"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.