Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

Catching sight of the moustached stranger with a shopping bag, she started to back off but apparently decided to take a chance. There was no eye contact, but roguishly Qwilleran started to breathe heavily, causing her to edge closer to the door. He was feeling playful following his stimulating lunch at the Press Club and his brief dialogue with the Countess's absurd butler. When the elevator reached the bottom with a crash, the other passenger scuttled off the car, and he followed her with deliberately heavy footfalls.

The laundry room was large and dreary with one row of washers and another row of dryers, many of them labeled out of order. The peeling masonry walls had not known a paintbrush for perhaps sixty years. At that time - when family laundresses did the washing, ironing, and mangling - a cheerful environment was not thought necessary. Now the somber workplace was enlivened by a veritable gallery of prohibitions and warnings neatly printed with red and green felt markers and lavished with exclamation marks:

NO SMOKING! NO LOUD RADIO!

NO HORSING AROUND!

HAVE RESPECT FOR OTHERS!

CANADIAN COINS DON'T WORK!

NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST WASH!

STAY WITH YOUR THINGS!!! BALANCE YOUR LOAD!!!

Machines were churning and spinning, and one thumped noisily; not everyone had balanced his or her load.

Several persons were patiently staying with their things: an old man jabbering to himself, the woman with two small children - speaking in their native tongue - another woman in a housedress and sweater, glowering at a student with his nose in a textbook who had not balanced his load. Qwilleran studied the signs for instructions: TOO MUCH SOAP MESSES UP MACHINES!

DON'T FEED THE MICE!

MOTHERS WITH BABIES - NO DIAPERING ON MACHINES! USE RESTROOM!!

Although no stranger to laundromats, Qwilleran found sadistic pleasure in asking his fearful fellow passenger from Old Red how to use the washer, explaining in a graveyard voice that he was new in the building. She obliged without looking at him, then moved away quickly.

He balanced his load, inserted a coin, and studied the posted messages for further inspiration, no doubt from the motherly Mrs. Tuttle:

BE A GOOD NEIGHBOR! CLEAN LINT TRAP!

DON'T HOG THE DRYERS!! NO LIQUOR! NO LOITERING!

THIS IS NOT A SOCIAL HALL!

ONLY ONE PERSON AT A TIME IN THE RESTROOM OR IT WILL BE LOCKED!!!

The benches were hard and backless and not likely to encourage loitering, but Qwilleran sat down and scanned the newspapers he had brought along until - from the corner of his eye - he caught a flash of red. Rupert had sauntered into the room and was surveying it for violations.

Qwilleran beckoned to him and asked, "May I ask a question, Rupert? Why are there no pigeons on the terrace?

My cats like to watch pigeons." "Them dirty birds!" said the custodian in disgust. "Lady that lived there before, she used to feed' em, and the parkers in the lot raised holy hell. Don't let Mrs. T catch you feedin' 'em or she'll be after you with a rollin' pin!" Qwilleran resumed reading Sasha Crispen-Schmitt's column in the Morning Rampage, a shallow recital of gossip and rumors. When another tenant entered the room carrying a laundry basket, he made the mistake of looking up. It was Isabelle Wilburton, wearing a soiled housecoat.

She came directly to him. "Sorry if I offended you last night." "No harm done," he said, returning to his newspaper.

She loaded one of the washers, and he wondered if she would remove her housecoat and throw it in, but she was still decently clothed when she sat down beside him on the uncomfortable bench.

"I get so lonely," she said. "That's my trouble. I don't have any friends except the damned rum bottle." "The bottle can be your worst enemy. Take it from one who's been there." "I used to have a wonderful job. I was a corporate secretary." "What happened?" "My boss was killed in a plane crash." "Couldn't you get another job?" "I didn't... I couldn't... The heart went out of me. I'd been with him twenty years, ever since business school. He was more than a boss. We used to go on business trips together, and a lot of times we'd work late at the office and have dinner sent in. I was so happy in those days." "I suppose he was married," Qwilleran said.

Isabelle heaved an enormous sigh. "I used to shop for gifts for his wife and children. When he died, everybody felt sorry for them. Nobody felt sorry for me. Twenty years! I used to have beautiful clothes. I still have the cocktail dresses he bought me. I put them on and sit at my kitchen table and drink rum." "Why aren't you drinking today?" "My check hasn't come yet." "Did he leave you a trust?" She shook her head sadly. "It comes from my family." "Where do they live?" "In the suburbs. They have a big house in Muggy Swamp." "Apparently you haven't sold your piano." "Winnie Wingfoot looked at it, but she can't make up her mind. Do you know Winnie?" "I've seen her in the parking lot," Qwilleran said.