Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

ON AN IMPULSE, after reading the murder-suicide clips in the Fluxion library, Qwilleran walked to the Bessinger-Todd Gallery in the financial district. It had the same address as the old Lambreth Gallery that he knew so well, but the interior had changed dramatically. At that morning hour the place had a vast emptiness, except for a business-suited man supervising a jeans-clad assistant perched on a stepladder. He turned in surprise as Qwilleran entered, saying, "We're closed. I thought the door was locked." "Am I intruding? I'm Jim Qwilleran, formerly of the Daily Fluxion. I used to cover the art beat when Mountclemens was the critic." "How do you do. I'm Jerome Todd. I've heard about Mountclemens, but that was before my time here. I'm from Des Moines." "I've been away for three years. I see you've enlarged the gallery." "Yes, we knocked out the ceiling so we could exhibit larger works, and we added the balcony for crafts objects." Qwilleran said, "I'm retired now and living up north, but I heard about the tragic loss of your partner and wanted to extend my condolences." "Thank you... Is there anything I can do for you?" Todd asked in an abrupt change of subject. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with one disturbing mannerism - the habit of pinching his nose as if he smelled an unpleasant odor.

Qwilleran was adept at inventing impromptu replies. "I happen to be staying at the Casablanca," he said, "and I would like to propose a memorial to Ms. Bessinger that would help the cause she championed." Todd looked, surprised and wary in equal proportions.

"What I envision," Qwilleran went on smoothly as if he had been planning it for months, "is a book about the historic Casablanca, using old photos from the public library. For text I would rely on interviews and research." "That would be costly to put together," said the dealer, withdrawing slightly as he began to anticipate a touch for money.

"There are grants available for publishing books on historical subjects," Qwilleran said coolly, "and revenue from the sale of the books would go to the Bessinger Memorial Fund. My own services would be donated." Instead of being relieved, Todd showed increased wariness. "Who would be interviewed?" he asked sharply.

"Local historians, architects, and persons who have recollections of the early Casablanca. You'll be surprised how many of them will come forward when we broadcast a request. My own attorney remembers eating spinach timbales in the rooftop restaurant as a boy." "I wouldn't want anyone to go digging into the circumstances of my partner's death. There's been too much notoriety and gossip already," the dealer said, pinching his nose.

"There would be nothing like that, I assure you," said Qwilleran. At that moment a glimpse of movement overhead caused him to look up; a Persian cat was walking along the railing of the balcony. "By the way," he said, "I'm subletting Ms. Bessinger's apartment while the estate is in probate, and I admire her taste in furniture and art." Todd nodded in silent agreement. "How long were you in partnership, Mr. Todd?" "Eighteen years. We came here to take over the Lambreth Gallery when Zoe Lambreth moved to California." "Do you happen to have any Rasmus paintings?" "I do not! And I'm weary of the talk about that fellow! There are plenty of living artists." Todd pinched his nose again.

"The only reason I asked is that I'm in the market for large-scale art for a house I'm building up north." Qwilleran was exercising his talent for instant falsehood.

"Then you must come to our opening on Friday night," said the dealer, visibly relieved as he anticipated cash flow.

"We're in the process of mounting the show, so the walls are vacant, but you'll see some impressive works at the vernisage." "I'm converting a barn into a residence," said Qwilleran, embroidering his innocent lie, "so I'll have large wall spaces, and I was hoping for a mushroom painting. Mushrooms seem appropriate for a barn." Stiffly Todd said, "All his work sold out immediately after his suicide. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have held some back, but I was in shock. They didn't sell well at all in June. He's worth more dead than alive. But if you come here Friday night you'll see the work of other artists you might like. What kind of barn are you remodeling?" "An apple barn. Octagonal." The barn on the Klingenschoen property had indeed stored apples, and it really was eight-sided.

"Spectacular! You might consider contemporary tapestries. Do you know the sizes of your wall spaces?" "Actually, the job isn't off the drawing board as yet," said Qwilleran, being completely truthful.