The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

-11-

THE FIRST CARS to arrive at the museum for the opening of the disaster exhibit were those of Historical Society members, looking well-dressed in their church clothes: the men with coats and ties, the women with skirts and heels. Mitch Ogilvie as traffic director instructed them to unload the elderly and infirm at the museum entrance and then park in the barnyard, leaving the regular parking slots for the public. A good turnout was expected following the story on the front page of the Moose County Something:

GOODWINTER MUSEUM REOPENS

FEATURING MAJOR DISASTERS

The Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum in North Middle Hummock will resume regular hours Sunday with a new exhibit featuring memorable events in Moose County history. The museum has been closed for a week following the death of Iris Cobb Hackpole, resident manager.

The new show displays photographs and artifacts from lumbering, shipping, and mining days, according to spokesperson Carol Lanspeak. Photo murals portray dramatic views of shipwrecks, forest fires, mine disasters, logjams and other mishaps, including a 1919 "disaster" when the sheriff poured gallons of bootleg liquor on the dump at Squunk Corners.

Of special interest, Lanspeak said, is a vignette titled "Truth or Myth?" exploring the controversial death of Ephraim Goodwinter in 1904.

"The Goodwinter farm and surrounding countryside are at the height of autumn brilliance," Lanspeak said. "The color show makes a trip to the Hummocks doubly enjoyable." Regular hours are 1 to 4 P.M., Friday through Sunday. Groups may be accommodated by appointment.

At one o'clock Qwilleran dressed for the occasion, wearing a new paisley tie that Scottie had cajoled him into buying by burring his r's. With Kristi's bible tucked under his arm he went directly to the museum office, where Larry was punching keys on the computerized catalogue.

"How's it going, Larry?"

"Good publicity always pays off," said the president. "What's that under your arm? Are you planning to deliver a sermon?"

"It's a bible donated by the young woman at the Fugtree farm. What shall I do with it?"

"Is it the Fugtree bible, I hope?"

"No, just something her mother bought at an auction."

"Too bad. Well, write the donor's name on this card and leave the bible on the catalogue table. The registrar will take care of it."

"Any luck, Larry, in finding a successor for Iris?"

"We've had a couple of nibbles. Iris, as you know, wouldn't take a penny, but we're prepared to pay a decent salary plus the apartment, including utilities. Mitch Ogilvie has applied for the job. He likes antiques, and God knows he's enthusiastic, but he's rather young, and the young ones stay a year and then take off for greener pastures. Susan thinks Vince Boswell would be good. He used to conduct antique auctions Down Below, and he's handy with tools. He could make minor repairs that we're having to pay for now."

"In my opinion," Qwilleran said, "Mitch has the better personality for the position. Being on the desk at the hotel he's accustomed to meeting people, and I've observed how he gets along with the elderly. Boswell comes on too strong and too loud. He turns people off. Besides, the manager's apartment is hardly large enough for a family of three."

Larry glanced around the office before answering. "Actually, Verona isn't his wife. If we give him the job he'll ship her and the kid back to Pittsburgh."

"How'd he get his bad leg?"

"Polio. That happened way back before they had the vaccine. Considering he has pain, he does pretty well."

"Hmmm... Too bad," Qwilleran murmured. "But Mitch, at least, has clean fingernails."

Larry shrugged. "Well... you know... Vince is doing all that dirty work in the barn. Some of those presses are filthy with an accumulation of ink and grease."

Qwilleran filled out the donation card and then asked, "What happens out here when snow flies?"

"We keep Black Creek snowplowed, and the county takes care of Fugtree Road. No problem."

"Does anyone visit the museum in winter?"

"Definitely! We schedule busloads of students and seniors and women's clubs, and we stage special events for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine's Day, and so forth. For Halloween we have a marshmallow roast for the kids, and Mitch Ogilvie tells ghost stories. As for the snow, it makes this place really beautiful."

"Incidentally," Qwilleran said, "you should consider putting the yardlights on a timer, to turn on automatically at dusk. Also one or two interior lights for security reasons."

"Good idea," said Larry, taking a small notebook from his pocket and making an entry.

"Another matter I want to draw to your attention is the land grant signed' Abraham Lincoln' in the document exhibit."

"That's the most valuable document we have," Larry said proudly.

"Except that it was not actually signed by Lincoln."

"You mean it's a forgery? How do you know?"

"I wouldn't suspect any felonious intent. I daresay there were thousands of certificates issued, and Secretary Seward was authorized to sign for the president. He did it with a flourish. Lincoln's signature was small and controlled, and he didn't spell out his first name."

"Glad you told me, Qwill. We'll put that information on the ID card." Out came Larry's notebook again. "The value of the document has just dropped a few thousand dollars, but thanks anyway, old pal."

At that moment Carol Lanspeak burst into the office. "Something's missing in the new exhibit, Larry," she said. "Come and see!"

She left immediately, with her husband close behind. Qwilleran followed but was intercepted every step of the way. Mildred Hanstable and Fran Brodie, chatting together like the best of friends, stopped him to comment on his paisley tie.

Mildred said to Fran, "How does he stay so svelte?"

Fran said to Mildred, "How does he stay so young?"

"I stay sober and single," Qwilleran advised them before moving on.

Susan Exbridge whispered in his ear, "Good news! Dennis Hough has made an offer on the Fitch property. He's going to open a construction business up here."

The bad news, Qwilleran thought, is that he's bringing his wife.

Next, Homer Tibbitt and Rhoda Finney approached him, and Homer said in his high-pitched voice, "Were you trying to reach me? We went down to Lockmaster to see the horse races and fix her hearing aid, and while we were there we got married so it wouldn't be a total loss."

"We've had the license for weeks, but he's a terrible stick-in-the-mud," the new Mrs. Tibbitt said, smiling fondly at the groom.

Qwilleran extended his felicitations and pressed on through the crowd, most of whom were trying to get into the crowded room featuring disasters.

Polly Duncan tugged at his sleeve and said in a half-whisper, "I have a great favor to ask, Qwill."

"I'll do anything," he said, "except cat-sit with a three-ounce kitten."

Reprovingly she said, "That's exactly what I was going to ask you to do. There's a seminar in Lockmaster, and I hoped I could leave Bootsie with you for one overnight."

"Hmmm," he mused, searching for good reasons to decline. "Wouldn't two big cats with loud voices frighten him?"

"I doubt it. He's a well-adjusted little fellow. Nothing bothers him."

"Yum Yum might think he's a mouse."

"She's smart enough to know better. He won't be any trouble, Qwill, and you'll love him as much as I do."

"Well... I'll give it a try... but if he expects me to kiss-kiss, he's grievously mistaken."

Qwilleran pushed his way through the growing crowd, noting the presence of attorney Hasselnch and his wife, Dr. Zoller and his latest blond, Arch Riker and the lovely Amanda, the Boswells with Baby, and several politicians whose names would be on the November ballot. Vince Boswell's voice could be heard above all the rest. "Are they going to have refreshments? Iris used to make the best damned cookies!"

Eventually Qwilleran reached the disaster exhibit. As Mildred had said, the dramatic impact was created with photo murals. They depicted the 1892 logjam that took seven lives, the 1898 fire that destroyed Sawdust City, the wreck of a three-masted schooner in the 1901 storm, and other calamities in Moose County history, but the dominating display was the "Truth or Myth?" vignette, which revived old questions about the mysterious end of Ephraim Goodwinter.

The story of the mine explosion and its aftermath was presented graphically without commentary. Photo blowups and newspaper clippings were grouped under four dates:

May 13, 1904 - Photo of rescue crew at Goodwinter Mine. Headlines from Down Below say: 32 KILLED IN MINE EXPLOSION.

May 18, 1904 - Photo of weeping widows and children. Excerpt from Pickax Picayune of that date: "Mr. and Mrs. Ephraim Goodwinter and family left today for several months abroad."

August 25, 1904 - Architect's rendering of proposed library building. Feature story in the Picayune: "The city soon will have a public library, thanks to the munificence of Mr. Ephraim Goodwinter, owner and publisher of this newspaper."

November 2, 1904 - Photo of Ephraim's funeral procession. Report in the Picayune: "Mourners accompanied the earthly remains of the late Ephraim Goodwinter to the grave in the longest funeral procession on record. Mr. Goodwinter died suddenly on Tuesday."

Interspersed with the enlarged photos and clippings were miners' hats, pickaxes, and sledgehammers - even a miner's lunchbucket with reference to the meat-and-potato "pasties" that they traditionally carried down the mine shaft. A portrait of the sour-faced philanthropist showed the knife slash it received while on display in the lobby of the public library. A fuzzy snapshot of the Hanging Tree with its grisly burden was identified as "unidentified." There was also a photocopy of the alleged suicide note in handwriting remarkably similar to that of A. Lincoln. A ballot box invited visitors to vote: Suicide or Murder?

Qwilleran's elbow was jostled by Hixie Rice, advertising manager for the Moose County Something. "I get one message from all this," she said. "What Ephraim needed was a good public relations counselor."

"What he needed," said Qwilleran, "was some common sense."

He retraced his course through the crowd and found the Lanspeaks in the office. "You said something was missing. What is it?"

"The sheet," said Carol.

"What sheet?"

"We displayed a white sheet that the Reverend Mr. Crawbanks found near the Hanging Tree after Ephraim's death."

"Do you mean to say that someone stole it?" Qwilleran asked.

Larry said somberly, "It's the only thing that has ever been removed from our exhibit space, and we've had some valuable stuff on display. Obviously we have a crackpot in our midst. And we know it's an inside job because it was missing when the doors first opened to the public at one o'clock. It's no great loss. The sheet had dubious value even as a historic artifact. But I don't like the idea that we have a petty thief on the staff."

Qwilleran asked, "How many people have keys to the museum. Homer tells me you have seventy-five volunteers."

"No one has a key. The volunteers let themselves in with the official key hidden on the front porch."

"Hidden where? Under the door mat?"

"Under the basket of Indian com hanging above the doorbell," said Carol.

"We've always considered our people completely trustworthy, " said Larry.

Qwilleran excused himself and went in search of the exhibit chairperson. He found Mildred in conversation with Verona Boswell, who was saying, "Baby talked in complete sentences by the time she was eight months old." She was clutching the hand of the tiny girl in blue velvet coat and hat.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Boswell," said Qwilleran. "May I borrow Mrs. Hanstable to explain one of the exhibits?"

"Why, of course... Baby, do you know who this is? Say hi to Mr. Qwilleran." "Hi!" she said.

"Hi," he replied more graciously than usual.

He steered Mildred into the deserted textile room. "It's a quiet place to talk," he explained. "I have yet to see a single visitor looking at this godawful exhibit."

"It's grim, isn't it?" she agreed. "We tried to spark it up with colored backgrounds and clever signs, and we roped it off to make it look important, but everyone loves the red velvet roping and hates the textiles. What's on your mind, Qwill?"

"I'd like to compliment you on the disaster exhibit. It's attracting a lot of attention."

"I thank you, and Fran Brodie thanks you. It will be interesting to see the result of the voting."

"Have you looked at the exhibit today?"

"I haven't been able to get near it. Too many people. Did someone take another poke at Ephraim's portrait?"

"No, Mildred, someone walked off with the Reverend Mr. Crawbanks' sheet."

"Really? You wouldn't kid me, would you?"

"Carol discovered that it was missing. She and Larry are surprised to say the least. They have no idea who might have pilfered it. Have you?"

"Qwill," she said, "I don't pretend to understand anything that's going on in today's society. Why don't you ask Koko whodunit? He's smarter than either of us."

"Speaking of Koko," he said, "I wish you would look at that Inchpot bed pillow. Do you see anything unusual about it?"

She studied the limp pillow critically. "Only that it's been moved." She stepped over the velvet roping, plumped the pillow and arranged it more artfully. "There! Does that look better?"

"Is it a normal occurrence for displayed objects to be moved?"

"Well... no. The volunteers are told never to disarrange the exhibits. Why do you ask?"

He lowered his voice. "I brought Koko in here the other day, and he zeroed in on that pillow and sniffed it. He wouldn't leave it alone until I ejected him bodily from the museum. Now, don't tell me it's stuffed with chicken feathers, because the pillow from the Trevelyan farm is also stuffed with chicken feathers, but he ignored it completely."

"Let's see what it says on the ill card," Mildred said, I stepping over the roping again and picking up the handprinted label. "It was used on the Inchpot farm prior to World War I... The cover is a washed flour sack... It's stuffed with chicken feathers from the Inchpot coops... It was donated by Adeline Inchpot Crowe."

"Did you say Crow?"

"With an e on the end."

"Let's get out of here, Mildred. These seventy-five-year-old chicken feathers give me an acute case of depression. How would you like to have a look at Iris's cookbook while you're here?"

Qwilleran ran interference through the throng and suggested a cup of coffee when they entered the kitchen of the west wing.

"Or a little something else?" Mildred said coyly. "Large crowds make me nervous unless I have a glass in my hand."

"I'll see what I can find. Iris didn't maintain a well-stocked bar."

"Anything will do if it has a little buzz."

Qwilleran started rattling ice cubes. "The cookbook is in the school desk under the telephone. Lift up the lid... I find dry sherry, Dubonnet and Campari. What'll it be?" There was no response.

"Did you find it?" he asked. "It's just a looseleaf notebook, mixed in with a lot of clippings and scraps of paper."

Mildred was bending over the small desk. "It's not here."

"It's got to be there! I saw it a couple of days ago."

"It's not here," she insisted. "Come and look."

Qwilleran hurried to peer over her shoulder. "Where could it have gone?"

"The cats stole it," she said archly.

"Koko lifted the lid, and Yum Yum heisted it with her famous paw."

"Not likely. They're larcenous, but a looseleaf notebook two inches thick is out of their class."

"You may have mislaid it."

"I looked at the handwriting for about ten seconds and then put it back in the desk. Someone came in here and pinched it - someone who knew where Iris kept it. Did she ever invite the museum staff in for coffee or anything?"

"Yes, often, but - "

"There's no lock on the door between here and the museum. Someone had three days to do the job. I've been out every day. We've got to get a lock on that door! What's to stop anyone from coming in and snatching the cats?" He stopped and looked around. "Where are they? They're usually in the kitchen. I haven't seen them. Where are they?"