Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

While Mary returned to the Blue Dragon, Qwilleran zigzagged his way through the parking lot, avoiding potholes filled with rainwater. To his surprise, slot #28 was finally vacant. Now he could move the Purple Plum into its rightful space. He pulled out his car keys, but there was something wrong with the purplish-blue metallic four-door parked in #27.

It appeared to have sunk into the ground! Actually, it had four flat tires.

9

WHETHER THE TIRES of the Purple Plum were slashed or the valves were loosened, it made no difference to Qwilleran.

In high dudgeon he strode toward the building entrance. Halfway there he stopped and considered: If he left the scene, someone could pull into the lot and turn into his legal parking space. He returned to #28 and stood between the yellow lines - or lines that had been yellow once upon a time. He took up his position with a belligerent stance and folded arms and fierce expression made more intimidating by his rambunctious moustache.

The first car to pull into the lot was a BMW. Hmmm, Qwilleran murmured to himself. What was a BMW doing in the Casablanca parking lot? The driver parked several slots away and walked slowly toward the building entrance. It was a woman. She walked seductively. She was dressed exquisitely. She was the vision he had seen in the lobby the night before.

"Excuse me, miss," he said in his richest, most mellifluent tones. "Are you going into the building?" He was glad he was wearing a suit and tie.

"That was my intention," she replied in a silky voice.

He had no time for pleasurable reactions. "Kindly do me a favor," he asked. "Tell Mrs. Tuttle to send Rupert out here. Someone has slashed my tires." He gestured toward the dejected vehicle slumped in the adjoining slot.

"Who would have the temerity to perpetrate such a reprehensible act?" she replied.

Qwilleran thought, She's not real; she's a robot; she's programmed; she's from outer space. Calmly he said, "I was parked in his - or her - space because my own was occupied by someone else, and I suppose he - or she - resented it. Have you had any trouble like that?" "Fortunately I seem immune to hostility," she replied. "I shall be happy to send the custodian to your assistance." "Watch out for the puddles," he advised. "They're a foot deep." She gave him a languid smile and walked to- ward the building. In a state of transfixion Qwilleran watched her go, breathing lustily into his moustache.

When Rupert arrived a few minutes later, it was determined that the tires were not slashed. Someone had tampered with the valves, and Rupert knew a garage that would come right over with portable airtanks.

"Who pays for #27?" Qwilleran demanded.

"I dunno." "Well, as soon as the tires are inflated, I'm going to move my car into my own slot and leave it there for the rest of the winter. I'll walk, or take the bus... By the way, who is the woman who drives the BMW?" "Winnie Wingfoot," said Rupert. "She's a model. Lives on Ten." "Is that her real name?" "I dunno. I guess so." If Qwilleran entertained any thoughts of revenge against the reprehensible perpetrator, they were mollified by thoughts of Winnie Wingfoot. He floated up to Fourteen on Old Red, changed absentmindedly into red pajamas instead of his gray warm-up suit, and fed the cats twice. For his own dinner he phoned for pizza.

"Casablanca? What floor?" asked the order taker.

"Fourteen." "We don't deliver in that building any higher than Three." "Send it over. I'll meet the delivery man at the front door," Qwilleran said.

He walked down to the main floor for the sake of the exercise and encountered the jogger between Eleven and Ten. The man was running up the stairs. Between aerobic gasps he explained, "Too muddy... round the... vacant lots." Then he added, "You going... to bed early?" Only then did Qwilleran realize his Freudian slip. He returned to the penthouse and changed from red pajamas into gray warm-ups.

In the lobby a white-haired man was taking his constitutional by walking briskly the length of the hallway and back, swinging his arms and taking exaggerated strides. A few stragglers were picking up their mail. The Asian woman was coming in with her two children, and Amber was on her way out.

"I've been trying to get you on the phone," she said. "Courtney wants me to bring you to dinner at his place Saturday night. You remember - the Kipper & Fine salesman." "What's the occasion?" "Nothing. He just likes to show off. He can be a nerd sometimes, but the food's always good- - better than I cook - and he knows all the gossip." "I accept," said Qwilleran without further deliberation.