Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

She could trip over Charlton Heston, Paul Newman or Sean Penn and she wouldn’t care—just so long as he wasn’t dead.

Outside conference room 208’s nondescript door she paused to contemplate the coming ordeal. Nothing was worse than a triumvirate of PR persons with conflicting goals. A messy murder put a lot of public images on the line: the convention center’s, the ABA’s and, especially, that of the big publishing house that sponsored Pennyroyal Press. Temple lowered her glasses to her nose, lengthened her neck for an illusion of greater height and charged the door.

Correction, Temple thought as she surveyed the two people in the otherwise empty room: nothing is worse than a trio of PR women, definitely the more dangerous of the species. Public relations was one of the rare fields where women could rise to the top; most of them would not settle for less, especially Claudia Esterbrook, the power-suited woman who’d run the ABA publicity circus maximus since the heyday of Messalina. That she didn’t show it was only thanks to the gentle art of plastic surgery.

“We don’t have much time,” Claudia announced. Claudia’s lacquered hair was the color of tapioca. It was razor-cut and so were her mandarin-length fingernails. One tapped the table with Freddy Kruegerish emphasis.

“I’ve got a rock star,” she said, “with a mouth that Drano couldn’t fix meeting the press in twenty-five minutes. I’ve got to be there for damage control.”

“This won’t take long.” Temple clicked toward the conference table and slung her briefcase atop the beige Formica. “We better get our acts together before we rush out conflicting press releases on the Royal death. That would really prolong the agony.”

The mouse-haired woman with a long, sinewy face sitting opposite Claudia Esterbrook nodded. “Lorna Fennick, director of PR for Reynolds-Chapter-Deuce. You’re right; if we’re not all tap-dancing in time, it’ll be Reverb City.” From her open patent-leather briefcase she withdrew sheaves of paper and spun them across the slick tabletop.

“Bios of Chester Royal; a history of the Pennyroyal Press imprint; releases on its three biggest authors and a statement from our publisher expressing regret et cetera for Mr. Royal’s death.”

“Great.” Temple grinned as she sat. This was going to be easier than she’d thought. Despite Lorna Fennick’s tough-turkey looks, she evinced the hyperactive efficiency of the best of her breed. “Here are copies of the convention center’s local and regional press list. That’ll let you know who you’ll have to fend off.”

“Sure.” Claudia Esterbrook delicately raked her homicidal nails down her neck. “Something nasty, like murder, happens and we have to fend off the press. Do our regular jobs right—promoting good news, like books and writers—and we can’t fill a quarter of the ABA interview room.”

“You know why,” Lorna put in. “Book reviewers have zero clout because book sections get virtually no advertising support. We’d get more coverage at the ABA if newspapers got more publisher and bookstore ad bucks. Money talks.”

“Yeah, that’s why our conventions draw so many city-desk types who only want to cover an ABA to flack their own coffee-stained manuscripts, most of which are best suited for use as blotter paper at a puppy academy.”

“That’s the point, Claudia.” Lorna Fennick sipped from a Styrofoam cup. “The ABA does attract members of the press, whatever the motive, and every reporter eats up something meaty like murder, especially at an unlikely place like an ABA.”

“I don’t know about that ‘unlikely’ part,” Claudia retorted. “You shouldn’t be surprised by what happens when egos collide at an ABA. Not two days ago Chester Royal called you a ‘ball-busting press-release pusher’ to your face.”

Lorna flushed. “Chester Royal was rotten to everyone; it was part of his mystique,” she explained to Temple. “Some people think that’s the only way to express power.”

“I take it the victim was a wee bit unlikable?” Temple said as An Awful Thought occurred. “That could prolong the investigation into next week—of the year 2023!” Claudia sniffed. “Listen, Little Miss Lollipop, Royal even had a run-in with you. Don’t you remember? You were in the press room and mentioned that the Vegas papers weren’t big on covering culture.”

Temple’s eyebrows had lifted at the ‘Little Miss Lollipop’ crack and stayed there. “I remember some guy going into a Geritol tirade about the book business being ‘thrills and chills and bottom line, not literature.’ I think he called me ‘Girlie.’ ”

Lorna groaned. “That’s Chester. Or was Chester. He played professional curmudgeon.”

“Heavy on the ‘cur,’ ” Claudia added, scanning Lorna’s sheaf of press releases. “Frankly, Reynolds-Chapter-Deuce is lucky to unload the old grouch. I’ve heard he was getting so senile lately he was deep-sixing the imprint. Mr. Bigwig’s regrets are for show only.”