Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

To create a stir at the Press Club, Qwilleran wore a plaid flannel shirt, a field jacket, and his Aussie hat. Matt said enviously, "You're really living the life, Qwill!" They sat at a table in a far corner of the bar. "I wish I had a nickel," Qwilleran remarked, "for every time Arch Riker and I had lunch at this table." "I hear he was a great guy," said Matt. "He left just before I joined the staff. What's he doing now?" "He's editor and publisher of our small newspaper up north. It's called the Moose County Something." "And what do you do up there?" "I'm busier in my retirement than I was when I wrote for the Fluxion. Merely keeping up with the local gossip can be a full-time occupation in a small town." They ordered French onion soup and roast beef sandwiches, and Qwilleran specified horseradish. There had been a time when every waitress in the club knew that Qwilleran liked horseradish with beef, but those days were past.

Matt said, "Is that your cat's picture in the lobby?" "Yes, that's Koko. He's a lifetime member of the Press Club, and he has his own press card signed by the chief of police." "Hames says he's psychic." "All cats are psychic to a degree. If you pick up a can opener, they know whether you're going to open a can of catfood or a can of green beans. They can be sound asleep at the other end of the house, but all you have to do is think about salmon, and they're right there! I have to admit, though," Qwilleran said with thinly veiled pride, "that Koko goes the average cat one better. Perhaps you've heard about the pottery murders on River Road. Koko solved that case before the police knew a crime had been committed. Prior to that there was a major theft in Muggy Swamp, and then a shooting at the Villa Verandah, and later a high death rate among antique dealers in Junktown. Koko investigated all those incidents successfully-not that he did anything uncatlike. He just sniffed and scratched and shoved things around, coming up with pertinent clues. I don't want him to have any publicity, however; it might go to his head and cause him to give up sleuthing.

Cats are perverse and unpredictable, like wives." "Are you married?" Matt asked.

"I was at one time." "For how long?" "Long enough to become an authority on the subject." The young reporter said, "I just got married last June and I think it's the only way to live." "Good for you!" The roast beef sandwiches were served, and Qwilleran had to ask for horseradish a second time.

He said to Matt, "Where are you living?" "Happy View Woods." All young couples, Qwilleran had discovered, were paying mortgages in Happy View Woods, raising families, and worrying about crabgrass in their lawns. He himself had always preferred to live in apartments or hotels, being somewhat of a gypsy at heart. He said, "I'm staying in the penthouse apartment at the Casablanca. Does that ring a bell?" "That's where the art dealer was murdered a couple of months ago." "Did you see the scene of the crime?" "No, the coverage was cut-and-dried," said the police reporter. 'The murderer left a confession and killed himself.

Also, there was a major airline crash at the airport on the same day, and that took precedence over everything for two weeks." "Do you know anything about the murderer?" "His name was Ross Rasmus, an artist. He specialized in painting mushrooms. Can you swallow that? He must have been crazy to begin with! He daubed his confession on a wall with red paint." "Which wall?" "I don't think anyone ever mentioned which wall." The chances were, Qwilleran reasoned, that the artist went back to his studio, where he kept his paints, and daubed it on his own wall. That would be 14-B. Keestra Hedrog might know something about it. "Was there any speculation about motive?" he asked Matt.

"Well, they were lovers, you know. That was pretty well-known. She liked to discover young talent-young male talent. Everybody figured she discovered a successor to Ross Rasmus, and he was jealous. The autopsy turned up evidence of drugs. He was stoned when he did it." "What was the weapon?" "I don't believe the actual weapon was ever identified." "The reason I ask: The penthouse has a lot of his paintings on the walls, each with a knife included with the mushrooms. It's a Japanese slicer, and there's one exactly like it in the kitchen." "Oh, yeah," said Matt. "There's plenty of those around. My wife has one. She's into stir-fry." They munched their sandwiches in silence, Qwilleran wishing he had some horseradish. After a while he said, "The artist's body landed on some guy's car. He was quoted in your story. Do you remember the name?" "Gosh, no, I don't. That was two months ago." At that moment a young woman in boots and a long skirt wandered over to their table, and Matt introduced her as Sasha Crispen-Schmitt of the Morning Rampage.

Qwilleran rose and said cordially but not truthfully that he had read her column and enjoyed it.