylor—the actual felines—had, for their first in-purrson ABA appearance, been provided with a royal setting. An eight-feet-tall display case was painted all around with a waist-high trompe l’oeil mural of bookcases holding forthcoming fall titles.

  Above that, a large custom Lucite habitat had showcased the famous pair for their public. Inside were cat beds shaped like easy chairs. Chintz draped the “windows” on all four sides; carpet-padded ladders climbed to an upper reach of painted library shelves equipped with such apparent feline classics as The Brothers Katamazov, Ben-Purr, A Tail of Two Kitties, Androclaws and the Lion, The Feline Comedy and, of course, a complete set of Lilian Jackson Braun’s The Cat Who mysteries. Perhaps the most poignant—and properly prophetic—title was The Cat Who Walked Through Walls by Robert Feline.