Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"What do they call this?" Amber asked Qwilleran. "I wish I had written it down so I can tell my sisters." "Stracciatella alla romana. What will happen to tenants like Isabelle if the building is restored to its original grandeur?" "What will happen to any of us?" said Amber with a shrug. "I'll have to find a rich husband and move to the country. Maybe he'll set me up in a shop of my own." She had a suggestive twinkle in her eyes, which he ignored.

He said, "You had a husband the last time I saw you." She twisted her lips in an unattractive smirk. "Husbands come and go like the Zwinger Boulevard bus." "You've changed your hair color, too." "This is my natural color. I dyed it for him because he liked brunettes. I suppose you're having a tough time staying single now that you've got all that money." "So far I've been successful without trying very hard," he said, and then added to keep the record straight, "but I have a good friend up north who shares my interests and tastes. I hope she'll come down for a visit while I'm here." "That must be nice," said Amber. "We weren't so compatible. I don't know why we ever happened to get married.

I'm a slob around the house, but my ex liked everything just so. A place for everything and everything in its place, you know. If he repeated that remark once more, I swore I'd shoot him, and I didn't want to go to prison, so I filed for divorce. I hope he marries a computer. Mary tells me you're divorced." "Right." He popped a chunk of crusty roll into his mouth to preclude further elaboration.

Amber was not easily put off, however. "What happened?" "Nothing worth mentioning." He gobbled another morsel. "What do you do at the auction house?" "Just clerical work. It doesn't pay much, but I'm working with antiques, so I like it. You should come to one of our auctions. Last month a painting went for $2.3 million - right in your class, Qwill." He huffed into his moustache and ignored the remark. "Here comes the veal." She had ordered the top-price rib chop with wine and mushroom sauce, and now she asked for a bottle of Valpolicella, explaining, "What I don't drink, I can take home." As Qwilleran knifed his medium-priced vitello alla piccata, sauteed with lemon and capers, he inquired about Mrs.

Tuttle. "She seems to have a remarkable blend of motherly concern and military authority." "Oh, she's wonderful! Can you believe that she was actually born in the Casablanca basement?" Amber replied.

"Her father was the custodian. They lived in the basement, and she grew up playing in the boiler room and on the stairs.

By the time she was twelve she knew the building inside out, and it was always her ambition to be manager. She's very obliging, as long as you don't break the rules. Ask her for anything you need. You may not get it, but she'll smile a lot." "I might need some more pails. The skylight leaks. Also, the hot water in the shower is unpredictable." "We all have that problem," said Amber. "You get used to it." "Do you know the person in 14-B?" "No, she's new, but I've seen her on the elevator-sort of wild-looking." Amber was gobbling her food hungrily.

"I hope she doesn't take too many showers," Qwilleran said. "What can you tell me about the Countess?" "I've never met her. I've never even seen her! I'm not in her class. Mary knows her. Mary gets invited to the twelfth floor because her father is a banker and she went to one of those eastern colleges." Amber was well into her bottle of Valpolicella and was losing what little reticence she had. "When you lived here before, Qwill, we all thought you had a thing for Mary and couldn't get anywhere because you worked for a newspaper and she thought she was too good for you." "It's gratifying to know that all the gossips aren't in Pickax City," he said. "Shall we have dessert? I recommend gelato and espresso." Then he launched the subject that was uppermost in his mind. "Why is the penthouse apartment being sublet - with all those valuable furnishings?" "The former tenant died, and the estate is going through the courts," Amber said. "Mary had to pull strings to get you in there. If it wasn't for all your money - " "Who was the tenant?" "An art dealer - part owner of a gallery in the financial district, Bessinger-Todd." "Apparently he was very successful, although I don't concur with his choice of art." "It was a woman, Qwill. Dianne Bessinger. We called her Lady Di." "Why was she living in a broken-down place like the Casablanca?" "I guess she thought the penthouse was glamorous. She was the one who founded SOCK." "Did you ever see her apartment? It's filled with mushroom paintings." "I know. She gave a party for SOCK volunteers once, and I asked her about the mushrooms. I don't pretend to know anything about art. She said mushrooms are sexy." "What happened to her?" "She... well, she died unexpectedly." For the first time that evening, Amber was speaking guardedly.