Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"Did he experience any psychological trauma as a result of the Labor Day incident?" "Apparently not. She always locked him up in the bedroom when she had company. He liked the waterbed, so he didn't object. In fact, when he came to live at the gallery, I bought him a cat-size waterbed." "You did? Where did you buy it? I have a cat who'd like a waterbed." "From a mail-order catalogue. I can get the information for you if you're interested." "I'd appreciate that. And by the way, when Vincent lived at the Casablanca, did he make a habit of sitting on any of the art books?" "Not that guy! He always looks for the softest seat in the house!" Qwilleran cleared his throat. "I have something to tell you, Mr. Todd, and I hope it won't be too distasteful. Since living in the penthouse I've found evidence that Ross did not commit the murder and did not take his own life." Todd gulped and pinched his nose. "What kind of evidence?" "That's something I can't discuss until I've talked with my friend at the Homicide Squad." "Oh, God! Does that mean the case will be re-opened? We've had enough notoriety! Nobody knows me as a gallery director anymore; I'm the ex-husband of a murdered woman. I swear there are people who think I did it!" In a kindly vein Qwilleran went on. "I understand there was a cocktail party the evening before Labor Day. If you were there and can recall some of the other guests, it may help corroborate my suspicions." "I was there!" Todd said grimly. "Di had invited a lot of people including the girl from the newspaper, so I felt I should make an appearance. Ylana Targ. She writes the art column." "How late did you stay?" "Till about ten o'clock. I wanted to leave earlier because one fellow had brought jazz records, and jazz drives me up the wall, but it started raining - a real cloudburst. The skylight started leaking, and we had to put pots and pans around to catch the drips." "Who was there when you left?" "Ross, of course. Di and Ylana and Ross and another fellow from the building were playing Scrabble. A few others were in the living room, drinking and passing smokes around. I don't remember who they were." "The fellow who made a fourth for Scrabble - do you know his name, or what he looked like?" "He was slick- looking... well-groomed...sort of like a male model." "Well, I won't detain you any longer," Qwilleran said. "Thanks for staying open. I'll call you about the tapestries when I get back to Pickax. I think we can do business." He returned home, changed into a sweatshirt, track-lighted the gallery, filled the ice bucket on the bar, and put a bowl of cashews on the cocktail table. "Care for a few rounds of Scrabble while we're waiting?" he asked Koko.

The cat was more than willing. (No wonder! Qwilleran thought. He always wins!) On this occasion Koko was choosing a preponderance of low-scoring consonants like R, S, L, T, and N, and Qwilleran was considering another change in the rules, when the velvet paw drew forth O, E, V, B, 0, G, and J. Immediately Qwilleran spelled JOVE, which netted fourteen points, leaving only seven for Koko.

"By Jove!" he said to the cat. "I think we've got it!" At that moment there was an awkward knock at the door. He swept the tiles into the Scrabble box and went to admit his guest.

The Penniman bartender was loaded down with cassette-caddies and LPs. "Relax!" he said. "I'm not planning to stay three days. I brought a whole bunch so you can take your pick." "Come in. I've been looking forward to this." "Man, this is not too shabby!" said Jupiter in admiration as he perused the foyer. "And it opens right onto the terrace!" "You've never been here before?" "Never got invited." "Wait till you see the sunken living room." Qwilleran opened the French doors. "The stereo is down in the pit.

Here, let me take some of that load." They carried the recordings into the gallery and piled them on the giant cocktail table. The guest stood in the middle of the pit with his hands in his pockets, staring in every direction. "I should think you'd get fed up with mushrooms." "Don't knock them," said Qwilleran. "Since the scandal, they've become gilt-edged securities. They don't belong to me, of course. I'm just sub-letting. Let's have a drink. What's yours?" Hearing the rattle of icecubes, Koko made his imposing entrance through the open French doors. "Here comes the lord of the manor." "Good-looking cat," said Jupiter. "Better than most of the rat catchers around this building." It was almost as if Koko resented being lumped with rat catchers. From that moment on, he devised ways of tormenting the visitor. But first he had his saucer of white grapejuice.

Jupiter with his vodka on the rocks and Qwilleran with his club soda took seats on the long sofa, and the latter said, "They stole my car from the parking lot today." "Par for the course," said the other with a shrug.