Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"A bient“t." "A bient“t." His frustration was subsiding, and he was about to relieve it further with a large dish of ice cream, when he received an urgent phone call from Amber, asking if he had seen the night edition of Friday's Morning Rampage. "You're in Sasha Crispen-Schmitt's column!" she announced.

"I haven't seen the paper. Read it to me." "You won't like it," she said, and then read: " 'Guess who's staying at the Casablanca in the penthouse apartment of the late Diane Bessinger! None other than Jim Qwilleran, former Daily Fluxion writer who inherited untold millions and moved to a small town that no one ever heard of. Would anyone care to put two and two together? Our guess: Qwill is here to bankroll the preservation of the Casablanca, which so many local bigwigs want to tear down. Get your ringside tickets for the Battle of the Bucks!' "

12

EARLY FRIDAY MORNING Qwilleran called Mary Duckworth. "Have you seen the Morning Rampage?" he asked abruptly.

"I've just finished reading about you. I loathe that kind of journalism! Where did they get their information?" "I was lunching with a Fluxion reporter at the Press Club, and Sasha what's her name came to our table. The guy told her I'm staying at the Casablanca. In retrospect I'm convinced her appearance at our table was not accidental. It somehow leaked out that the Klingenschoen Fund is interested in backing SOCK, and she was snooping for information." Mary said, "I wonder what effect the item will have." "No doubt the developers will step up their campaign. The city might find an excuse for condemnation proceedings. Or - and this is a wild supposition - Adelaide's Penniman cousins might conspire to find her mentally incompetent. With their unholy influence in this town, they could swing it! But here's the real setback, Mary. I got nowhere with Adelaide last night, although the evening started well. After Scrabble we were on first-name terms. Then I started to talk business, as diplomatically as I could, and she retired into her shell. It's like trying to save a sailor from drowning when he doesn't know his boat is leaking." "What can we do?" "I'd like to discuss it with Roberto. He used to be her attorney, you told me. Surely he learned how to get through to her. Can we pry him loose from his kitchen long enough for a conference?" "Sunday evening is his night off." "Then let's get together on Sunday. You line it up. Let me know when." Qwilleran was in a bad humor. He paced the floor for a while, accidentally stepping on a tail or two, before deciding that ham and eggs would improve his disposition. But first he tuned in the radio station that offered round-the- clock news and weather. He learned that the thirty-seventh youth had been shot in a local high school and the temperature would be mild with high humidity resulting in increased smog.

On the way out of the building he was passing the manager's desk when a commotion at the rear of the main floor indicated that something or someone was being brought down on.the freight elevator. He watched while ambulance attendants whisked a covered body to the front door.

"Who's that?" he asked Mrs. Tuttle.

"Mrs. Button, the dear soul." "She talked to me last night, and she was in fine shape." "That's the way it goes. The ways of the Lord are mysterious. Have you decided whether you'd like cleaning help, Mr. Qwilleran? Mrs. Jasper is available on Mondays." "Okay, send her up," he said. "Oh, look what we have here!" Old Green had arrived at the main floor, and Isabelle Wilburton stepped out of the car, cradling a kitten in her arms - white with orange head and tail.

"Isn't this the cutest, funniest thing you ever saw?" she gushed.

"He's so sweet! What are you going to call him?" asked Mrs. Tuttle.

"It's a girl. I'm going to call her Sweetie Pie. I got her from the people in 9-B." "How old is she?" Qwilleran edged away from the desk and went out to breakfast.

Putting the Countess out of his mind, he spent most of the day writing a column on the Casablanca for publication in the Moose County Something. The problem was: How to make the subject credible to north country readers when he could hardly believe it himself. While working, he evicted the Siamese from the library, an unfriendly act that aroused the indignation of Koko. The cat prowled outside the closed door muttering his new intestinal "Rrrrrrrrrr" as if he were about to regurgitate. After listening to the unsettling performance for half an hour, Qwilleran yanked open the library door.

"What's your problem?" he demanded.

Koko ran to the end of the foyer, where the French doors led to the terrace, but it was not the outdoors that interested him; it was the bloody butcher block painting. Standing on his hind legs with his head weaving from left to right like a cobra, he uttered his gagging guttural.