The Cat Who Lived High

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.

"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.

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.

"Do you still have your beautiful cats?" "More accurately, they have me. At this moment Koko knows we're on the way up to Fourteen, and he'll greet us at the door. Did you ever see the Bessinger apartment?" "No, but I've heard a lot about it. Her murder was something I can't get through my noodle. She was a good woman. I don't know about her private life, but she was always honest and fair with artists, and that's more than I can say about most dealers. And more than I can say about her husband." "I didn't know she was married, although I think the obituary mentioned daughters." "Oh, sure! She and Jerome Todd were married for years in Des Moines. They divorced after they came here." "Apparently it was amicable." "Yes and no, according to scuttlebutt. To tell the awful truth, I never knew what she could see in Todd. He's such a cold fish! But they stayed together as business partners. She took care of the talent; and he was a good businessman - good for himself, that is; not so good for the artists he represents." Old Green finally stumbled up to the top and stopped with a bang as if it had hit the roof, and when Qwilleran unlocked the door to 14-A and switched on the foyer lights, Koko walked to greet them with stately gait and lofty ears.

"Hello, you swanky rascal," said Inga. "Look at that noble nose! Look at that tapered tail! Talk about line and design! Where's the other one?" "Probably asleep on the waterbed." The potter gazed around the foyer with an artist's eye. "Pretty posh!" "Wait till you see the gallery!" Qwilleran opened the French doors and turned on the track lights that illuminated the mushroom paintings, the conversation pit, and the well-stocked bar. "We'll have our drinks in the library, but I wanted you to see the artwork." Inga nodded. "I knew Ross when he was in art school, before he got into mushrooms and found himself. Those paintings are worth plenty now... What's the cat doing?" Koko was burrowing under the dhurrie in front of the bar.

"Merely expressing his joy at seeing you again, Inga." He was loading a tray with bourbon, mineral water, glasses, and an ice bucket. "Go into the library and look at the art books while I get ice from the kitchen." When he carried the tray into the library, Inga was exclaiming over the collection. "If they have an estate sale, I'll be the first in line. That's the only way I can afford books like these." Qwilleran poured the drinks. "There won't be any bargains, Inga. The murder will give all of this stuff a juicy provenance, and the prices will skyrocket." "Disgusting, isn't it?" she said. "Murder used to be shocking. Now it's an opportunity for profiteering." She raised her glass. "Here's to the memory of two good kids. I don't understand how Ross could do it." "The autopsy showed drug use." She shook her head woefully. "I can't picture Ross as a druggie. He was kind of a health nut, you know. He didn't go in for weight lifting or jogging or anything like that, but he had definite ideas about food. He was the next best thing to a vegetarian." "What about his relationship with Lady Di?" "Ah, there's the fly in the soup!" Inga said. "From what I hear, that's what broke up her marriage." "They say Ross's motive was jealousy. Di had found a new prot‚g‚." Inga scowled into her gray bangs. "Rewayne Wilk. He was there tonight." "Spell it," Qwilleran requested.

"R-e-w-a-y-n-e W-i-I-k. Big blond with long hair and a cleft chin. Maybe you saw his three masterworks. He calls them The Pizza Eaters, The Hot Dog Eaters, and The Wing Ding Eaters. All I can say is... Van Gogh did it better with potatoes." "May I freshen your drink, Inga?" "I never say no." "I suppose you've heard about Ross's confession painted on the wall," he said as he poured. "I found it today. It had been painted over, but the lettering shows through faintly." "Where? Let me see it." They went to the end of the foyer, Koko trotting ahead as if he knew their destination. Qwilleran removed the butcher block painting and sidelighted the wall with a bare lamp bulb.

Inga said, "It looks like he used pigment right out of the tube, and his brush was a #12 bright, but he spelled her name wrong. Poor kid! He had talent and a future, and he threw them both away." "Speaking of wasted lives," Qwilleran said, "do you know Adelaide Plumb?" "We've never met, but I've known about her for years." "Do you know the story about her - how she sold her fianc‚ for millions to save the Casablanca?" "It wasn't her idea," said Inga. "She did it under duress." "What are you implying?" "Her father set it up! That's not the conventional wisdom, but I happen to know that it's true. I was around in the Thirties, don't forget... What time is it? Here I am, babbling like an idiot, and it's time for me to go home. I live at the Senior Towers, and if I'm not in by eleven o'clock, they check the morgue." "I'll take you home," Qwilleran said.

"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."