Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"Frankly, I feel the same way about it," Qwilleran said. Not only was the subject matter nauseating but the canvas was hung in a makeshift way, off-center and too low. With suspicion teasing his upper lip, he lifted the painting down from its hanger.

Immediately Koko stretched to his full length and sniffed the mushroom-tinted wall. Compared with the adjoining walls it looked freshly painted. Qwilleran, examining it closely, detected some unevenness enough to feel with his fingertips, and when the cat started prancing in circles with his back arched and his tail bushed, it was time to take the matter seriously. Qwilleran removed the shade from a table lamp and used the bare bulb to sidelight the wall surface. His suspicions were confirmed. The oblique light accentuated some crude daubing under the recent paint job.

Large block letters in three ragged lines spelled out: FORGIVE ME DIANE There was a signature: two Rs, back to back.

So this was the confession! The management, in preparation for Qwilleran's arrival, had painted over it and hung a picture for further camouflage. Did Koko smell fresh paint? Or did he know it concealed something of interest? He was adept at detecting anything out of order or out of place.

"You're a clever fellow," he said to the cat, who bounded away to the kitchen and looked pointedly at his empty plate. As Qwilleran was giving him a treat, the telephone rang, and he took the call in the library. It was a familiar voice from Moose County.

"Hey, Qwill, I've just been reading about you in the out-state edition of the Rampage," said Arch Riker.

"Dammit! I didn't want the competition to know why I'm here," Qwilleran replied. "My story is that I'm here to write a book on the Casablanca, which is more or less true, and to get away from the severe winter up north." "Skip the book and send us some copy," said the editor.

"I'm working on it. I was interrupted a few minutes ago by our resident investigator. He dredged up some evidence in connection with a murder-suicide incident in this apartment." "What murder? What suicide? You didn't tell me anything about a crime." "It was a lovers' quarrel, so they say, but when Old Nosey starts sniffing around in that significant way of his, my suspicions start working overtime." "Now, back up, Qwill. Don't go charging into something that doesn't concern you," Riker warned him. "Just bear down on completing your original mission and hightail it back here while the roads are still open. We've been lucky so far - no snow - but it's on the way down from Canada. I wish they'd export more cheese and less weather." Qwilleran said neither yes nor no; he disliked being told what to do. "If you talk to Polly, don't mention the murder," he said. "She worries, you know. She thinks murder is contagious, like measles." When he concluded the phone call, Koko was sitting tall on the desk, looking hopeful, yearning for attention, and Qwilleran felt sorry for him. In the old days they had invented a game with the unabridged dictionary, which amused them both. "Okay, let's see what you and I can do with Scrabble," he said to the cat, as he scattered the tiles over the surface of the card table. "You fish out some letters, and I'll see if I can make a word." Koko looked down at the assortment of small squares in his nearsighted way and did nothing until Qwilleran pawed at the tiles himself. Then the cat got the idea and withdrew E, H, I, S, A, P, and W. In a matter of seconds Qwilleran had spelled WHIPS.

"Those letters add up to thirteen points," he explained, "and the ones I didn't use add up to two. That's thirteen to two in my favor. If you want to score high, you have to choose consonants like X and Q and not too many vowels." As if he understood, Koko proceeded to improve his game, and the score was a near-tie when it was time for Qwilleran to quit and dress for the evening. "Nothing personal," he said to the cat, but I found the game more stimulating with the Countess." He taxied downtown and dined at a middle-eastern restaurant before heading for the vernissage at the Bessinger- Todd Gallery. In the canyons of the financial district the Friday night hush was disturbed by a commotion around the gallery as cars pulled up one after the other. Three valets in red jumpsuits were kept hopping, and the hubbub within the building could be heard out on the sidewalk. Guests were pouring through the front door into an exhibit space already packed with art lovers, although art was not their prime interest. They milled about, drinking champagne, and shouting to be heard above the clangor of the music, while the musicians increased their volume in order to be heard above the din of voices. The center of attention seemed to be a young man with shoulder-length blond hair, who stood head and shoulders above all the rest.