The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

-16-

WHILE THE COWHIDE binding of the historic bible may have attracted Koko, it was the flyleaf that occupied Qwilleran's attention for the next few hours. He forgot to have lunch, and the Siamese respected his concentration and refrained from interrupting, although Koko stood by for moral support. This grand book had once rated a place of importance and reverence on someone's parlor table. More recently it had been relegated to the Fugtree jumble of relics, acquiring some of the mansion's moldy aroma. It was this fustiness that had caused Koko's whiskers to twitch, Qwilleran assumed.

Inside the cover was a salescheck from the Bid-a-Bit Auction House dated August of 1959, stating that Mrs. Fugtree had paid five dollars for the "Bosworth Bible." Making a quick check of the Moose County telephone book, Qwilleran found no Bosworths listed, the family had either died out or moved away. Also inside the cover was an envelope of yellowed newspaper clippings, obviously from the old Pickax Picayune. In typical nineteenth-century style the news items, obituaries, and social notes all resembled classified ads, and the typefaces were microscopic, suggesting that readers had better eyesight in those days.

He scanned the clippings and laid them aside, then turned his attention to the flyleaf. Having heard members of the Genealogical Society talk at great length about their adventures in tracing their lineage, he knew it was customary to keep family records in the bible. He knew nothing of his own ancestry except that his mother's maiden name was Mackintosh, yet he found the Bosworth family tree fascinating.

Unfortunately the generations were not charted in the scientific way. Births, deaths, marriages, and calamities were recorded as they occurred, with the year noted. A house burned down in 1908; a leg was amputated in 1911; someone drowned in 1945. It was a chatty journal as much as a family tree. In the early years entries were written with a wide-nibbed pen dipped in ink that had faded somewhat - later, with a fountain pen that occasionally leaked - and finally, it appeared, with a good-quality ballpoint. The handwriting suggested that the same person had kept the records for more than fifty years, and the dainty script led Qwilleran to believe it was a woman. The last entry was dated 1958, a year before the bible was sold at auction, no doubt in the liquidation of her estate. No member of the family had claimed the nostalgic document. He soon guessed her identity and decided that he liked her. She included squibs of news: A bride had a large dowry or tiny feet; a newborn had red hair or big ears; a death notice was followed by a terse comment, "drank." There was no room on the flyleaf for wasted words, but the newspaper clippings enlarged on the vital statistics.

Qwilleran tackled the investigation with the same gusto he applied to a good meal, and Koko knew something exciting was taking place. He sat on the table and watched intently as the clippings were sorted in neat piles: weddings, births, christenings, business announcements, obituaries, accidents, etc., occasionally putting forth a bashful paw to touch, then withdrawing it when Qwilleran said, "No!"

What first flagged his attention was a date. The first name on the page was Luther Bosworth, born 1874. The similarity to Vince's surname was noted and dismissed; the important factor was the date of death - 1904. If Luther died on May 13 in that year, he was obviously one of the explosion victims, only thirty years old. But would a miner own such a pretentious bible? The cottages provided for miners were little more than shacks, and the mine owners operated company stores that kept the workers constantly in debt.

A further check showed that Luther married in 1898. His bride, Lucy, was only seventeen. Six years later she was widowed and left with four small children. What did single parents do in those days? Send their children to an orphanage? Take in washing?

"I think Lucy is the one who kept these records," Qwilleran said to Koko. "Damnit! Why didn't she state exact dates? And how did she get this expensive bible?"

"Yow!" said Koko, ambiguously.

"Okay, let's see if we can figure out what happened to Lucy's four kids." The flyleaf provided the following information: One son died in 1918. "France" was the notation, making him a World War I casualty.

A daughter died in 1919. "Influenza." A cross-reference in the Picayune revealed that seventy-three residents of Moose County died in that post-war epidemic, including two doctors who' 'worked until they dropped."

Two children, Benjamin and Margaret, survived to carry on the family lineage, but only Benjamin could carry on the family name. Qwilleran traced his line first, and what he found had him pounding the table with the excitement of discovery. Benjamin Bosworth had three children. One of them, named Henry, died in 1945. "Navy-drowned at sea" was his grandmother's notation. Henry's widow moved to Pittsburgh in 1956, taking her son. The boy had suffered an accident in 1955, and the Picayune file elucidated in its usual terse style: "A farmhand employed by the Trevelyan Orchard fired a shotgun to deter youths from robbing the apple trees Wednesday night, resulting in three scared boys and one broken leg. Vincent Bosworth fell from a tree and sustained a compound fracture."

In obvious glee Qwilleran pounded the table and said, "Well, Koko, what do you deduce from that?"

The cat shuffled his feet self-consciously and made no comment.

"I'll tell you what I deduce! Vincent Bosworth, still suffering from a badly repaired fracture-not polio!-returns from Pittsburgh after many years with his name changed. Why did he come back? And why did he change his name? And why does he blame his limp on polio? Vince is the great-grandson of Luther and Lucy!"

Qwilleran was so elated that he had to get out of the house and walk. He took two turns around the grounds, taking care not to shuffle his feet through the fallen leaves. The damp earth exuded a heady aroma; the garden club's rust and gold mums were still blooming stubbornly; a barn-cat was sunning on the grassy ramp; there was no sign of Boswell and his van. Altogether it was a pleasant day.

Returning to his genealogical investigation he said to Koko, "This is more fun than panning for gold. Now let's see what happened to Luther's daughter Margaret."

According to the flyleaf, Margaret married one Roscoe DeFord. Lucy's proud comment was "Lawyer!" The Picayune mentioned a reception for two hundred guests at the Pickax Hotel and a honeymoon in Paris - not bad for a miner's daughter, Qwilleran thought, if that's what Luther was. The DeFord name was still evident in Pickax, although not in the practice of law.

Working faster, driven by suspense, he identified the progeny of Roscoe and Margaret DeFord: four children, ten grandchildren. One of the latter was name'd Susan, born 1949.

"Well, I'll be damned!" said Qwilleran. He remembered the gold lettering on the Exbridge & Cobb window. in one comer were the names of the proprietors: Iris Cobb and Susan DeFord Exbridge.

"So Susan Exbridge and Vince Boswell are second cousins!" he said to the faithful Koko. "Who would guess it? She's so suave, and he's such a boor! But blood is thicker than water, as they say, and that's why she's backing him for the museum job. Obviously she doesn't care to have it known that they're related."

This discovery called for a celebration. He prepared coffee and thawed a couple of chocolate brownies from the bountiful freezer, and he gave the Siamese a handful of something crunchy that was said to be nutritious and good for their teeth. He was eager to resume his search now. There was one more clue to pursue: the fate of Luther's widow.

"When we last heard from her," he said, "she was a twenty-three-year-old widow with four young children and an impressive bible. Was she deeply religious? Was she pretty? Too bad we don't have a picture of her."

His enthusiasm was contagious, and both cats were now in attendance, seated on the table in statuesque poses. Yum Yum's notorious paw occasionally disturbed the order of the clippings.

"Ple-e-ease! If you're going to participate, do something constructive... Listen to this! In the same year that Luther died, Lucy went into business - and she wasn't taking in washing!"

A business announcement in the Picayune stated: "Lucy Bosworth, widow of Luther Bosworth, announces that she has purchased the Pickax General Store from John Edwards, who is retiring because of ill health. Mrs. Bosworth will continue to handle the best quality edibles, apparel, hardware, sundries, notions and homemade root beer at reasonable prices. Open daily 7 A.M. to 10 P.M. Closed Sundays until noon."

"The party store of 1904!" Qwilleran exclaimed. "With checkers around the pot-bellied stove instead of video games... Wait a minute! What do we have here?"

A written comment in the margin of the clipping, in Lucy's recognizable hand, said, "Cash."

"Interesting," said Qwilleran. "If Luther was a miner, where did Lucy get the money to pay cash for a going business? Miners didn't carry insurance in those days - that I know! Did Ephraim make restitution to the victims' families? Not likely, unless forced to do so. Did Lucy sue? Victims weren't big on litigation in the good old days. Did she blackmail the old tightwad? And if so, on what grounds?"

"Yow!" said Koko with an emphasis that reinforced Qwilleran's conjecture.

He continued deciphering the entries on the flyleaf. In 1904 Lucy bought the store. In 1905 she remarried. Her new husband was Karl Lunspik, and her parenthetical remark in the bible was "Handsome!"

"Ah!" he said. "Handsome man marries widow with four small children! For love? Or because she owns a successful business and an expensive bible?" The next facts caused his moustache to bristle:

In 1906 Karl and Lucy Lunspik had a son, William.

In 1908 their name was legally changed to Lanspeak.

In 1911 the Pickax General Store was re-named Lanspeak's Dry Goods.

In 1926 their son, William, joined the business, and it became Lanspeak's Department Store.

William had five children and eleven grandchildren, one of the latter being Lawrence Karl Lanspeak, born 1946.

"Fantastic!" yelled Qwilleran, to the alarm of the Siamese, who scattered. "They're all second cousins - Larry and Susan with their country club connections and status cars... and Vince Boswell with his rusty van and irritating manners. Larry is the great-grandson of the unsinkable Lucy Bosworth!"

He picked up the phone and called the store. As soon as Larry heard Qwilleran's voice, he said, "Have you seen today's paper? They've identified the body. The guy that poisoned the goats!"

"I know," said Qwilleran. "The police have been around asking questions."

"I hope you didn't give your right name," Larry quipped. "Speaking of names, I've made a discovery at the museum. When do you plan on coming out here?"

"Tomorrow, but why don't you come into town tonight and have dinner with Carol and me? Meet us at Stephanie's."

"Sounds good," Qwilleran said, "but I'm tied up tonight. Thanks just the same. See you tomorrow." He refrained from mentioning that Polly was bringing Bootsie to spend the night.

Turning away from the phone he heard a faint knocking in the front of the apartment that startled him. The usual summons from that direction was the clanging of the brass door knocker. The Siamese froze with their ears forward, and when he left the kitchen to investigate, they hung back. Walking down the hall, he heard the knocking again. He glanced through the glass in the front door but saw no one standing there and no car parked in the yard. It was true, he told himself, that old houses make strange noises.

As he turned his back, the knocking was repeated. Even in broad daylight it was eerie, and to Mrs. Cobb's ears in the middle of the night it must have been terrifying. He strode back to the front door and yanked it open. There on the top step was Baby, carrying her green pail and raising her yellow spade, ready to strike again.

"Hi!" she said.

Qwilleran groaned with relief and annoyance. "What are you doing here? Does your mother know where you are?"

She offered him the green pail. "This is for you." There was a note in the pail, as well as a chunk of something wrapped in waxed paper. The note said, "Just thought you'd like some meatloaf for a sandwich. Made it yesterday. It's better the second day."

"Tell your mother thank-you," he said, handing back the pail.

Baby was peeking around his legs. "Can I see the kitties?"

"They're having their nap. Why don't you go home and have your nap?"

"I had my nap," she said, turning away and gazing speculatively toward the barn.

"Go home now," he said sternly. "Go right home, do you hear?"

Without another word Baby walked down the steps and marched up the lane on her short legs, carrying her green pail. He watched her until she was almost home. She never looked back.

Qwilleran prepared a meatloaf sandwich for himself and gave some to the cats. All three devoured it as if they had been on a week-long fast. Then he hauled his bike out of the steel barn and went for a ride.

There was an unusual amount of traffic on Fugtree Road - gawkers, driving out to see where the body was found, hoping to see blood. A county road crew was working on the bridge, and a blatant orange sign warned that the road was closed for construction, but Qwilleran wheeled past the barrier and talked to the foreman, a burly man in a farm cap, with a cheekful of snuff. The foreman recognized the famous moustache.

"Right down yonder," he said, pointing to the rocky slope where Qwilleran had first scrambled down to the Willoway. "Dry blood allover his face. Looked like one o' them Halloween get-ups."

"Do the police have any idea who did it?" It was a truism in Moose County that anyone in a farm cap possessed inside information or was willing to invent some.

"I hear they gotta coupla suspects, but they didn't charge anybody yet. He was killed somewheres else and dumped. There was a lotta muddy tire tracks on the pavement when we come on the job."

"Who was the murdered man?"

"The guy that poisoned the goats-escaped con, local kid - went Down Below and got inta trouble. I'm tellin' ya," said the foreman with an emphatic spit, "if it was my goats, I'da went after 'im myself with a shotgun!"