Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

Pondering this he rode up to Twelve in the rosewood elevator and was admitted by Ferdinand, looming huge in his coral-colored coat. "It's not gonna be chicken hash," were the houseman's first words. "It's gonna be shrimp. I dunno why. It's always chicken hash on Thursday." The hostess came forward with hands extended and head tilted prettily to one side. She had been tilting her head prettily for so many years that one shoulder was now higher than the other. Yesterday Qwilleran thought her posturings and obsessions were ludicrous; today, having heard the Adelaide legend, he found her a pathetic figure, despite her turquoise chiffon hostess gown with floating scarfs and square-cut onyx and diamond jewelry.

"So good to see you again, Mr. Qwillen," she said.

He sat in the Bibendum chair, and Ferdinand served heavily watered grapejuice in square-cut stemware.

Qwilleran raised his glass in a toast. "To gracious ladies in enchanted palaces!" The sad little Countess inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Have you had an interesting day?" she asked.

"I spent the day looking forward to this evening and selecting this trinket for you." He presented the velvet sack.

With cries of delight she extracted the Art Deco pillbox. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Qwillen! It's French Modern! I shall put this in my boudoir." "I thought it would be in keeping with the stunning ambiance you have created. Is that a Rene Buthaud vase on the mantel?" he asked, flaunting his newly acquired knowledge.

"Yes, and it means so much to me. It contains the ashes of my dear father. He was such a handsome and cultivated gentleman! How he loved to take me to Paris - to the opera and museums and salons!" "Did you meet Gertrude Stein?" "We attended her salon. I was a very young girl, but I remember meeting some dashing young men. I think they were writers." "Hemingway? Fitzgerald?" She raised her hands in a gracefully helpless gesture. "That was so long ago. Forgive me if I don't remember." At that moment Ferdinand made his menacing appearance and announced in a muscle-bound growl, "Dinner's served." It was served on square-cut dinnerware on a round ebony table in a circular dining room paneled in black, turquoise, and mirror, its perimeter lighted with torchŠres. The entr‚e was shrimp Newburgh, preceded by a slice of pate and followed by that favorite of the Twenties, Waldorf salad. Then Ferdinand prepared bananas Foster in a chafing dish with heavy-handed competence and a disdainful expression meaning that this was not real food.

During dinner the conversation lurched rather than flowed, their voices sounding hollow in the vaultlike room.

Qwilleran was relieved when they moved to the library for coffee and Scrabble. Here he proceeded to amaze his hostess by spelling such high-scoring words as ZANY and QIVIUT, and once he retripled. She was a good player and she seemed to relish the challenge. She was a different woman at the game table.

At the end she said, "This has been a most enjoyable evening. I hope you will come again, Mr. Qwillen." "Enough of formality," he said. "Could you bring yourself to call me Qwill. It's good for seventeen points." "I must correct you," she said merrily. "Fourteen points." "Seventeen," he insisted. "I spell it with a QW." "Then you must call me Zizou, my father's pet name for me. It's worth twenty-three!" Her laughter was so giddy that Ferdinand made an alarmed appearance in the doorway.

"May I beg a favor of you, Zizou?" Qwilleran asked, taking advantage of her happy mood. "Yesterday I mentioned writing a book about the Casablanca. Would you consent to having your apartment photographed?" "Would you take my picture, too?" she answered coyly.