The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

-20-

ARRIVING AT THE farhlhouse, Qwilleran made straight for the stereo, followed by two Siamese with waving tails. "Adjust your ears," he instructed them. "You're about to hear an astounding tale."

If the cats were expecting Verdi, they were disappointed. Adam's high-pitched voice crackled from the speakers: "Yup. My grampaw come from the Old Country to build shafthouses for the mines..."

Their ears swiveled nervously until they heard a deep voice saying, "What kind of furniture, Mr. Dingleberry?"

At the familiar sound Koko rose on hind legs and pawed the player while Yum Yum purred enthusiastically.

"Thank you," Qwilleran said to them. "I admit I was in good voice."

The old man was saying, "They was all a bit different: doors, no doors, one drawer, two drawers, false bottom, built-in lockbox, pigeonholes, whatever folks wanted."

"Yow!" said Koko, and Qwilleran felt a familiar quiver in the roots of his moustache. He turned off the sound.

Mrs. Cobb's ugly desk was a Dingleberry; no matter what its value on the local market, Qwilleran still thought it ugly. It had tall legs, a cupboard with doors, no pigeonholes, one drawer, not two. Did it have a false bottom? He removed the drawer and inspected it, shook it, pressed the bottom in several places, felt around the perimeter with his fingertips, hit the sides with the flat of his hand, shook it again. The bottom was thicker than normal, and something was shifting inside it.

"I may need some help here," Qwilleran said, and the cat sniffed and pawed while the man ran his hand over the surfaces and pressed experimentally at vital points. Unaccountably the bottom of the drawer popped up at one end, and Qwilleran pried it out.

There were no jewels concealed in the false bottom; no doubt Mrs. Goodwinter had taken them to Switzerland. There were documents, however, that gave him a psychological chill, as if he were invading a tomb, and he built a fire in the fireplace before spreading the musty papers on the hearth rug. There were bills, receipts and promissory notes. He recognized the writing on one such document:

Rec'd of Titus Goodwinter the sum of three thousand dollars ($3,000) in compensation for the accidental death of my husband. Signed this day of Oct. 31, 1904.

Lucy Bosworth

Had Titus dictated it? Had Lucy written it under duress? Or had she been an accomplice in the plot? The receipt led Qwilleran on a wild gallop of speculation regarding the young woman's relationship with her husband and, for that matter, with Titus, who was a notorious womanizer. It was clear that the payoff financed the purchase of the Pickax General Store, $3,000 being an enormous sum in the days when a family of six could live nicely on five dollars a week. The blood money, so to speak, may have paid for the impressive bible as well, a status symbol of its day.

There were other documents of historic interest if one had the time to study them, including promissory notes at abnormally high interest rates, signed by names well-known in Moose County, among them the thriftless Captain Fugtree. Ephraim's banks may have operated legitimately, but in his private money-lending he was guilty of usury.

The handwriting on a receipt dated October 28 caught Qwilleran's attention. It was the same small bold script found in Ephraim's suicide note, but it was signed by the financially captive storekeeper and undertaker, Adam Dingleberry's "Paw." Driven by debt to set aside his religious scruples, he had signed the following:

Rec 'd of Ephraim Goodwinter, the sum of two thousand dollars ($2,000) in consideration of which the undersigned agrees to bury an empty coffin with full ceremony in the Goodwinter plot in the Pickax Cemetery, payee to conceal the arrangements noted above from all living souls and future descendants, on condition of which payer agrees to make quarterly payments of five hundred dollars ($500) until such time as payer departs this life. Signed and accepted this day of Oct. 28, - 1904.

Joshua Dingleberry

A similar agreement with Titus Goodwinter, covering the interment of Luther Bosworth, also bore Joshua's signature.

The Siamese, attracted by the heat from the burning logs or the stale aroma of the documents, were in close attendance, and Koko was particularly interested in a folded sheet of paper that had been handled by dirty hands. It was a rough diagram with measurements and other specifications noted in faded penciling that Qwilleran could not decipher even with his reading glasses. Using a magnifying glass from the telephone desk he was able to identify the central element as a half-circle with dimensions given in feet. Two rectangles connected by a pair of parallel lines were marked SW and NW, but no dimensions were specified. Folded in with the diagram was a misspelled bill from the Mayfus Stone Quarry on Sandpit Road: "4 lodes stone to pave carage house." The date was May 16, 1904, and it was marked "pd."

"Three days after the explosion!" Qwilleran observed. "What do you two sleuths make of that? The carriage house is not paved; it's plank like the threshing floor. And what's this?"

Folded in with the diagram was a small slip of paper in Ephraim Goodwinter's unmistakable hand:

Rec'd of Ephraim Goodwinter the sum of one thousand dollars ($1,000) in consideration of which the undersigned agrees to do stonework as specified, privately and without help and without revealing same to any living soul, work to be completed by August 15 of the current year. Signed and accepted this day of May 16, 1904.

Luther Bosworth X (his mark)

"Luther couldn't even write his name!" Qwilleran exclaimed. "How do you like that?"

Hearing no reply he looked for the cats. Yum Yum was asleep on the hearth rug with her tail curled comfortingly over her nose. A hump in one of the other Orientals indicated that Koko was in hiding again. In consternation Qwilleran went to the telephone and called a number in Mooseville.

"Hello, Lori. This is Qwill," he said.

"How's everything?... Glad to hear it. How's the baby?... Are you sure he isn't eating the cats' food?... Speaking of cats, I'm sorry to trouble you again, but I'd like to ask you a question about Koko's latest aberration. He's accustomed to wall-to-wall carpet in our Pickax apartment, you know, but here we have bare wood floors scattered with small rugs, and he's always hiding under them - something he's never done before... Well, there are different kinds: Orientals in the parlor and entrance hall, hooked rugs in the bedroom, braided rugs in the kitchen and dining area - all old and handmade. Koko prefers the Orientals, which are the thinnest and the most valuable. He's always been a snob... No, he tunnels under them in a neat, workmanlike way, making a hump in the rug. Wait a minute! Excuse me, Lori. I just got an idea! I'll call you back."

Qwilleran hung up, tamping his moustache with fervor. He grabbed a flashlight, rushed out to the barn, barged through the eye of the needle, frightening a barncat, plunged down the ladder into the stable, flashed his light into the southwest comer. There he found another wooden palette like the one on the threshing floor above. This one also leaned against the wall, but it was surrounded by rubble. When he pulled it aside he was gaping at a hole in the foot-thick stone wall. The opening was about four feet wide and three feet high, an arched tunnel of crumbling masonry with a floor of hard-packed clay. The arch was roughly mortared quarry stone. As far as the beam of the flashlight penetrated there was arched stone.

Qwilleran dropped to his knees and started to crawl. This was Ephraim's escape tunnel, he realized, evidently planned when public outcry alarmed him. The bill for the stone was dated three days after the explosion - the same day that Luther signed his X and agreed to build the tunnel secretly while the family traveled abroad.

Had Ephraim actually used this escape hatch on the night of October 29? It was quite possible. Qwilleran imagined furious hordes shouting obscenities in front of the farmhouse and throwing rocks at the windows, while Ephraim craftily crawled through the tunnel. No doubt, the trusted Bosworth had a horse ready - two horses, one for Ephraim's son - the saddlebags packed with valuables. Under cover of darkness the pair would ride along the Willoway, heading for Mooseville, where Ephraim would board a passenger boat to Canada across the lake. His wife, meanwhile, was taking refuge at the parsonage with Mr. and Mrs. Crawbanks. A deal had already been made with Enoch Dingleberry, and Ephraim's sons would carry out the remainder of the charade: killing Luther, who knew too much, then blaming the horse; staging the hanging with a hastily rigged effigy; announcing the suicide and producing the suicide note; mourning at their father's funeral. Little did they know that the rumor mill would go into operation, with their enemies taking credit for Ephraim's demise. What started the rumor, of course, was Mr. Crawbanks' discovery of the white sheet, recently left there by some Halloween prankster.

Composing this melodrama occupied Qwilleran's mind while he crawled slowly and painfully through the tunnel. It was rough on the hands, and he had a bad knee dating back to his years in the armed service. He sat down and pondered. What he needed was a pair of heavy gloves and some padding for his knees.

Carefully he backed out of the cramped space, brushed himself off and climbed the ladder. He could hear the playful shouts of the teenage yard crew as they raked leaves, bagging them and loading the bags in Mitch's blue pickup. They were working on the north side of the house, and Qwilleran sauntered through their midst en route to the west wing.

Mitch hailed him. "Hi, Qwill! Nice day for a walk."

Once inside the apartment he contemplated his strategy. Gloves were no problem; he had brought a pair of lined leather gloves from Pickax, and he was willing to sacrifice them for the tunnel investigation. How to pad his knees presented a challenge, however. He canvassed the apartment looking for likely material. All he could find was a stack of pink terry towels with Iris Cobb's monogram. They would have to do. Now he needed some kind of heavy cord to bind the towels around his knees.

Koko was following him around, sensing an adventure, and his eager presence gave Qwilleran an idea. It might be advantageous to take the cat to the tunnel, letting him walk ahead, prudently restrained by a leash. Miners used to lower canaries down the mineshaft to test for toxic gasses. If Koko sniffed any noxious fumes, he wouldn't succumb; he would raise holy hell as only an outraged Siamese can do. Koko had a blue leather harness, and the leash was a twelve-foot length of nylon cord, some of which could be used to bind the pink towels. Congratulating himself on his ingenuity, Qwilleran cut the leash down to a manageable six feet and !reserved the remainder for binding.

The yard crew was rapidly working its way around to the west side, and he hesitated to walk to the barn wearing leather gloves, leading Koko on a leash, and carrying an armful of pink towels. After pacing the floor for a while he went outdoors and asked Mitch for a plastic leaf bag.

"Going to do some raking, Qwill?"

"No, just bundling up some stuff to store in the barn." Now he was all set. Into the plastic bag he threw the pink towels, a second flashlight, gloves, the harness and two short lengths of cord. He stuffed Koko inside his shirt and added a loose jacket for camouflage. "This won't take long," he explained to the cat, "and I would appreciate your cooperation. Keep your mouth shut and don't exercise your claws."

Qwilleran waited until the volunteers gathered around Mitch's truck for a guzzle break. Then he slung the sack over his shoulder and headed for the barn. He could feel some wriggling inside his shirt, and he heard a few muffled yiks, but the barnyard was traversed without arousing suspicion. Avoiding exposure on the grassy ramp he scuttled around the east side of the barn and entered the stable through the livestock door in the rear. So far, so good!

First he trussed Koko, purring, into his harness and tied him to a printing press. Then he applied himself to wrapping legs with bath towels and cord, an idea that proved less achievable than it sounded. In fact, after the first attempt he found it impossible to bend his knees, and it was necessary to untie the cords and start again. Koko, becoming impatient, uttered some piercing yowls.

"Quiet!" Qwilleran growled. "I'm working as fast as I can."

At last they were ready. Koko in his blue harness and Qwilleran in his pink kneepads entered the tunnel, the cat leading the way and the man crawling after him. It was slow work. The clay floor of the tunnel was scattered with stones and chunks of mortar. Tossing them aside with one gloved hand and wielding the flashlight with the other, Qwilleran was obliged to hold Koko's leash in his teeth, trusting the cat not to make a sudden leap forward.

It was a slow crawl and a long crawl. After all, the original diagram showed the tunnel extending from the stable, under the carriage house and across the barnyard to the basement of the west wing. Qwilleran had read about such a tunnel in Europe, connecting a convent with the outside world: the convent was haunted, and human bones were eventually found in the tunnel. There were no bones in the Goodwinter tunnel, only beer cans and gum wrappers and some unidentified items that Koko saw fit to sniff. Qwilleran found the air in the tunnel stuffy, smelling of mold and mice, but Koko was experiencing a catty high.

They crawled on. The farther they progressed, the more rubble they encountered, and the faster the cat wanted to travel, yikking and tugging at his leash.

"Arrgh!" Qwilleran growled through his teeth.

"Yow!" replied Koko impatiently.

They were nearing the southwest terminal, but there was no light at the end of the tunnel - just a wall of chipped stone. Scattered about were broken rocks, chunks of mortar, and a few discarded tools - chisels, hammers, and a drill. Also there was a great deal of dust. They crawled to the end, Qwilleran choking and trying to cough without unclenching his teeth.

Koko was the first to find it - a small, square, boxlike object in a dark corner of the tunnel.

A bomb! Qwilleran thought. Dynamite!

Twisting the end of the leash around one gloved hand, he used the other to flood the contraption with light. Then he moved toward it on his knees and found a button to press. For a moment there was dead silence in the tunnel, then... a hair-raising screech... an angry growl ending in a vicious snarl... the moans of the dying... the bong of a death knell... ghostly wailing and rattling... screams!

Koko shot off like a rocket, and Qwilleran on the other end of the leash went sprawling on the clay.