The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

-3-

IT WAS ALMOST dawn when Qwilleran arrived at his apartment in Pickax. The city was eerily silent. Soon alarm clocks would jolt the populace awake, and the seven o'clock siren on the roof of the city hall would rout late sleepers out of bed. They would turn on their radios and hear about the death of Iris Cobb, whereupon the Pickax grapevine would go into operation, relaying the shocking news via telephone lines, across back fences, and over coffee cups at Lois's Luncheonette near the courthouse.

Qwilleran labored wearily up the steep narrow stairs to his rooms over the Klingenschoen garage. Waiting for him at the top of the flight were two disgruntled Siamese- Yum Yum giving him her reproachful look and Koko giving him a piece of his mind. With glaring eyes, switching tail and stiff-legged stance he delivered a single high-intensity syllable, "YOW!" that said it all: Where have you been? The lights were on all night! Nobody fed us! You left the window open!

"Quiet!" Qwilleran protested. "You sound like Vince Boswell. And don't weary me with petty complaints. I have news that will turn your ears inside out. We've lost Mrs. Cobb! No more homemade meatloaf for you two reprobates!"

He shooed them into their own apartment - a room with soft carpet, cushions, baskets, and TV - and then fell into bed. He slept through the seven o'clock wailing of the siren, and he slept through the first blast of the pneumatic drill on Main Street, where the city was digging up the pavement again.

At eight o'clock he was jerked back to consciousness by a phone call from Arch Riker, his lifelong friend, now publisher of the local newspaper.

Without greeting or apology Riker blurted, "Did you hear the newscast, Qwill? Iris Cobb was found dead at her apartment last night!"

"I know," Qwilleran replied, grumpy and hoarse. "I was the one who found the body, called the police, notified next of kin, planned the funeral, phoned the news to the radio station and your news desk, 1!nd got home at five o'clock this morning. Got any more hot breaking news?"

"Go back to sleep, you old grouch," said Riker.

At eight-thirty Polly Duncan called. "Qwill, are you up? Did you hear the distressing news about Iris Cobb?"

Qwilleran controlled his umbrage and gave her a gentler version of his tirade to Arch Riker. Then in the next half hour he was called by Fran Brodie, his former interior designer; Mr. O'Dell, his janitor; and Eddington Smith, who sold secondhand books, all of them taking seriously their commitment to the Pickax grapevine.

In exasperation he rolled out of bed, pressed the button on his computerized coffeemaker, and opened a can of red salmon for the Siamese. As he gulped the first welcome swallows of the hot beverage he watched them eat - bodies close to the floor, tails horizontal, heads snapping sideways.

After that, they performed a primitive ritual with wide-open jaws and long pink tongues, followed by a laving of mask and ears with moistened paws, all painstakingly choreographed. And this mundane chore was done with elegance and grace by a pair of fawn-furred, brown-pointed, blue-eyed objects of living art. Qwilleran had discovered that watching the Siamese was therapeutic, relieving fatigue, frustration, irritability, and restlessness - a prescription less drug with no adverse side effects.

"Okay, you guys," he said, "I have more news for you. We're moving to the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum." It was his policy to communicate with them in straightforward terms. As if they understood what he said, they both scooted from the room; they abhorred a change of address.

Qwilleran loaded his car with writing materials, an unabridged dictionary, two suitcases of clothing for the nippy weather ahead, his portable stereo, a few cassettes including Otello, and the turkey roaster that served as the cats' commode. Then he produced the wicker hamper in which they were accustomed to travel.

"Let's go!" he called out. "Where are you rascals?" Eighteen pounds of solid cat-flesh had suddenly evaporated. "Come on! Let's not play games!" Eventually, crawling on hands and knees, he found Yum Yum under the bed and Koko in the farthest comer of the clothes closet, hiding behind a pair of running shoes.

Limp and silent they allowed him to drop them into the hamper, but they were hatching a countertactic. As soon as he headed the car for North Middle Hummock they began their program of organized squabbling and hissing. Their lunges at each other rocked the hamper, and their snarls suggested bloody mayhem.

"If you heathens will shut up," Qwilleran yelled, "I'll give you a running commentary on this trip. We are now headed north on Pickax Road and approaching the defunct Goodwinter Mine. As you may recall, it was the scene of a disastrous explosion in 1904."

There was a momentary lull in the backseat racket. The cats liked the sound of his voice. It had a resonance that soothed the savage breasts under that pale silky fur.

He continued in the style of a tour director. "Coming up on the right is the Dimsdale Diner, famous for bad food and worse coffee. Windows haven't been cleaned since the Hoover administration. Here is where we turn onto lttibittiwassee Road."

His passengers were quietly contented now. The sun was shining; the sky was an October blue with billowing white clouds tinged with silver; the woods were aflame with autumn color. The journey was far different from the game of blind-man's buff that Qwilleran had played the night before.

"Hold on to your teeth," he said. "We are about to cross the Old Plank Bridge. Next we'll be rounding some sharp curves. On the left is the infamous Hanging Tree."

After that came the ghost town that had once been North Middle Hummock... then the white rail fence of the Fugtree farm... and finally the sign carved on barnwood:

GOODWINTER FARMHOUSE MUSEUM

1869 Open Friday through Sunday

1 to 4 P.M. or by appointment

Black Creek Lane was lined with trees in a riot of gold, wine red, salmon pink, and orange - living reminders of the ancient hardwood forests that had covered Moose County before the lumbermen came. At the end of the vista was the venerable farmhouse.

"We're here!" Qwilleran announced. He carried the hamper into the west wing of the rambling building. "You'll have two fireplaces and wide windowsills with a view of assorted wildlife. That's something you don't get in downtown Pickax." The Siamese emerged from the hamper cautiously, and then made straight for the kitchen, Yum Yum to the place where she had caught a mouse four months before and Koko to the exact spot where Mrs. Cobb had collapsed. He arched his back, bushed his tail, and pranced in a macabre dance.

Qwilleran shooed them out of the kitchen, and they proceeded to explore methodically, sniffing the rugs, leaping to tabletops with the lightness of feathers, testing the seats of chairs for softness and congenial contour, checking the view from the windowsills, and examining the bathroom, where their commode had been placed. In the parlor Koko recognized a large pine wardrobe - a Pennsylvania German Schrank - that had come from the Klingenschoen mansion. It was seven feet high, and he could sail to the top of it in a single calculated leap. On the bookshelves he found only a few paperbacks, most of the space devoted to displaying antique bric-a-brac. Chairs were covered in dark velvet, the better to show cat hairs, and the polished wood floors were scattered with antique Orientals, good for pouncing and skidding.

While the Siamese inspected the premises, Qwilleran brought in the luggage. The writing materials he piled on the dining table in the kitchen. The stereo equipment he placed on an Austrian dower chest in the parlor. His clothing was a problem, however, since the bedroom was filled with Mrs. Cobb's personal belongings. Worse still, in his opinion, was the bedroom furniture: chests and tables with cold marble tops, a platform rocker too dainty in scale, and an enormous headboard of dark wood, intricately designed and reaching almost to the ceiling. It looked as if it might weigh a ton, and he had visions of the thing toppling on I him as he lay in bed.

"Tonight will be the test," he said to the prowling Siamese. "Either this old house emits weird noises after dark, or they were all in the poor woman's head. But I doubt whether we'll ever solve the mystery of the darkened house and yard. How many lights were on before she collapsed? There would be light in the kitchen where she was warming milk, perhaps in the bedroom where she was packing a bag, certainly in the yard because she was expecting me. And obviously the microwave had been in use."

Koko said "ik ik ik" and scratched his ear. Qwilleran locked both cats out of the kitchen while he sat at the dining table and typed Mrs. Cobb's obituary on her own typewriter. He needed no notes. He was well aware of her credentials as an antique dealer and licensed appraiser, of her accomplishments in cataloguing the vast Klingenschoen collection, of her generous gift to the Historical Society and her tireless efforts in restoring it as a living museum, wheedling cash donations and treasured heirlooms from tight-fisted Moose County families. She had staged programs for schoolchildren, infecting them with a germ of interest in their heritage. And Qwilleran could not end his paean without lauding the cornucopia of cookie delights that poured from her kitchen.

He omitted the fact that all three of her husbands had died unnatural deaths: Hough from food poisoning, Cobb from a murderous accident, and Hackpole... Qwilleran preferred not to think about Hackpole.

The obituary finished, he telephoned it to the copydesk of the Moose County Something for Tuesday's edition. Admittedly this was an unusual name for a newspaper, but Moose County took pride in being different.

The work had given Qwilleran an appetite, and he foraged in the freezer, putting together a lunch of beef-barley soup and homemade cheese bread.

Before he could finish his repast, the banging of the brass knocker summoned him to the front door. The caller proved to be a scrawny man of middle age, sharp-eyed and sharp-nosed.

"I saw your car in the yard," said a loud twangy voice. "Is there anything I can do for you? I'm Vince Boswell. I've been working on the printing presses in the barn."

It was the voice he had heard on the telephone, the kind that punctures the eardrums like a knife. Qwilleran winced. He said coolly, "How do you do. I've just moved in and I'll be living here for a few weeks."

"That's just fine! Then I don't need to worry about the place. I sort of kept an eye on the museum when Iris was away. You must be Jim Qwilleran that writes for the Something. I see your picture in the paper all the time. Will you be spending much time here?"

"I'll be coming and going."

"Then I'll watch the place when you're away. I'm a writer, too-technical stuff, you know. I'm writing a book on the history of the printing press and cataloguing the antique equipment in the barn. Big job!" Boswell looked past Qwilleran and down at the floor. "I see you've got a kitty."

"I have two," Qwilleran said.

"My little girl loves kitties. Maybe my wife could bring Baby over to meet them some day."

Qwilleran cleared his throat. "These are not your usual cats, Mr. Boswell. They're Siamese watch-cats, highly temperamental, and not accustomed to children. I wouldn't want... your child to be accidentally scratched." He was aware that Moose County courtesy required him to invite the caller in for a beer or a cup of coffee, but Boswell's clarion voice annoyed him. He said, "I'd ask you in for a cup of coffee, but I'm leaving for the airport, Someone is coming into town for the funeral,"

Boswell shook his head sadly. "My wife and me, we felt bad about that. Iris was a nice lady. When is the funeral? Will there be a visitation at the mortuary?"

"I believe the information will be in tomorrow's paper." Qwilleran glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse me, Mr, Boswell. I want to be there when the plane lands."

"Call me Vince. And let me know if there's anything I can do, you hear?" He left with a wave of the hand that included the cat, "Goodbye, kitty. Nice to meet you, Mr. Qwilleran."

Qwilleran closed the door and turned to Koko. "How did you react to that noisy oaf?"

Koko laid his ears back. Qwilleran thought, No one has ever called him "kitty." A more appropriate form of address would be "Your Excellency" or "Your Eminence."

Before leaving for the airport he telephoned Susan Exbridge at her apartment in Indian Village. He said, "Just want you to know I've moved into Iris's quarters, in case you need me for anything. How's it going?"

The vice president of the Historical Society had energy and enthusiasm to match that of the president. She said, "I'm beat! I rushed out to the museum early this morning and selected some clothes for Iris to be buried in. I decided on that pink suede suit she wore for her wedding last year. Then I chose the casket at Dingleberry's. Iris would love it!

It has a pink shirred lining, very feminine. Then I discussed the music with the church organist and lined up hosts for tomorrow night at the funeral home and hired the marching band. I also talked the florists into flying in special pink flowers from Minneapolis. Moose County goes in for rust and gold mums, which would be ghastly with the pink casket lining, don't you think?"

"That sounds like a full day's work, Susan." "It was! And all so emotional! I haven't had time to cry yet, but now I'm going to drink two martinis and have a good wet weep for poor Iris... What did you do today, Qwill?"

"I wrote her obit and phoned it in, and now I'm leaving for the airport to pick up her son," Qwilleran said. "I'll take him to dinner and drop him off at the hotel. His name is Dennis H-o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff. Will you and Larry do the honors tomorrow?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"You might see that he's taken to lunch and dinner and escorted to Dingleberry's at the proper time."

"Is he attractive?" asked Susan without missing a beat. Recently divorced, she was constantly alert to possibilities.

"It depends upon your taste," Qwilleran said. "He's five feet tall, weighs three hundred pounds, and he has a glass eye and dandruff."

"Just my type," she said airily. Qwilleran changed his clothes, found cold roast beef in the refrigerator, which he warmed for the Siamese, and then drove to the airport.

Two years before, the Moose County airport had been little more than a cow pasture and a shack with a windsock, but a grant from the Klingenschoen Fund had upgraded the airstrip and terminal, built hangars and paved a parking lot, while the local garden clubs had landscaped the entrance and planted rust and gold mums.

In the terminal, copies of the Monday Something displayed this news on the front page, within a black border:

BULLETIN

Iris Cobb Hackpole was found dead at her apartment in North Middle Hummock early this morning, following an apparent heart attack. She was resident manager of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum and partner in a new antique shop opening in Pickax. She had been in ill health. Funeral arrangements to be announced.

As the two-engine turboprop landed and taxied toward the terminal, Qwilleran wondered if he would recognize Dennis from their previous meeting Down Below. He remembered him as a clean-cut, lean-jawed young man just out of college, who worked for an architectural firm. Since then Dennis had married, fathered a child, and started his own business as a building contractor - developments that had brought joy to his mother's heart.

The young man who now walked toward the terminal showed the evidence of a few added years and responsibilities, and his gaunt face showed the evidence of grief and weariness.

Qwilleran gave him a sincere handshake. "It's good to see you again, Dennis. Sorry it has to be under these circumstances."

The son said, "That's the hell of it! My mother kept inviting Cheryl and me up here for a visit, but we were always too busy. I could kick myself now. She never even saw her grandson."

As they started the drive to Pickax Qwilleran asked him, "Did Iris tell you anything about Moose County? About the abandoned mines and all that?"

"Yes, she was a good letter writer. I've saved most of her letters. Our son can read them some day."

Qwilleran glanced at his passenger and compared his lean and melancholy face with Mrs. Cobb's plump and cheery countenance. "You don't resemble your mother."

"I guess I resemble my father, although I never knew him or even saw his picture," Dennis said. "He died when I was three years old-from food poisoning. All I know is that he had a lousy disposition and was cruel to my mother, and when he died there was a snotty rumor that she poisoned him. You know how it is in small towns; they don't have anything else to do but peddle dirt. So we moved to the city, and she brought me up alone."

"I have profound sympathy for single parents," Qwilleran said. "My mother faced the same challenge, and I'll be the first to admit it wasn't easy for her. How did Iris get into the antique business?"

"She worked as a cook in private homes, and one family had a lot of antiques. Right away she was hooked. We used to study together at the kitchen table - me doing my math and her studying about drawer construction in eighteenth-century highboys or whatever. Then she met C. C. Cobb, and they opened the Junkery on Zwinger Street where you lived. I guess you know the rest."

"Cobb was a rough character."

"So was Hackpole, from what I hear."

"The less said about that zero, the better," said Qwilleran with a frown. "Are you hungry? We could stop at a restaurant. Pickax has a couple of good ones."

"I had some chili in Minneapolis while I was waiting for the shuttle, but I could stand a burger and a beer."

They went to the Old Stone Mill, a century-old grist mill converted into a restaurant, with the waterwheel still turning and creaking. Dennis had his beer, and Qwilleran ordered Squunk water with a twist.

"It's better than it sounds," he explained. "It's a local mineral water that comes from a flowing well at Squunk Comers." Then he said, "I'm sorry Iris didn't live to see the opening of Exbridge and Cobb. It's a far cry from the Junkery on Zwinger Street. Her apartment at the museum is also filled with important antiques. You'll probably inherit them."

"I don't think so," said Dennis. "She knew I didn't go in for old furniture and stuff. Cheryl and I like glass and steel and that molded plastic from Italy. But I want to see the museum. I used to work for a firm that restored historic buildings."

"The Goodwinter farmhouse is a remarkable example, and its restoration was all her brainwork. It's about thirty miles out of Pickax, and I questioned the advisability of her living there alone."

"So did I. I wanted her to get a Doberman or a German shepherd, but she vetoed that idea in a hurry. She wouldn't like a dog unless it had Chippendale legs."

"Did you two keep in touch regularly?"

"Yes, we had a good relationship. I phoned every Sunday, and she wrote once or twice a week. Do you know her handwriting? It's impossible!"

"Only a cryptographer could read it."

"So I gave her a typewriter. She loved that machine! She loved the museum. She loved Pickax. She was a very happy woman... and then the wings fell off."

"What do you mean?"

"She went to the doctor for indigestion and found out she'd had a silent coronary. Her cholesterol was sky-high; her blood sugar was iffy; and she was about fifty pounds overweight. Psychologically she crashed!"

"But she always looked healthy."

"That's why it was such a bummer. She got depressed, and then she began to turn off about the museum... Do you believe in ghosts?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Neither do I, but Mom was always interested in spirits - friendly ones, that is."

"I know all about that," Qwilleran said. "On Zwinger Street she claimed there was a playful apparition in the house, but I happen to know that C. C. Cobb was playing tricks. Every night he got out of bed without disturbing her and put a saltshaker in her bedroom slippers or hung her underpants from the chandelier. He must have worked hard to think up a new prank every night."

"That's what I call devotion," Dennis said.

"Frankly, I think she knew, but she didn't want C. C. to know that she knew. That's real devotion!"

The hamburgers were served, and the two men ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Qwilleran said, "You mentioned that Iris began to be disillusioned about the museum. I was not aware of that."

Dennis nodded soberly. "She began to think the place was haunted. At first she was amused, but then she got frightened. Cheryl and I tried to get her down to St. Louis for a visit. We thought a change of scene would do her some good, but she wouldn't leave until after the formal opening of the shop. Maybe it was her medication - I don't know - but she kept hearing noises she couldn't explain. That can happen in an old house, you know - creaking timbers, mice, drafts in the chimney..."

"Did she give you any particulars?"

"I brought some of her letters," Dennis said. "They're in my luggage. I thought you could read them and see if anything clicks. It doesn't make sense to me. I want to ask her doctor about it when I see him."

"Doctor Halifax is a wonderful, humane being, willing to listen and explain. You'll like him."

They drove to the New Pickax Hotel, as it was called, Qwilleran warning Dennis not to expect state-of-the-art accommodations. "The hotel was 'new' in the 1930s, but it's convenient, being right downtown and handy to the funeral home. Larry Lanspeak will be in touch with you tomorrow - or even tonight. He's president of the Historical Society and a great guy."

"Yeah, Mom raved about the Lanspeaks."

They parked in front of the hotel, and Qwilleran accompanied Dennis to the front desk, where the presence of the famous moustache assured deluxe service from the hotel staff. The night desk clerk was one of the big good-looking blond men who were in plentiful supply in Moose County.

Qwilleran said to him, "Mitch, I made a reservation for Dennis Hough, spelled H-o-u-g-h. He's here for Mrs. Cobb's funeral. See that he gets the best... Dennis, this is Mitch Ogilvie, a member of the Historical Society. He knew your mother."

"I was sorry to hear the bad news, Mr. Hough," said the clerk. "She was a terrific person, and she loved the museum."

Dennis mumbled his thanks and signed the register. "Good night, Dennis," Qwilleran said. "I'll see you at the funeral home tomorrow evening."

"Thanks for everything, Qwill... Hold it'" He took an envelope from his carry-on duffel and handed it over. "These are photocopies. You don't need to return them. They're some of her recent letters. The last one arrived Saturday. Maybe you can figure out what was going on at the museum... or whether it was..." He tapped his forehead.