Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

Qwilleran saw no one he knew, apart from Jerome Todd and the sour-faced critic from the Daily Fluxion. He was not interested in the bar, and the buffet was engulfed by hungry guests, four deep. As for the art, he saw nothing he would care to hang on the walls of his remodeled barn, if he had one. The focal point of the exhibition was a trio of large canvases depicting ravenous eaters devouring fast food, obviously by the same artist who had painted the spaghetti orgy in 14-A.

On the balcony, away from the press of bodies, he found a more intimate collection of ceramics, blown glass, stainless steel sculpture and bronzes, as well as more breathing space. He was particularly curious about some ceramic discs displayed on small easels. Looking like limp pie-crust, paper-thin, they were embellished with wavy sheaves of paper-thin clay and fired in smoky mushroom tones.

As he studied them with baffled interest, a hearty voice behind him said, "I'll be damned if it isn't the best-looking moustache east of the Mississippi!" He turned to see a tall, gaunt woman with straight gray hair and gray bangs, and he recognized the city's dean of potters. "Inga Berry!" he exclaimed. "What a pleasure!" "Qwill, I thought you were dead until I read about you in today's paper. Is it true what they said?" "Never believe anything you read in the Morning Rampage," he cautioned. "Will you explain these things to me?" He pointed to the ceramic discs.

"Do you like this goofy stuff?" she asked with a challenging frown. Inga Berry was known for her large-scale ceramic pots thrown on the wheel and intricately glazed.

"They appeal to me for some obscure reason," he said, "probably because they look like something to eat. I wouldn't mind buying one." The potter pounded his lapel with her fist. "Good boy! These are my current indiscretions in clay. I call them floppy discs." "What happened to your spectacular pots?" She held up two misshapen hands. "Arthritis. When your thumbs start to go, you can't throw pots on a wheel, but these things I can do with a rolling pin." "Congratulations on your indiscretions. How do you get the appetizing effect?" "Smoke-fired bisque." "Your glass is empty, Inga. May I bring you some champagne?" She made a grimace of distaste. "I can drink a gallon of this stuff without getting a glow. Let's get out of this madhouse and get some real hooch." She pushed back her bangs with a nervous hand.

Qwilleran shouldered a way through the crowd, the potter following with a slight limp. "Good show, Jerry!" she called out to Todd as they left, and Qwilleran threw the proprietor a complimentary hand signal that was more polite than honest.

Out on the sidewalk Inga said, "Whew! I can't stand crowds anymore. I must be getting old. The Bessinger-Todd openings never attracted a crowd like this before all the lurid publicity." "Do you have a car, Inga?" he asked. "1 came on the bus. A car's too much of a problem in the city, especially at my age." "Then we'll take a taxi... Valet! Cab, please." "I'm going on eighty, you know," said Inga, smoothing her ruffled bangs. "That's when life begins. Nothing is expected of you, and you're forgiven for everything." "Are you still teaching at the arts and crafts school?" "Retired last year, Glad to get out of that cesspool of twaddle. When I was young we had something to say, and we were damn good at saying it, but today..." Qwilleran handed her into a taxi. "How about going to my place at the Casablanca? I happen to have some bourbon." "Hot diggity! You're speaking my language. I spent some giddy hours at the Casablanca in the Thirties. The rents went down, and a lot of artists moved in and gave wild parties - beer in the bathtubs and nude models in the elevators!

Those were the days! We knew how to have fun." When the cab pulled up in front of the building, she said, "This place will be gone soon. I signed a petition for SOCK, but it won't do any good. If the Pennimans and the city fathers get their heads together and want the building tom down, it'll disappear overnight." "You ride the elevator at your own risk," he warned as they boarded Old Green.