Cat In An Aqua Storm

Temple sighed as a sense of slow draining dripped down her arms like an IV of molasses-thick wine. Tension and worry were siphoning down her fingertips into the warm water. The tub was deep and long enough to float in when it was filled to the top. It would be, because she had bought this plastic thingamajig that sealed off the overflow drain, just so she could float like she had when she was a kid. The advantage of being petite.

So Temple drifted in the soapless, clear water like a fetus in amniotic fluid, detached, isolated, the seeds of future thoughts spinning disconnectedly around her.

This is Wednesday. The contest is Saturday, when Daddy Gold Dust is in for a big surprise. Three more days to get through before it’s all over. And it is all over for Dorothy and Kitty. Kitty. Another “y”-ending name. Had Kitty been the birthday girl on the cake? Was her real name Katharine? Sure. Katharine, that was what she had been called in grade school, the name that the scared kid peeking out from the costume niche had used. Kitty had come later, Kitty for short. Kitty was tougher, Kitty had reason to be. Poor kids. One dead on Monday, one on Tuesday.

Temple sat up with a splash. Monday’s death, and Tuesday’s. And Monday’s child is fair of face, but Tuesday’s child is... far to go? No. Works for a living? No. Monday’s child is fair of face, and Tuesday’s child is... all space. Ace. Mace. Place. Is bace/dace/face/gace/ hace/jace/case/lace! Is lavender and lace? Mace/nace/pace/ race/tace—trace/brace/grace. Grace.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace! Not anymore.

She leaned forward to jerk the faucets shut, then stopped, grabbing the porcelain tub grips, dripping onto her sandwich as she stepped down to the bath mat and pulled the towel off the chrome bar behind her.

The hotel-size Turkish towel swaddled her like a graceless sari. At six-four, Max couldn’t stand squinky towels. She waddled, wet and enervated, into the bedroom to dial the Goliath. Still knew the main switchboard number by heart.

She asked for Lieutenant Molina, and finally got her. Then she told her the theory.

Silence. “You think the killer is following this nursery rhyme?” Molina asked. “Just because you linked the two victims to the first couple lines?”

“Maybe! But that’s not the important thing. If the murderer is following the rhyme, there’ll be more deaths—or attempted ones.”

“You know the next lines?”

“No, but I could call the library. I wanted to tell you first.”

“Commendable, but the, ah, ordeal you went through could throw off your emotional equilibrium. You’re liable to see shadows behind every bush for a while.”

“And serial killers in every nursery rhyme?”

“I didn’t say that, but your theory is thin, to say the least. Anyone could twist the rhymes to apply to most of the women here. They’re all ‘fair of face and full of grace,’ or could pass for it on a cloudy day. Sorry. Get some rest, and leave the detection to the pros.”

Temple sat and dripped on her bedspread after Molina had hung up. She called the library anyway and jotted down the eight lines the librarian looked up. Wednesday’s child was full of woe. According to the tales she had heard about the strippers' pasts and private lives, that was probably another universal truth.

WOE. That was the name of the organization Ruth Morris belonged to. Was Ruth in danger? When had she been born? But no: she wasn’t a stripper. Far from it. What came next? Thursday’s child, she saw, scanning ahead, “has far to go.”

So do we all, she agreed with Molina. So do we all. Too bad Electra was at the Goliath, or Temple would try her theory out on her. Or on Matt.

But she didn’t have his number, she was too tired to go up to his apartment and she was probably all wet anyway.

She read ahead to Friday’s child. Loving and giving. Saturday’s child “has to work for its living.”

And Saturday all these children turned sex icons would be doing just that, gyrating for dollars. And for other, less tangible rewards that had their roots in the past.

She must have fallen asleep on the bed, wrapped in the damp towel. The room dripped with blinds-drawn, deep afternoon lethargy when she awoke to the sound of jangling. Not jangling, ding-donging. Her glorious doorbell.

She stumbled to the light switch, then blinked at her watch until she could read it. Six-something. She rushed for the door, tripping over her discarded shoes.

Luckily, she had not been too exhausted to use her chain lock. Turning the deadbolt seemed more than her aching arm could handle, but she finally edged the door open enough to peer out.

“Oh, Matt! I was thinking of you. I mean, I was thinking of you just before I fell asleep—” No, that wasn’t cool, might as well cut to the gory chase. “There’s been another murder at the Goliath!”

He took her non sequiturs with Matt-style equanimity. “I’d like to hear about it, but can I come in first?”

“Yes, but I’m not dressed. I’ll be right back out.”