Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"Isn't she gorgeous? If I had her looks, I'd have a lot of friends. Of course, she's younger. Could you use a piano?" "I'm afraid not." "Is that your washer? It stopped," Isabelle informed him.

Qwilleran transferred his clothes to a dryer and returned to the bench. "Aren't you friendly with your family?" "They won't have anything to do with me. I guess I embarrass them. Do you have a family?" "Only a couple of cats, but the three of us are a real family. Did you ever think of getting a cat?" "There are lots of them around the building, but... I've never had a pet," she said with lack of interest.

"They're good company when you live alone - almost human." Isabelle turned away. She looked at her fingernails. She looked at the ceiling.

Qwilleran said, "Someone on Nine is offering free kittens." "If I just had one friend, I'd be all right," she said. "I wouldn't drink. I don't know why I don't have any friends." "I can tell you why," he said, lowering his voice. "I had the same problem a few years ago." "You did?" Although he had a healthy curiosity about the secrets of others, Qwilleran was loathe to discuss his own personal history, but he recognized this was an exception. "Drinking ruined my life after I'd had a successful career in journalism." "Did you lose someone you loved?" she asked with sympathy in her bloodshot eyes.

"I made a bad marriage and went through a shattering divorce. I started drinking heavily, and my ex-wife cracked up. Two lives ruined! So then I had a load of guilt added to my disappointment and resentment and murderous hate for my meddling in-laws. I lost my friends and couldn't hold a job. No newspaper would hire me after a couple of bad incidents, and I didn't have any convenient checks coming in the mail." "What did you do?" "It took a horrifying accident to make me realize I needed help. I was living like a bum in New York, and one night I was so drunk I fell off a subway platform. I'll never forget the screams of onlookers and the roar of the train coming out of the tunnel. They hauled me out just in time! Believe me, that was a sobering experience. It was also the turning point. I took the advice that had been given me and got counseling. The road back was slow and painful, but I made it! And I've never again touched alcohol. That's my story." Isabelle's eyes were filled with tears. "Would you like to have dinner at my place tonight?" she asked hopefully. "1 could thaw some spaghetti." "I appreciate the invitation," he said, "but I have an important dinner date - so important," he added with an attempt at drollery, "that I'm washing my shirt and socks." He was relieved to see his dryer stop churning. Putting his shirts on hangers and throwing his socks and undershorts in the shopping bag, he escaped from the laundry room.

His telephone was ringing when he unlocked the door to 14-A. The caller was Matt Thiggamon. "Sorry to take so long," he said. "I got the guy's name. It's Jack Yazbro." "Spell it." "Y-a-z-b-r-o." "Thanks a lot, Matt." "Any time." Qwilleran lost no time in going downstairs to the desk. "Mrs. Tuttle," he said, "I want to compliment you on the way you run this building. I've seen you handle a variety of situations in a very competent manner and deal with all kinds of tenants." "Thank you," she said with her hearty smile, although it was partially canceled out by her intimidating gimlet stare.

"I do my best but I didn't think anyone ever noticed." "Even your signs in the laundry room are done with a certain flair." "Oh, my! That makes me feel real good. Is everything all right on Fourteen?" "Everything's fine. The skylight doesn't leak. The radiators are behaving. The sunsets are spectacular. Too bad this building is going to be tom down. Do you know when?" She shrugged. "Nobody tells me a thing! I just take one day at a time and trust in the Lord." "One question: Do you happen to know where Mr. Yazbro parks his car?" "Wait a bit. I'll look it up in the rent book." She leafed through a loose-leaf ledger. "I remember he changed his parking space a while back.

He always liked to park against the building, but..." "But what?" Qwilleran asked when she failed to finish the sentence.

"Something fell on his car, and he asked to be changed." "Do things often drop on cars parked near the building?" he asked slyly.

Mrs. Tuttle glanced up sharply from the ledger. "We used to have trouble with pigeons. Don't you go feeding them, now! Here it is - Mr. Yazbro. He was in #18. Now he has #27." She slapped the book shut.

Twenty-seven, she said. "Thank you, Mrs. Tuttle. Keep up the good work!" Qwilleran made a beeline for the parking lot. He had been parked in #27 when someone tampered with his tires.