The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

-18-

BIGFOOT AND THE Siamese were socializing politely when Qwilleran rode away on his bicycle Wednesday morning, headed for West Middle Hummock. As he passed the Fugtree farm he wondered when the police would return to question him about his Monday evening visitors.

Brent Waffle was killed before eight o'clock, according to the medical report. Kristi and Mitch arrived via the Willoway promptly at eight. They might have encountered Waffle on the trail, argued violently, bashed him with a flashlight - or two flashlights - and left his body on the bank of the stream. Perhaps they remembered the Buddy Yarrow case on the lttibittiwassee River, when the coroner ruled that Buddy slipped and hit his head on a rock. Then, after midnight, Mitch would drive down one of the access roads to the Willoway and remove the body to the public highway, a site farther removed from the Fugtree property. The rumbling that Qwilleran had heard at a late hour could have been Mitch's truck on the gravel road.

If this scenario were true, he reflected, the amateur murderers had been remarkably cool during the evening. And if it were true, why would the body-left on the Willoway during the torrential rain - be covered with dried blood when found by the road crew? More likely, Waffle had been killed indoors. Perhaps the guy had returned to the scene of his crime and was hiding in one of the vacant goat barns, perhaps eyeing Kristi as his next victim. Perhaps the bucks - Attila, Napoleon and Rasputin - had created a disturbance and alerted her. Then she and Mitch went to investigate, and it was two against one.

Qwilleran hoped his speculations were wrong. They were good kids, with promising lives ahead of them. It was the mesmerizing effect of pedaling his bike that produced such fantasies, he told himself.

At a country store in West Middle Hummock he bought apples, oranges, and milk and dropped them off at the Boswell cottage. Verona, still in a bathrobe, was tearfully grateful.

"Where's Vince?" he asked.

She shrugged and shook her head sadly. "Call me if any problem arises."

Baby, clutching her mother's bathrobe, said, "I'm going to see the kitties tomorrow."

When Qwilleran arrived at the museum the yard was filled with cars: the Tibbitts' old four-door, Larry's long station wagon, and Susan's gas-guzzler (part of her divorce settlement) among others. It appeared that the board of governors was in session, no doubt deciding on a new manager.

Qwilleran changed quickly from his thermal jumpsuit, counted the noses of three sleeping bundles of fur, and joined the group in the museum. The meeting had not yet been called to order. Some of the officers and committee heads were milling about the exhibit area; others were having coffee in the office.

"Join us, Qwill!" Larry called out. "Have a doughnut!"

"First, a word with you, Larry." Qwilleran beckoned him out of the office and conducted him to the apartment."

I want you to see something I've discovered."

"What is it?"

"Something that belonged to your great-grandmother."

"Which one? I had four. So did you, as a matter of fact."

"Mine didn't write family secrets on the flyleaves of their bibles," Qwilleran retorted. "Have a chair."

They sat at the big table, and Qwilleran picked up the large, leather-bound, gold-tooled book. "This rare artifact was sold at a Bid-a-Bit auction to Mrs. Fugtree, whose daughter presented it to the museum. It was identified as the Bosworth Bible, because the first name recorded on the flyleaf was Luther Bosworth, who died in 1904."

"Let me see that!" Larry held out his hand.

"Not so fast! From studying the inscriptions I deduce that Luther's widow, Lucy, kept the family records in the bible. She apparently died around 1958, because there are no entries beyond that date, and Mrs. Fugtree made her purchase in 1959."

"You've been a busy boy," said Larry, "but what's the point?"

"The point is that, according to Lucy, you and Susan and Vince Boswell are second cousins, but of course you know that; everyone in Moose County is a genealogy nut."

"I believe there is some sort of relationship," Larry said evasively. "Ow-w-w-w! What's that?" He was shaking his leg.

"Sorry. That's Bigfoot. I'll lock him up. He's Polly's cat." Qwilleran put Bootsie in the broom closet.

"Okay, Sherlock, what else did you discover?" Larry asked. "You look smug."

"I learned some facts about your store. Your great-grandmother bought the Pickax General Store in 1904, shortly after Luther died. She paid cash for it. Soon after, she married Karl what's-his-name and changed the store name to Lanspeak's Dry Goods. It would make a newsy column for the 'Qwill Pen.' I'm sure you could fill in the details."

Good actor though he was, Larry could not keep his face from flushing nor his forehead from perspiring. "Let me see that thing!"

Qwilleran clutched the bible possessively. "One more thing, Larry, and then I won't delay you any longer. You and Susan have been pushing Vince Boswell - or Bosworth, as the case may be - for Iris's job, but are you sure he projects the image you want for the museum? Even though he's your relative he lacks a suitable personality and lacks class, to put it bluntly, and there may be other marks against him if my hunches checkout." He smoothed his moustache in a significant gesture. "If the board is meeting today to discuss the matter, it might be wise to postpone your decision."

"What are you trying to say, Qwill? What's the big mystery?"

"Vince has gone to Lockmaster, leaving Verona without transportation, without money, and even without milk for the child. He left Monday, and there's no telling when he'll return. Does he play the horses? The race season just opened in Lockmaster."

"I don't know about that."

"Obviously the man has little sense of responsibility. Is that the kind of manager you want? By the way, why did he change his name from Bosworth?"

"To tell the truth, I never asked him," said Larry. "Was Luther Bosworth a miner? Was he a victim of the May thirteenth explosion?"

"No, he was sort of a handyman - a caretaker on the Goodwinter farm. All I know is what my great-uncle Benjamin said. Ephraim thought very highly of Luther."

"But you're not descended from Luther; your great- grandfather was Karl."

"Correct."

"Karl was a handsome man."

"How do you know?"

"Read your family bible, and you'll find out." Qwilleran presented it to Larry with a flourish, unaware of some clattering and thumping in the broom closet.

"Now let me ask you a question," Larry said. "According to the paper, the murder victim was Kristi Fugtree's ex-husband. Everyone says he's the one who poisoned her goats. She's now seeing a lot of Mitch Ogilvie. Do you think Mitch had anything to do with it?"

"Not very likely. He and Kristi were here Monday night, drinking cider and discussing the restoration of the Fugtree mansion as a historic place."

"I hope to God he's not involved," said Larry. "Now I've got to go back to the office and start the meeting."

"One more question, if you don't mind, Larry. What do you know about sandboxes for kids?"

"People around here make them with two-by-fours and get free sand on Sandpit Road. Why do you ask?"

"We have a budding archaeologist at the Boswell cottage with no place to dig."

Out came the reliable notebook. "The yard crew can rig something up. There might be some two-by-fours in the steel barn. I'll take care of it."

As he left there was a minor explosion in the broom closet, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. Qwilleran yanked open the door. Bootsie was sitting on the shelf with the light bulbs, purring.

Polly Duncan returned earlier than expected to pick up the kitten. "When the meeting ended, I didn't stay to socialize," she explained. "I was lonesome for my little sweetheart. Was he a good boy?"

"No problem. I have a few scars, and the value of the Cobb glass collection is down a few hundred dollars, and the Siamese will never be the same, but... no problem."

Polly paid no atten.tion. "Where is he? I can hardly wait to see him. Where is he?" Both she and Qwilleran searched the apartment, checking all the warm places and soft places. They found Koko and Yum Yum on the blue velvet wing chair but not a hair of the kitten. Qwilleran could tell by Polly's terrified expression that she thought the Siamese had eaten Bigfoot.

"Here he is!" he called from the bathroom, just in time to save Polly from nervous collapse.

Bootsie was in the turkey roaster that served as a commode for the Siamese, sound asleep in the gravel.

Polly seized him. "Bootsie darling! What are you doing there? Were you lonesome? Did you miss me? Kiss-kiss... Did he use his litterbox, Qwill?"

"He seemed to prefer the turkey roaster."

"I hope he wasn't too frightened to eat."

"No, he ate very well, let me assure you. Did you run into Vince Boswell down there? He's supposed to be doing research at the library."

"I didn't see anyone from Pickax. If they were there, they were all at the track. The races are on this week. Now we must pack our luggage and go home."

Qwilleran produced Bootsie's basket, litterbox, brush, and carrier with alacrity.

"Say goodbye to Uncle Qwill, Bootsie,," said Polly, lifting the kitten's thin foreleg and waving the floppy brown paw. "Look at that lovely paw - just like a beautiful brown flower. Do you think I should clip his claws?"

"Don't do anything rash," said Qwilleran. When they had left, he heaved a sigh of relief, and the Siamese walked around, stretching. The three of them enjoyed a peaceful dinner of chicken cordon bleu from the freezer, and at dusk they settled down in the parlor for some music - the cats on the blue wing chair and Qwilleran on the brown lounge chair opposite, a mug of coffee in his hand. Both telephone bells had been turned off. No matter what the crisis or emergency he was determined to hear Polly's opera cassette without interruption.

As the first three acts unreeled he realized he was actually enjoying this music. Whatever sardonic remarks about opera he had made in the past, he was willing to rescind. The Siamese were listening, too, possibly hearing notes and nuances that escaped his ear. He was following the English libretto, and the suspense was mounting in the fourth act. During the poignant "Willow Song" Desdemona cried, "Hark! I hear a wailing! Hush! Who is knocking at that door?" And Emilia replied, "It is the wind."

At that precise moment a rumbling growl came from the depths of Koko's chest. He jumped to the floor and ran into the hall. A moment later there was a frantic pounding at the front door, the brass knocker clanging and fists beating the door panels.

Qwilleran rushed to open it.

"Help me find Baby!" screamed Verona, wild-eyed with anxiety and gasping for breath. "She got out! Maybe the barn!"

He grabbed a jacket and the battery-operated lantern, and they ran across the barnyard. A mercury-vapor lamp on a high pole flooded the entire yard, but Verona had run all the way down the lane without a flashlight. She had forgotten it in her panic.

"How long has she been gone?" Qwilleran shouted.

"I don't know." She was short of breath. "Where's Vince?"

"Not home yet."

They raced up the grassy ramp to the eye of the needle. "Step inside, but don't go any farther," Qwilleran ordered. "It's dark in there. Too many obstacles. Call her name."

"Baby! Baby!" Verona called in a terrified voice.

"Louder!"

She started forward.

"Stay back! And I mean it! Call her name!"

"Ba-aby! Ba-aby!"

Qwilleran flashed his light up and down the straw-covered aisles between the crates and presses. There was no movement except for a barn cat darting to cover. In one comer of the barn an industrial palette was leaning against the wall. Qwilleran had seen this wooden platform on his previous visit, flat on the floor, and he had wondered if Boswell used a forklift. Now it was leaning against the wall.

"Stay where you are!" he warned Verona as he went to investigate. "Don't stop calling."

The up-ended palette had been covering a square opening in the threshing floor, and a ladder led down into the stable. Qwilleran flashed his light down the hole and saw a green pail. He climbed down the ladder and quickly up again.

Putting his arm around Verona he said, "Come back to the house. We have to call the ambulance."

"She's hurt! Where is she? I've got to see her!"

"You can't. Wait till the ambulance comes."

Verona fainted.

Qwilleran carried her back to the apartment and placed her on the bed, where she lay-awake but motionless and staring at the ceiling. He covered her with a blanket and elevated her feet, then called the emergency number and Dr. Halifax.

"Doc, I've got a mother and child here. The baby's unconscious," he said. "I think the mother's in shock. I've called the ambulance. What should I do in the meantime?"

"Keep them both warm. Have the ambulance bring them both to the Pickax hospital. I'll be there. What's the name?"

"Boswell. Verona Boswell."

"Don't know the name. That's not a Moose County name."

The paramedics put Baby on a stretcher and told the sheriff's deputy who was standing by, "Looks like she fell down a ladder and landed on the stable floor. Stone floor. Possible broken neck, looks like."

Such a puny neck, Qwilleran thought. Hardly bigger than Koko's.

After Verona had been carried out on a stretcher, Qwilleran went to the barn again with his lantern and flashed it down into the stable. The green pail was still there. He closed the eye of the needle and returned to the museum. As soon as he opened the apartment door, something whizzed past his feet and disappeared around the comer of the house faster than the eye could discern. He dashed off in pursuit, bellowing, "Koko! Come back here!"

The cat was headed for the barn at a speed four times faster than Qwilleran's fifty-yard dash. Clearing the ramp in two leaps Koko disappeared through the cat-hatch as if he had been a barncat in one of his other lives. Qwilleran swung the great doors open to take advantage of the light-pole and called his name.

A twinge on his upper lip told him that Koko would leap down the ladder. Qwilleran followed. The stable was a low-ceilinged, stone-floored room with more crates and more presses and more straw. He flashed the light around the stalls and listened intently until he heard a familiar rumbling growl ascending the scale and ending in a shriek. He traced it to the far end of the stable, near the back doors where the horses and cows would have been led into their stalls. Koko was there, hovering over something wedged between two crates - a litter of squirming newborn kittens and a mother cat, bedded down on a piece of soiled cloth.

Qwilleran seized Koko about the middle, and the cat seemed quite willing to be seized. As they headed for the ladder he almost tripped over the crowbar that Boswell used to open crates. He flashed his lantern around the floor. In one corner a pile of straw was hollowed as if someone had slept there. He saw beer cans and empty cigarette packs. That fool Boswell! Qwilleran thought. Goofing off and smoking in a bed of dry straw!

The cat under his arm was wriggling to get free, and he let him go. With his nose to the floor Koko followed a scent that led him into the pile of straw, led him to a bundle of something rolled to make a pillow, led him to a patch of dried blood on the pillow and the straw. The bundle was the same dark green Qwilleran had seen on the Willoway, stenciled LOCKMASTER COUNTY JAIL.

Clutching Koko and the lantern Qwilleran hurried back to the apartment and made three phone calls: first to the night desk of the Moose County Something, then to the sheriff's department, and finally to the president of the Historical Society.