The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

-4-

AFTER DROPPING DENNIS Hough at the hotel Qwilleran drove to North Middle Hummock through a cloud of spectral blue vapor-moonlight mixed with wisps of fog settling in the valleys of the Hummocks. When he arrived home and turned off his headlights, the farmyard and the farmhouse were bathed in a mystic blueness.

He let himself in and turned on the four-candle ceiling fixture. Only three candles lighted. At the same time two shadowy forms came slinking from the dark parlor and blinked at him.

"What happened to the lights?" he asked them. "Last night all four were operating."

The Siamese yawned and stretched.

"Have you anything to report? Did you hear any unusual sounds?"

Koko groomed his breast with a long pink tongue, and Yum Yum rubbed against Qwilleran's ankles, suggesting a little something to eat. This was the first time they had been left alone here, and Qwilleran looked for tilted pictures, books on the floor, dislodged lampshades, and shredded bathroom tissue. One could never guess how they might react to abandonment in a new environment. Happily, only a few cat hairs on a blue velvet wing chair and some dried weeds on the parlor floor testified to their feline presence; they had chosen Mrs. Cobb's favorite chair as their own, and one or both of them had leaped to the top of the seven-foot Schrank to examine the dried arrangement that filled a Shaker basket.

Qwilleran made a cup of coffee before sitting down to read Iris Cobb's last letters, thankful that Dennis had given her the typewriter. The first letter was dated September 22 and began with grandmotherly questions about Dennis Junior, comments on the fine weather, raves about the new antique shop scheduled to open October 17, and a lengthy recipe for a new high-calorie dessert she had invented, after which she wrote:

I'm having so much fun at the museum. The other day I thought it would be nice if we displayed a long-handled bedwarmer in one of our exhibit bedrooms, and I remembered that someone had donated a bed-warmer in poor condition. I looked it up on the computer. (The Klingenschoen Fund paid to have our catalogue computerized. Isn't that nice?) Sure. enough, it said the brass pan was dented and the handle was loose but it was worthy of restoration. So I went downstairs to look for it.

The basement is a catchall for damaged stuff, and I was poking around, looking for the bedwarmer, when I heard a mysterious (did I spell that right?) knocking sound in the wall. I said to myself - Oh, goody! We've got a ghost! I listened and decided which wall it was coming from, and then I picked up an old wooden potato masher that was lying around and went rat-tat-tat on the wall myself After that there was no more knocking. If it was a ghost, I guess I frightened it away.

I wish you could come for the shop's grand opening. It's going to be very gala. Susan's arranging for champagne punch and flowers and everything.

Love from Mother

Qwilleran thought, Gold and rust mums, no doubt. He turned to the next letter, dated September 30, and discovered a drastic change of mood. Mrs. Cobb wrote:

Dear Dennis and Cheryl,

I'm terribly upset. I just got my report from Dr. Hal and everything is wrong!! Heart, blood, cholesterol, everything! I've been crying too hard to talk, or I would have phoned. If I don't go on a strict diet and do certain exercises and take medication, I'll need surgery!! It was a horrible shock. Never thought this would happen to me. I felt so good! Now I feel positively suicidal. Did I spell it right? Forgive me for unloading my troubles on you. Can't write any more tonight.

Mother

Poor Iris, Qwilleran thought. His mother had experienced the same panic when her doctor handed her a sentence of death. He picked up the next letter, pleased to find her in a better frame of mind. It was written five days later.

Dear Kids,

Your phone call cheered me up no end. I should have gone down there when you first invited me, but now I have to stay here for the grand opening. In the daytime I feel okay, but at night I get very nervous and depressed, mostly because of the wierd (did I spell that right?) noises. I told you about the knocking in the basement. Now I hear it all the time - moaning and rattling too. Sometimes I think it's all in my head, and then I get really worried and that awful tightness in my chest.

I've always said an old house reflects the people who've lived in it, like something gets into the wood and plaster. It sounds crazy, I know, but bad things have always happened to the Goodwinters - suicide, fatal accidents, murder. I can feel it in the atmosphere of the house, and it's making me very uncomfortable. Is it my imagination? Or is it evil spirits?

.I've been so concerned about my own troubles that. I forgot to ask about little Denny. Did you find out what caused his rash?

Love from Mom and Grandmom

The last letter was not dated, but Dennis had received it on Saturday, the day before his mother died.

Dear Dennis,

I don't know how much longer I can stand it - the noises, I mean. The volunteers don't hear anything. I'm the only one that hears it. I told Dr. Hal, and he took me off medication for a few days, but it doesn't make any difference. I still hear the noises, but only when I'm alone. I hate to tell Larry. He'll think I'm crazy. The museum's open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and there'll be people around. I'm going to wait until Monday, and if it isn't any better, I'm going to resign.

Mother

P.S. Now I don't hear it any more.

Dennis, receiving the letter on Saturday, called Dr. Halifax and bought a plane ticket for Monday. On Sunday night she died, her face contorted with pain - or what? She was frightened to death, Qwilleran decided. By what? Or by whom?

After reading the last letter he was in no hurry to go to bed with that monstrous headboard towering over him. He considered sleeping on the sofa, but first he had to conduct an experiment. It was his intention to sit up until midnight with lamps and chandeliers alight in every room and with the stereo blasting at full volume. Then, precisely at midnight, he would turn everything off and sit in the dark, listening.

For Phase One of this strategy he marched through the apartment, flipping on light switches and activating lamps. In the entrance hall only two candles responded. The night before, it had been four. An hour ago it was three. He huffed into his moustache, having little patience with electrical equipment that failed to do its duty, and he was in no mood to go hunting for spare lightbulbs.

Comfortable in his Mackintosh bathrobe and moosehide slippers, he treated the cats to a sardine and prepared another cup of coffee for himself. Then he inserted the Othello cassette into the stereo and settled into the blue velvet wing chair in front of the fireplace. He refrained from building a fire; the crackling logs would spoil the pure tones on the cassette.

This time he hoped to hear the recording from start to finish without interruption. To his consternation, just as Othello and Desdemona approached their love duet in Act One, the telephone rang. He turned down the volume and went to the phone in the bedroom.

"Qwill, this is Larry," said the energetic voice. "I've just talked to Dennis Hough on the phone. Thanks for getting him installed at the hotel. He says his accommodations are very good."

"I hope they didn't give him the bridal suite with the round bed and satin sheets," Qwilleran said moodily, resenting the interruption.

"He's in the presidential suite - the only one with a telephone and color TV. Everything's set for tomorrow. Susan will take him to lunch; Carol and I will take both of them to dinner. Is everything okay at the museum? Are you comfortable there?"

"I expect to have nightmares from sleeping in that monster of a bed."

In a tone of mock rebuke Larry said, "That monster, Qwill, is a priceless General Grant bed that was made a century ago for a World's Fair! Look at the quality of the rosewood! Look at the workmanship! Look at the patina!"

"Be that as it may, Larry, the headboard looks like the door to a mausoleum, and I'm not ready to be interred. Otherwise, all is well."

"I'll say good night, then. It's been a hectic day, and neither of us had much sleep last night, did we? I finally lined up the other pallbearers, so now I'm going to have a much deserved nightcap and turn in."

"One question, Larry. Did you see Iris during museum visiting hours this past week?"

"I didn't, but Carol did. She said Iris looked tired and worried - the result of her medical report, no doubt, and maybe the stress of opening the new shop. Carol told her to go and lie down."

Qwilleran went back to his opera, but he had missed the love duet. He turned off the machine peevishly, checked the cats' whereabouts, doused the lights, and sprawled in the blue wing chair with his feet on the footstool. Then he waited in the dark - waiting and listening for the knocking, moaning, rattling, and screaming.

Four hours later he opened his eyes suddenly. He had a kink in his neck and two Siamese on his lap, their combined weight having caused one foot to be totally numb. Asleep they weighed twice what they weighed on the veterinarian's scale. Qwilleran limped about the room, grumbling and stamping his deadened foot. If there had been noises in the walls, he had slept through them in a blissful stupor. Larry's phone call was the last thing he remembered.

In retrospect there was something about the call that bothered him. Larry had mentioned pallbearers. He said he had lined up "the other pallbearers." What, Qwilleran wondered, did he mean by "other"?

He waited fretfully for seven o'clock, at which time he telephoned the Lanspeak country house. Without preamble he said, "Larry, may I ask a question?"

"Sure, what's on your mind?"

"Who are the pallbearers?"

"The three male members of the museum board and Mitch Ogilvie - in addition to you and me. Why do you ask?"

"Just for the record," Qwilleran said, "no one up to this minute has even hinted that I might be a pallbearer - not that I have any objection, you understand - but I'm glad I happened to find out."

"Didn't Susan talk to you?"

"She talked to me at considerable length about a pink suede suit and a casket with pink lining and pink flowers being flown in from Minneapolis, but not a word about pal1bearing."

"I'm sorry, Qwill. Does it create a problem?"

"No. No problem. I merely wanted to be sure."

The truth was that it created a definite problem. It called for a dark suit - something Qwilleran had not owned for twenty-five years. Neither in his lean years nor in his newly acquired affluence had he found an extensive wardrobe important to his lifestyle. In Moose County he could get by with sweaters, windbreakers, a tweed sports coat with leather patches, and a navy blue blazer. At the moment he owned one suit, a light gray, purchased when he was best man at Iris Cobb's marriage to Hackpole. It had not been off the hanger since that memorable occasion.

At nine o'clock sharp he telephoned Scottie's Men's Shop in downtown Pickax, saying, "I need a dark suit in a hurry, Scottie."

"How darrrk, laddie, and in how much of a hurrry," said the proprietor. He liked to burr his r's for Qwilleran, who always made it known that his mother's maiden name was Mackintosh.

"Very dark. I'm going to be a pallbearer, and the funeral's at ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Do you have a tailor on tap?"

"Aye, but canna say for how long. He were goin' to the doctor. Get over here in five minutes and he can fit you."

"I'm not in Pickax, Scottie. I'm living at the Goodwinter farmhouse. Can you keep him there for half an hour? Bribe the guy!"

"Weel, he's a stubborrrrn Scot, but I'll do my best." Qwilleran made a dash for his razor, slapped on the lather, and cut himself. Just as he was stanching the blood and muttering under his breath, the brass door knocker clanged.

"Damn that Boswell!" he said aloud. He was sure it was the bothersome Boswell; who else would call at such an hour?

In his short shavecoat and with half a faceful of lather, he strode to the entrance hall and yanked open the door. There on the doorstep stood a startled woman holding a plate of biscuits. She covered her face with one hand in embarrassment. "Oh, you're shavin'! Pardon me, Mr. Qwilleran," she said in a soft southern drawl. Each lilting statement ended with emphasis on the last word and an implied question mark. "I'm your neighbor, Verona Boswell? I brought you some fresh biscuits... for your breakfast? " It was a refreshing sound in Moose County, 400 miles north of North, but Qwilleran had no time for refreshment.

"Thank you. Thank you very much," he said briskly, accepting the plate.

"I just wanted to say... welcome?"

"That's kind of you." He tried not to be curt. On the other hand, the lather was drying on his face and Scottie's tailor was pacing the floor.

"Let us know if there's any thin' we can... do for you?"

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"I hope we can get better acquainted after the... funeral?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Boswell." He had stepped back and was beginning to close the door.

"Oh, please call me... Verona? You'll see us around a lot."

"I'm sure I shall, but I must ask you to excuse me now. I'm leaving for Pickax on urgent business."

"Then I won't hold you up. We'll probably see you tonight at the... visitation?" Reluctantly she backed away, saying, "My little girl would love to meet your kitties."

Qwilleran finished dressing with clenched jaw. He had always lived in cities, where one could ignore neighbors and be completely ignored in return. The smothering neighborliness of the Boswells, he feared, might be a problem - not to mention "Baby" who wanted to meet the "kitties." Was that really her name? Baby Boswell! Qwilleran disliked the child even before setting eyes on her. He was sure she would be one of those insufferable tots - cute, vain, and precocious. Like W. C. Fields he had never developed a liking I for small children.

As for Verona Boswell, she was not unattractive, and her gentle voice was a welcome contrast to her husband's shrillness. Verona was somewhat younger than Vince, but she had lost her freshness - probably, Qwilleran decided, from listening to his whining harangue. Whatever their neighborly virtues, he determined to see as little as possible of the Boswells.

Driving to Pickax in a huff he was stopped for speeding, but the state trooper looked at his driver's license and the distinctive moustache and merely issued a warning. At the men's store Scottie was waiting with a selection of dark blue suits, while a tailor with a tape measure around his neck stood nervously in the background.

"I don't want to pay too much," Qwilleran said, scanning the pricetags.

"Spoken like a true Mackintosh," said the storekeeper, nodding his shaggy gray head. "That clan always had deep pockets and shorrrt arrrms. Perhaps you'd like to rent a suit if it's only for a funeral."

Qwilleran scowled at him. "On the other hand, mon, a darrrk suit is handy to have in the closet in case you suddenly want to get married."

Qwilleran made a selection reluctantly, considering all the suits overpriced.

As the tailor checked the fit, hoisting here and tugging there, Scottie said, "So you're stayin' at the Goodwinter farmhouse, are you? Have you seen a dead man sittin' on a keg of gold coins?"

"So far I've been denied that pleasure," Qwilleran replied. "Is he supposed to be a regular visitor?"

"Old Ephraim Goodwinter was a miser, you know, and they say he still comes back to count his money. How do you want to pay for this suit? Cash? Credit card? Ten dollars a week?"

From the men's store Qwilleran drove to the Pickax industrial park, where the Moose County Something occupied a new building. Designed to house editorial and business offices as well as a modem printing plant, the building was a costly project made possible by an interest-free loan from the Klingenschoen Fund. The daily masthead on page four listed the following:

ARCH RIKER, editor and publisher

JUNIOR GOODWINTER, managing editor

WILLIAM ALLEN, general manager

Qwilleran first walked into the managing editor's office, which was dominated by a large, old-fashioned rolltop desk that dwarfed the young man sitting in front of it. The desk had belonged to his great-grandfather, the miserly Ephraim.

Junior Goodwinter had a boyish face and a boyish build and was growing a beard in an attempt to look older than fifteen. "Hey! Pull up a chair! Put your feet up!" he greeted Qwilleran. "That was a swell piece you wrote about Iris Cobb. I hear you're house-sitting at my old homestead."

"For a while, until they find a new manager. I hope to do some research while I'm there. How's the ancestral desk working out?"

"Not so swift. All those pigeonholes and small drawers look like a good idea, but you file something away and never find it again. I like the idea of the rolltop, though. I can stuff my unfinished work in there, roll the top down, and go home with a clear conscience."

"Have you discovered any secret compartments? I imagine Ephraim had a few secrets he wanted to hide."

"Golly, I wouldn't know where to start looking for secret compartments. Why don't you bring Koko down here and let him sniff around. He's good at that."

"He's been doing a lot of sniffing since we moved into the farmhouse. He remembers Iris and wonders why she's not there. By the way, just before she died she talked about hearing unearthly noises. Did you ever have any supernatural adventures when you lived there?"

"No," said Junior. "I was too busy riding horses and scrapping with my six-foot-four brother."

"You never told me you were an equestrian, Junior."

"Oh, sure. Didn't you know that? I wanted to be a jockey, but my parents objected. The alternatives were a bell-hop or a hundred-ten-pound journalist."

"How's the new baby?" Qwilleran asked, never able to remember the name or sex of his young friends' offspring.

"Incredible kid! This morning he grabbed my finger so hard I couldn't pull away. And only four weeks old! Four weeks and three days!"

Tight-fisted like his great-great-grandfather, Qwilleran thought. Then he pointed toward the door. "Who's that? Is that William Allen?" A large white cat had walked into the office with a managerial swagger.

"That's him in person - not a reincarnation," Junior said. "He escaped from the fire in the old building, miraculously. Probably incurred a little smoke damage, but he cleaned it up without making an insurance claim. We found him a month ago, ten months after the fire. Guess where he was! Sitting in front of the State Unemployment Office!"

Next Qwilleran visited the office of the publisher. Arch Riker was sitting in a high backed executive chair in front of a curved walnut slab supported by two marble monoliths.

"How do you like working in this spiffy environment?" Qwilleran asked. "I detect the fine hand of Amanda's Design Studio."

"It cramps my style. I'm afraid to put my feet on my desk, " said Riker, who claimed to do his best thinking with his feet elevated.

"Those underpinnings look like used tombstones."

"I wouldn't be surprised if they were. Amanda has all the instincts of a grave robber... Say, that was a decent obit you wrote for Iris Cobb. I hope you write one that's half that good when it's my turn to go. What's the story behind the story?"

"Meaning what?"

"Don't play dumb, Qwill. You know you always suspect that a car accident is a suicide, and a suicide is a murder. What really happened Sunday night? You look preoccupied."

Qwilleran touched his moustache in a guilty gesture but said glibly, "If I look preoccupied, Arch, it's because I've bought a dark suit for the funeral - I'm one of the pallbearers - and it's a question whether Scottie will have it ready on time. Are you going to Dingleberry's tonight?"

"That's my intention. I'm taking the lovely Amanda to dinner, and we'll stop at the funeral home afterward, if she can still stand up and walk straight."

"Tell the bartender to water her bourbon," Qwilleran suggested. "We don't want your inamorata to disgrace herself at Dingleberry's."

As lifelong comrades the two men had sniggered about their boyhood crushes, gloated over their youthful affairs, confided about their marriage problems, and shared the pain of the subsequent divorces. Currently they indulged in private banter about Riker's cranky, outspoken, bibulous friend Amanda. There were many complimentary adjectives that could apply to this successful businesswoman and aggressive member of the city council, but "lovely" was not one of them.

Riker asked, "Will you and Polly be there?" "She has a dinner meeting with the library board, but she'll drop in later."

"Perhaps we could go somewhere afterward - the four of us," Riker proposed. "I always need some liquid regalement after paying my respects to the deceased."

Qwilleran stood up to leave. "Sounds good. See you at Dingleberry's."

"Not so fast! How long are you going to be downtown? Can you hang around until lunchtime?"

"Not today. I have to go home and unpack my clothes, and find out where they store the spare lightbulbs, and take inventory of the freezer. Iris always cooked as if she expected forty unexpected guests for dinner."

"Home! You've been there half a day, and you call it home. You have a faculty for quick adjustment."

"I'm a gypsy at heart," Qwilleran said. "Home is where I hang my toothbrush and where the cats have their commode. See you tonight."

Driving to North Middle Hummock he noticed that the wind had risen and the leaves were beginning to fall. On Fugtree Road the pavement was carpeted with yellow leaves from the aspens. It would be a pleasant day to take a walk, he thought. His bicycle was in Pickax, and he missed his daily exercise. He was feeling relaxed and in a good humor; a little banter with his colleagues at the Something always put him in an amiable mood. A moment later, his equanimity was shattered.

As he turned the comer into Black Creek Lane he jammed on the brakes. A small child was standing in the middle of the lane, holding a toy of some kind.

At the urgent sound of tires crunching on gravel Mrs. Boswell ran out of the house, crying helplessly, "Baby! I told you to stay in the yard!" She picked up the tiny tot under one arm and took the toy away from her. "This is Daddy's. You're not supposed to touch it."

Qwilleran rolled down the car window. "That was a narrow escape," he said. "Better put her on a leash."

"I'm so... sorry, Mr. Qwilleran.

He continued slowly down the lane, experiencing a delayed chill at the recollection of the near-accident, then thinking about Verona's ingratiating drawl, then realizing that the "toy" was a walkie-talkie. As he parked in the farmyard the Boswell van was pulling away from the old barn; the driver leaned out of the window.

"What time is the funeral tomorrow?" trumpeted the irritating voice, resounding across the landscape.

Ten-thirty."

"Do you know who they got for pallbearers? I thought they might call on me, being a neighbor and all that. I would've been glad to do it, although I'm plenty busy in the barn. Any time you want to see the printing presses, let me know. I'll take time out and explain everything. It's very interesting."

"I'm sure it is," said Qwilleran, stony-faced. "We're thinking of going to the visitation tonight, the wife and me. If you want to hitch a ride with us, you're welcome. Plenty of room in the van!"

"That's kind of you, but I'm meeting friends in Pickax."

"That's okay, but don't forget, we're here to help, any time you need us." Boswell waved a friendly farewell and drove up the lane to the hired man's cottage.

Plucking irritably at his moustache Qwilleran let himself into the apartment and searched for the cats - always his first concern upon returning home. They were in the kitchen. They looked surprised that he had returned so soon. They seemed embarrassed, as if he had interrupted some private catly rite that he was not supposed to witness.

"What have you two rapscallions been doing?" he asked.

Koko said "ik ik ik" and Yum Yum nonchalantly groomed a spot on her snowy underside.

"I'm going for a walk, so you can return to whatever shady pastime has been giving you that guilty look."

Leisurely, after changing into a warm-up suit, he walked up the lane, enjoying the glorious October foliage and the vibrant blue of the sky and the yellow blanket of leaves underfoot. When he reached the hired man's cottage he hurried past, lest the Boswells should rush out and engage him in neighborly conversation. At the comer he turned east to explore a stretch of Fugtree Road he had never traveled. It was paved but there were no farmhouses - only rocky pastureland, patches of woodland, and squirrels busy in the oak trees. He walked for about a mile, seeing nothing of interest except a bridge over a narrow stream, evidently Black Creek. Then he retraced his steps, hurrying past the Boswell cottage and slowing down in front of the Fugtree farm.

The Fugtree name was famous in Moose County. The farmhouse had been built by a lumber baron in the nineteenth century, and it was a perfect example of Affluent Victorian - three stories high, with a tower and a wealth of architectural detail. The complex of barns, sheds, and coops indicated it had also been a working farm for a country gentleman with plenty of money. Now the outbuildings were shabby, the house needed a coat of paint, and the grounds were overgrown with weeds. The present occupants were not taking care of the Fugtree property in the manner to which it had been accustomed.

As Qwilleran speculated on its faded grandeur, someone in the side yard looked in his direction with hands on hips. He turned away and walked briskly back to Black Creek Lane. Passing the hired man's cottage he was careful to keep his gaze straight ahead. Even so he was aware of the tot running across the front lawn.

"Hi!" she called out.

He ignored the salutation and walked faster.

"Hi!" she said again as he came abreast of her. He kept on walking. As a youngster in Chicago he had been cautioned never to speak to strange adults, and as an adult in a changing society he considered it prudent never to speak to strange children.

"Hi!" she called after him as he marched resolutely down the lane, scattering leaves underfoot. She was probably a lonely child, he guessed, but he banished the thought and finished his walk at a jog-trot.

Arriving at the apartment he flipped the hall light switch out of sheer curiosity. Three candles responded. First it had been four, then three, then two. Now it was three again. Growling under his breath he strode to the kitchen, where Koko was sitting on the windowsill gazing intently at the barnyard. Yum Yum was watching Koko.

Qwilleran said in a louder voice than usual, "Since you two loafers spend so much time in the kitchen staring into space, perhaps you can tell me where to find the spare lightbulbs. Come on, Koko. Let's have a little input."

With seeming difficulty Koko wrenched his attention away from the outdoor scene and executed a broad jump from the windowsill to the large freezer chest that Mrs. Cobb had left well stocked with food.

"I said lightbulbs, not meatballs," said Qwilleran. He opened and closed the pine cabinets until he found what he needed - a flame-shaped lightbulb intended for use in candle-style fixtures. He carried this and a kitchen chair to the front hall, the Siamese romping alongside to watch the show. Any action out of the ordinary attracted their attention, and a man climbing on a kitchen chair rated as a spectacle.

After Qwilleran had climbed on the chair, he forgot which light needed replacing. He stepped down and flicked the switch. All four candles responded.

"Spooks!" he muttered as he returned the chair to the kitchen and put the lightbulb back into the broom closet.