I can move fast when necessary, and I know where I am going: to check out a reliable source of mine. If any foul play of a feline nature is abroad in this town, this gent will know about it.
Soon my hot-trotting feet have slipped the surly bonds of the Strip’s endless asphalt. I approach a small shopping center not far from downtown. Like most desert burgs, Las Vegas is laid out plain, not fancy: the long angled line of the Strip, otherwise known as Las Vegas Boulevard, shoots like a cocked elbow as crooked as Saturday night dice from McCarran International Airport to Downtown.
Otherwise, a few north-south avenues and a lot of east- west cross streets divvy up the four-square monotony of town planning. Except for the angling Strip and Highway 15 that parallels it, the street layout resembles a tic-tac- toe board, which may be why some call the old place ticky-tacky.
Once away from the Strip and Downtown, where all the high-rise neon sprouts, tourists express surprise at the city's modesty. Few buildings hit three stories; most houses are one-story bungalows with rocks on the roof. You heard me, stones are a roofing material of choice. Maybe the people who like to live here—and a lot do—have just got rocks on their heads.
In fact, were it not for the unique drawing card of legalized gambling, you might say, one would not find so much as a spitball out here. I might say more, but it does not become me to disparage the place of my birth.
My destination comes into view: the Thrill 'n' Quill bookstore, which occupies a narrow storefront. I pause to review the alphabet soup of tomes displayed in the window. Crimes from A to Z, you might say. Although the menu here is murder and mayhem, it is more tastefully presented than on the front of the Pennyroyal Press booth at the ABA.
Thrill ’n’ Quill book covers feature tangled gardens and shadowy figures, lengths of pearls and open bottles of sinister prescriptions, a lot of letter openers—or are they daggers I see before me?—and the occasional depiction of a noble feline, usually in silhouette. (I am getting to an age where silhouette is not always my best angle.)
The most ignoble feline of them all reclines in the window, white-socked feet tucked under his bib and a look of complacency on his tiger-striped mug.
I pace back and forth on the hot sidewalk to indicate my interest in entering the establishment. He yawns, showing not very white teeth. That is how the domestic life degrades an ancient breed; not enough natural fiber in the diet to keep the physique sleek and the teeth lethal.
In his own sweet time the lout at last rises, stretches and bounds down into the shop proper. I race to the door with high hopes and corresponding cries. Soon there comes an urgent call from within, then another. Shortly thereafter, the door opens, but instead of yours truly strutting in, a firm foot in high-top Reekbok (at my nose level it does) bars the way.
“Stay out, you old reprobate,” a reedy male voice admonishes.
In a moment my acquaintance sallies out, whiskers smooth and hound’s-tooth-checked collar turned around so the rabies tags chime at center throat. It is enough to make a red-blooded street cat puke.
Ingram, however, as this guy is known to his intimates, is a savvy sort about some things, for which I am willing to put up with a lot of hogwash. We ankle over to a shady spot around the side, which Ingram first dusts with his tail before sitting. I have never seen such a fastidious dude in my life, but then a bookshop existence does that to some. I remind myself not to spend much time around the ABA, in case this sort of thing is catching.
I fill in Ingram on the missing fancy cats. He has heard of these Scottish-fold geeks (apparently the Thrill ’n’ Quill also stocks books on related subjects) and, in fact, reveals that a mug shot of the pair adorns the bookshop bulletin board.
I say I already know what these missing persons look like, I want to know where they might be at.
Ingram spreads his rear toes and examines one neatly clipped nail. Then he commences to tell me he has not heard a thing. If they are on the town they are keeping a low profile, says he. Nobody has reported a midnight serenade with a Highland skirl to it, and nobody's domestic life has been interrupted by the appearance of foreign suitors. So Ingram tells me.
I suggest that these out-of-town types might have been surgically prevented from that last sort of thing.
Ingram eyes me slyly through his amber peepers and begins one of his more boring lectures, to the effect that not all felines are rabble-rousing ladies’ fellows like myself. He remarks that, given my aggressive amatory proclivities, it is a miracle that my ears do not have a decidedly Scottish-fold look by now.
“Listen,” say I, "I know how to keep my ears pinned back and outa the way in a set-to. Now are you saying you do not have a clue to the absent Baker and Taylor?”
Ingram admits as how he sees one of my ex-lady-friends lately, purely on a platonic basis, he adds. This particular acquaintance is just out of the hoosegow, otherwise known as the Animal Pound, and mentioned that a couple of out-of-towners had gotten rounded up.
Scottish folds are out-of-towners, all right. I inform Ingram that this is not much of a lead and inquire as to the appearance of this so-called pal of mine.
Ingram is not flattering. Two-tone low-life with a grizzled mug and a tail kink, says he.
Sassafras, say I, that being the name of the cat in question, not an expression.
Ingram yawns again. He is openly dubious about Sassafras being a genuine nomenclature and implies that my friends trade names as often as they switch humans and in general are a promiscuous lot.
I am forced to growl my disagreement. Ingram can be a schnook with whom I find my temper growing short. I point out that “Ingram” is a somewhat less than riveting moniker also, and that his usual ready rumor-mongering has come up pretty thin soup. He gets on his hind horse and says that he is named for a major wholesaler in the book business and that Thrill ’n’ Quill owner Maeveleen Pearl has a computer that instantly connects her to Ingram Central and takes the name quite seriously, or she would not have conferred it upon him.
Further, it has been a slow week, Ingram admits, rising to rub his chin on the corner of the building. He complains that he does not get as good info with The Substitute on duty while Maeveleen Pearl is trudging around with loaded book bags at the convention center. She returns every night with bound galleys, catalogs and more posters of Baker and Taylor. It is obvious by now that Ingram does not care if those two bozos ever show up again, in person or not.
I glimpse the green-eyed demon in Ingram’s expression, even though his eyes are old-gold-colored. If one is a bookstore mascot it would no doubt be a trifle aggravating to find some outside pinup boys tacked to every wall. Me, I would not give you an empty Tender Vittles bag for any of them, including Ingram, but there is no accounting for tastes.
I bid Ingram an insincere goodbye and pace back to headquarters, pondering. No matter how I shake it, an unauthorized call on the city pound is in order, if only to eliminate possibilities. I am not overjoyed. I also have not failed to note what number falls on this chapter of my reminiscences. Thirteen does not look like a lucky number for Baker and Taylor. Maybe not for Midnight Louie, either.
14
Behind the Eight Ball
Temple ripped a page from the D section of the Las Vegas Yellow Pages, folded it into quarters, and skidded her rolling office chair to the wall where her tote bag rested.
It took her a minute to contemplate the jam-packed but admirably organized contents for a place to stash this most precious cargo of the moment. Suddenly she was aware of being alone in the office—and of being intently observed.
Living with Max had cultivated that sixth sense. She’d often pottered around the apartment in happy self-absorption only to feel the abrupt pull of someone’s utter attention.
Temple would look up, or around, and Max would be staring at her with the sphinxlike intensity of a cat, as if he were dreaming deep, dark dreams just as she happened to cross his focal point. Or he’d arrive in a room unheard and unseen.
At first, Temple had decided that Max liked surprising people, that the lax attention span of most people was one of the bridges to his magic. Later, she suspected that he’d been training himself, training her, to heed stimuli only heard or seen half-consciously. Either way, goose bumps blossomed on her forearms as she looked up.
Claudia Esterbrook stood in the doorway staring at Temple’s Stuart Weitzman kicky black-patent-and-hot-pink heels as if the ABA PR woman were the Wicked Witch of the West browsing for something in the way of ruby-red slippers.
The shock of seeing her wasn’t as bad as if it had really been Max, but was still unpleasant. Claudia’s face had dropped its professional perkiness. The flesh had curdled, sagging and hardening. Claudia stared at Temple and her high-spirited shoes as if they embodied everything that she saw slipping from her own life.
The insight was fleeting. Then Claudia’s face and voice sweetened. She stepped into the room and might never have posed unhappily on the threshold.
“Breaking news on the Royal death,” she announced.
“They haven’t found... somebody?”
Claudia measured Temple’s surprise, her ebbing vulnerability, and loosed her most impervious smile. “Oh, they’ve found somebody—not the killer. More like one of Royal’s victims. A wife, ex variety. Right here at the ABA. That Lieutenant Molina did some biographical backtracking. It leaves us PR people looking like horses’ derrieres—or like we’ve got something to hide. Here’s an addendum to the group press release. A postmortem statement from the ex-Mrs. Royal.”
Temple slipped the twice-folded Yellow Page into the tote’s side pocket. Some instinct told her to keep Claudia from seeing it. She took the sheet of scanty double-spaced type Claudia offered and skimmed the contents.
“An editor at Cockerel-Tuppence-Trine? Why didn’t she come forward immediately?”
“I imagine that’s what Lieutenant Molina wanted to know. She also wanted to know why Lorna and I didn’t tell her.”
“And?”
“We don’t keep track of everyone’s exes. With the musical chairs at publishing houses today, it’s tough enough to keep tabs on who’s in whose job, much less who’s in whose bed.”
“Or out of it. So when Molina asked you about this Rowena Novak, you cleverly scurried over to CTT and got a statement. Great thinking. The ex-wife wasn’t too shook up, I suppose?”
“About the death—hard to tell. About Molina’s interrogation, probably. That lieutenant means to find the murderer before we all pack up on Tuesday.”
Temple nodded. “Thanks, Claudia. I doubt I’ll be involved in any more PR on the case, but it’s good to be up-to-date. Now, I’ve got an urgent errand to run—” Temple left the release on her desk and headed for the door.
“Oh,” Claudia called after her, “got to change some kitty litter?”
Temple whirled in the doorway and studied Claudia, noting the same bitter expression she’d observed earlier. Then Temple blithely shook her head.
“Nothing so important—just a shoe sale at Pay Less. ’Bye.”
In five minutes Temple was at the Cockerel-Tuppence-Trine booths on the crowded exhibit floor, eyeing name tags.
“Miss Novak?”
The woman nodded. She was plainer than dry toast, a spare, Persian-lamb-haired woman of forty-something with eyeglass frames that echoed her jaundiced skin tones. Trendy shades of chartreuse and rust underlined her enduring homeliness.
“Can we... talk? I’m Temple Barr. I’m assisting with public relations for the convention and also helping Lieutenant Molina with orientation.”
“I’ve talked to Lieutenant Molina, and Claudia Esterbrook.”
“I know, but I hoped you might spare a few more moments. The police don’t understand how an ABA works. They need a translator, and it’s my job to get the information out and the facts right.”
Rowena Novak’s big-boned face screwed tighter, then she sighed. “All right. The refreshment area should be quieter with the lunch rush done. I could use a soft drink.”
“Fine. I’ll buy.”
They threaded through the crowds, Temple making sure that her catch remained in tow. As the woman had said, seats were available in the vast eating area. They shuffled through the cafeteria setup, Temple suddenly ravenous after her nonlunch. She splurged on a sweet roll and gaped when Rowena Novak ordered an honest-to-God Coke, no diet version.
As they hunched over their trays at a round white table, people came and sat and left all around them. In one way it was the worst site for a probing interview, in another the best. The casual atmosphere and crowds made it seem that nothing serious could be said here, so of course it would be.
“What do you need to know?” Rowena Novak took a quick sip of her Coke.
“It’s still hard to explain to Lieutenant Molina what an imprint is, how someone gets started in the business. You were married to Chester Royal for—?”
“Seven years, an appropriate number, like a plague of Egypt.”
“Was that before—or after—the formation of Pennyroyal Press?”
“Oh, before. Chester was writing nonfiction then.”
“Really?”
“That’s how I met him. An agent was enthusiastic about a proposal of his. Of course in nonfiction the author’s salability is as important as the book’s.”
“You mean, whether the author’s good-looking, articulate, will do well on media tours, that kind of thing?”
“Exactly.”
Nothing more was forthcoming except another of those tiny, birdlike sips. Temple munched a mouthful of sinfully sugared pastry. How to keep the interview going before Rowena Novak suddenly finished her Coke and walked away?
“So Mr. Royal, Chester, went from author to editor. That must have been after you’d married.”
“Yes. He became interested in the other end of the business after we’d met and begun—I suppose you’d call it dating.”
A flicker of disgust in those ocher eyes told Temple that despite the woman’s enviable composure, much that was unpleasant lurked beneath.
“I understand Chester Royal was the marrying kind.”
“If you’re asking which wife I was—it was number three. And Chester was not so much the marrying kind as the exploiting kind. If a woman came along he could use, he married her. At least he did when he was younger.”
“He didn’t marry Mavis Davis.” Temple issued a frank glance.
Rowena’s mouth quirked. “No. He’d figured out how to use women without marrying them by then. He owed it all to me.”
“Did you tell this to Lieutenant Molina?”
“No.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because you’re asking the right questions. I have nothing to hide about our lives together, about what he was. I don’t even hate him anymore, I just understand him. I probably understand—understood—Chester better than anybody. I taught him all he knew.”
When Temple stared at her incredulously, she added, “accidentally, of course,” and went on. “I’d never been married before, but I was no kid. I might have resisted Chester, but he was so fascinated, so enthralled by my work. At the time it seemed to mean that he took me seriously. What he took seriously was my work; he took my work.”
“Took your... work? How?”
“He absorbed it. He became what I was.”
Temple, still confused, searched for the right next question.
“Have you ever been betrayed in love, Miss Barr?”
It was a no more personal question than Temple had been asking. “Yes,” she answered with fierce honesty. “I think.”
Rowena laughed, a pleasant sound and an expression that did pleasant things to her plain face. “I can’t say I was disappointed in love, but I was betrayed in my judgment. I failed to see that it wasn’t I to whom Chester was so earnestly attracted, it was something I had.”
“What?”
“Power.”
Temple didn’t know what t
o say. Claudia’s press release had described Rowena Novak as a senior editor at Trine Books, not a bad position, but certainly not one that would put her into a corner office in Manhattan.
Rowena’s fingers, sallow and ringless, moved up and down the sides of the oversize Styrofoam cup as if they were caressing Baccarat crystal. Her face softened with rueful recollection, reflected a sadness at the ways of the world, at what she had been and Chester had done.
“He saw me edit, that’s all. He saw how careful I was in phrasing revision letters to my authors; he saw me worry when I couldn’t offer them the money, and support I thought their work deserved; he saw them trust me and depend on me. He saw how a good editor—and I was, am, a good editor—nourishes the literary ego, encourages it to stretch to produce the book it hopes to. He was fascinated by how my authors confessed their troubles—money, marriage. Writing books is a long, lonely business. Authors hope to find an editor who will listen through it all, though they seldom do today. Editors are itinerant midwives now, sometimes leaving a house in mid-contraction, unable to invest their own ego in an author or a work they may never see through to the end.”
“And Chester took what he saw you doing, twisted it, and became a bad editor.”
“A destructive one, rather. He didn’t do it consciously. You must remember he had started as a doctor, in the days when physicians were demigods. Patients came to him with their ills and insecurities extended, like an aspiring writer presenting a sickly manuscript. Through all the years, he had missed that position of power, of judgment.”
“Then why did he quit practicing medicine?”
“He had to. Can’t you guess?”
“No,” Temple admitted.
“Malpractice. He lost the suit, lost his license. Lost his power. He never really found himself again, until he met me and saw that there was another way to wield power over people’s lives and make money at it. Best of all, he discovered the medical thriller, so he could have it all back in a sense.”
“You give me the shivers. He sounds like a villain in one of his own books.”
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