Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"Just call me a taxi." Firmly he said, "Inga, I'm not letting you out of my sight until I deliver you to the Senior Towers and get a signed receipt." "Well, I guess this is one of the perks when you're eighty," she said, patting her gray bangs smugly.

Koko followed them to the door. "Back in a few minutes," Qwilleran promised, and when he returned, the cat was waiting expectantly. He led the way into the library and massaged the Scrabble box eagerly with his front paws.

"No games tonight, old boy," said Qwilleran. "We have matters to discuss." Koko sat on the library table, tall and alert, as Qwilleran opened the covers of several large art books. Then he opened a desk drawer and examined the bracelet that Koko had found behind a sofa cushion.

"Inga is right," he said, addressing the cat. "Lady Di signed herself D-i-a-n-n-e on her bookplates. The Van Gogh was a gift from Ross, and he inscribed it 'To D-i-a-n-n-e from Ross.' The bracelet he gave her was engraved with the same double N. Why would he paint D-i-a-n-e on the wall?" "Yow!" said Koko encouragingly.

"And why would he sign his so-called confession with his professional logo? He was 'Ross' on the bracelet and 'Ross' in the gift book." Qwilleran patted his moustache. "It looks to me as if the suicide was a hoax. Someone drugged him and threw him off the terrace, then went into his studio and got a tube of red paint." "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," said Koko.

"Tomorrow we'll have a talk with Lieutenant Hames and let him figure out who really killed Lady Di, and who dumped her lover from the rear end of the terrace, where the floodlight doesn't reach." The cat slapped the table with his tail-twice. "There may have been two of them involved in the crime." 14

Author's note: There is no Chapter 13 in this book.

EARLY SATURDAY MORNING Qwilleran placed a telephone call to the Homicide Squad and left a message for Lieutenant Hames. When the phone rang a few minutes later, he was prepared to greet the detective but heard instead the soothing voice of Polly Duncan.

"Where were you last evening?" she began. "I tried to reach you." "What time did you call?" "At eleven, when the rates dropped." To taunt her he replied, "I was taking a woman home. I met her at an art gallery, and we came here for a few drinks." There was a worried pause. "Who was she?" "An artist." "Did you just... pick her up?" "No, we'd met before. You don't need to worry, Polly. She's eighty years old and crippled with arthritis. Why were you trying to reach me?" "To tell you that I read about you in the Morning Rampage. The library subscribes, you know. But mostly to thank you for the beautiful handbag. It's the nicest I've ever owned! That was very thoughtful of you, dearest, although it only makes me miss you more." "I wanted you to know I'm thinking of you, in spite of being surrounded by female flashers and arthritic octogenarians and eccentric heiresses." He made no mention of Winnie Wingfoot, although he moistened his lips as her image flashed through his mind.

"How's the kitten with a hollow leg?" "Absolutely incorrigible! Last night I brought home two little lamb chops for my dinner, and as Soon as I unwrapped them, he swooped in and dragged one down to the floor." "Any news about the carriage house?" "Yes, Mrs. Gage is letting me have it with the idea that I'll keep an eye on the big house while she's in Florida. So you can have your apartment, Qwill, if you come home. What did you decide?" "I have eighteen more restaurants to try before I can return to face Moose County goulash." "Oh, Qwill! It's not that bad! Where did you have dinner last night?" "At a middle-eastem place downtown - hummus, pita, kabobs and tabbouleh." "Alone?" "Alone, and I have a receipted guest check to prove it." After more affectionate banter Polly said, "Do be careful, dearest. If anything happened to you, it would break my heart, you know that." "I'll be careful," he promised.

When he went out to breakfast, he discovered that Saturday morning was carnival time in the Casablanca lobby as the tenants turned out to shop for groceries, do laundry, pay the rent, pick up their dry cleaning, stock up on videos for the weekend, return books to the library, jog around the vacant lots, and do all the other busywork that occupies working people and students on their day off. Even the old and infirm were circulating; the two elderly women who usually drifted through the halls in quilted robes were fully dressed, explaining to everyone that they were being taken to visit a friend in a nursing home. Mrs. Tuttle was busy handling complaints and writing rent receipts. Rupert was directing a youth who was trying to mop the floor. Napoleon and Kitty-Baby were dodging feet.