The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

-6-

EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING Qwilleran clenched his teeth, bit his lip, swallowed his pride, and telephoned the cottage at the top of Black Creek Lane. It was important, he realized, to strike the right tone - not too suddenly friendly, not too apologetic, yet a few degrees warmer than before, with a note of urgency to mask embarrassment.

"Mr. Boswell," he said, "this is Qwilleran. I have a serious problem."

"How can I be of service? It's a privilege and a pleasure," said the voice that knifed the eardrums.

"I neglected to turn off my headlights last night, and my car won't start. Are you, by any chance, equipped to give my battery a jump?"

"Sure thing. I'll run down there pronto."

"I hate to bother you so early, but I have to be in Pickax at nine o'clock... for funeral preliminaries."

"No problem at all."

"I'll reimburse you, of course."

"Wouldn't think of it! That's what neighbors are for-to help each other. Be there in a jiffy."

Qwilleran loathed the man's syrupy sentiments and hoped he would not be expected to repay the favor by baby-sitting some evening while they went to a movie in Pickax.

Painful though he found it, Qwilleran survived the Boswell brand of friendliness and thanked him sincerely, though not effusively. As he started his drive to Pickax it occurred to him that some small token of appreciation would be in order, since Boswell refused remuneration. A bottle of something? A box of chocolates? A potted plant? A stuffed toy for Baby? He vetoed the toy immediately; such an avuncular gesture would be misconstrued, and Baby would start hanging around, asking questions, and expecting to pet the "kitties." She might even start calling him Uncle Qwill.

As he passed the Fugtree farm he remembered he owed Kristi Waffle a debt of gratitude as well. Chocolates? A potted plant? A bottle of something? He had not even met the woman. She sounded young and spirited. Apparently she had children, but of what age? Did she have a husband? If so, why was he not cutting the grass? They were hardly well-off. The inevitable pickup truck in the driveway was ready for the graveyard. By the time he arrived at Scottie's he was still in a quandary. A fruit basket? A frozen turkey? A bottle of something?

Qwilleran picked up his dark blue suit and rushed to his apartment over the garage. Across the Park Circle the mourners were already gathering at the Old Stone Church. Traffic was detoured, the cars of the funeral procession were lining up four abreast, and the park itself was filled with curious bystanders. Dressing hurriedly he found black shoes and a white shirt and dark socks, but all his ties were red stripes or red plaid or simply red, so it was back to Scottie's for a suitable tie.

When he finally arrived at the church, properly cravatted, he observed three generations of Dingleberry morticians in charge: old Adam propped up in the narthex, his sons handling details with inconspicuous efficiency, and his grandsons marshalling the procession. Within the church the organ was groaning sonorous chords, the pews were filled, the pink flowers were banked in front of the altar, and Iris Cobb lay in a pink casket in her pink suede suit. This was what she would have wanted for her farewell to Pickax. Although she had always appeared modest, she gloried in the attention and approval of others. Qwilleran felt a surge of joy for his former landlady, his former housekeeper, his eager-to-please friend-who had achieved such status.

After the interment he attended a small luncheon in a private room at Stephanie's. Conversation was in a minor key as guests endeavored to say the right thing, dropping crumbs of comfort, sweetly sad regrets, and nostalgic reminiscences.

Dennis Hough was the first to break the pattern. He said, "I've met some good people up here. No wonder my mother was so happy! I wouldn't mind relocating in Moose County."

"It would please Iris immensely," said Susan Exbridge. "But I don't know how Cheryl will react to the idea. It's so far away from everything. How's the school system?" Carol Lanspeak spoke up. "Thanks to the K Fund, we've been able to expand our facilities, improve the curriculum, and hire more teachers."

"The K Fund?"

"That's our affectionate nickname for the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund."

Larry Lanspeak said, "The county has several industrial and commercial builders, but we need a good residential builder. I think you should consider it."

After the luncheon, when Qwilleran and Dennis were driving to North Middle Hummock, the younger man asked, "How does the K Fund operate?"

"It manages and invests the Klingenschoen fortune and disburses the income in ways that will benefit the community - grants, scholarships, low-interest business loans, and so forth."

"If I started a business up here, would I stand a chance of getting a loan?"

"I have no doubt, if you applied to the Fund and presented a good case."

"My mother told me the Klingenschoen fortune is all yours."

"I inherited it, but too much money is a burden," Qwilleran explained. "I solved the problem by turning everything over to the Fund. I let them worry about it."

"That's very generous."

"Not generous; just smart. I have all I need. I used to be quite happy living out of two suitcases and renting a furnished room. I still don't require a lot of possessions."

As they passed a hedged field Qwilleran said, "This is where a flock of blackbirds rose out of the bushes and spooked a man's horse. He was thrown and killed. The blackbirds stage guerrilla warfare against the human population at certain times of year."

"Who was the man?"

"Samson Goodwinter. It happened more than seventy- five years ago, but the natives still talk about it as if it were last week."

"My mother's letters said that all the Goodwinters met with violent deaths."

"Let me explain the Goodwinter family," said Qwilleran. "There are forty-nine of them in the latest Pickax phone book, all descended from four brothers. There are the much-admired Goodwinters, like Doctor Halifax, and the eccentric Goodwinters, like Arch Riker's friend Amanda. Another branch of the family specializes in black sheep, or so it would seem. But the unfortunate Goodwinters that your mother mentioned are all the progeny of the eldest brother, Ephraim. He jinxed his whole line of descendents."

"How did he do that?"

"He was greedy. He owned the Goodwinter Mine and the local newspaper and a couple of banks in the county, but he was too stingy to provide safety measures for the mine. The result was an explosion that killed thirty-two miners."

"How long ago did that happen?"

"In 1904. From then on, he was violently hated. To thirty-odd families and their relatives he was the devil incarnate. He tried to make amends by donating a public library, but his victims' families wouldn't forgive. They threw rocks at his house and tried to bum down his barn. His sons and the hired man took turns standing guard with shotguns after dark."

"What did he look like? Do you know?"

"The museum has his portrait - a sour-looking villain with side whiskers and hollow cheeks and a turned-down mouth." They were now driving through the hilly terrain known as the Hummocks. "Around the next bend," Qwilleran pointed out, "you'll see a grotesque tree on a hill. It's called the Hanging Tree. It's where they found Ephraim Goodwinter dangling from a rope on October 30, 1904."

"What happened?"

"His family maintained it was suicide, but the rumor was circulated via the Pickax grapevine that he was lynched."

"Was there ever any proof, one way or the other?"

"Well, the family produced a suicide note," Qwilleran said, "so there was no investigation, and no charges were brought. And if the lynching story is true, it's curious that no one ever squealed on the vigilantes and there were no deathbed confessions. Today there's a fraternal order called the Noble Sons of the Noose. They're supposed to be direct descendents of the lynch mob."

"What do they do? Have you ever met one of them?"

"No one knows who belongs to the order; not even their wives know. The mayor of Pickax might be a Noble Son. Or the Dingleberry boys. Or Larry Lanspeak. It's a secret that has been handed down for three or four generations, and - believe me! - it's not easy to keep a secret in Moose County. They have a gossip network that makes satellite communication look like the pony express. Of course, they don't call it gossip. It's shared information."

"Fantastic!" said Dennis with wonder in his face. "This is interesting country!"

When they reached Black Creek Lane Qwilleran drove slowly to let his passenger enjoy the beauty of the foliage and the approach to the quaint farmhouse. A rusty van was leaving the barnyard as they arrived.

"Brace yourself," said Qwilleran. "Here comes the loudmouth who livened things up at the funeral home last night."

The van stopped, and Vince Boswell leaned out. "Sorry I couldn't get to the funeral," he said. "I'm trying to finish work on the presses before snow flies. How many cars went to the cemetery?"

"I didn't count them," Qwilleran snapped, and then - remembering Boswell's assistance in getting his car started - he amended his curt reply in a more cordial tone. "There was a marching band, very impressive. The church was filled."

"Must've been quite a sight. I wish I could've been there to say goodbye to the lady." He peered at Dennis. "I don't believe I've been formally introduced to your friend."

Qwilleran made the introductions briefly.

Boswell said, "Coming to pick up some of your mother's things, I suppose. She had a cookbook that my wife would like to have if you don't want it - just as a remembrance, you know. She's always looking for new things to cook. If you two gentlemen would like to come and have supper with us tonight, you'd be very welcome. It won't be fancy, but it'll be home-cooked."

"That's kind of you," said Qwilleran, "but Mr. Hough's time is limited. He simply wants to see the farmhouse."

"Be glad to show you the printing presses in the barn, sir."

"Not this time, thanks."

"Well, let me know if I can be of any assistance," said Boswell.

As the van drove away, Dennis said, "Do you think he's a Noble Son of the Noose?"

"He's a son of something," said Qwilleran, "but he bailed me out of a tight situation this morning, and I should be grateful. Maybe that's why he was hinting for your mother's cookbook."

"At the funeral home last night he asked Larry for my mother's job as resident manager. Sort of premature, don't you think?"

"Vince Boswell isn't noted for his finesse." First they walked around the grounds, Qwilleran pointing out the features of the house. The original section was built of square logs measuring fourteen by fourteen inches, chinked with mortar made of clay, straw, and hog's blood. The east and west wings were added later, and the whole structure was covered with cedar shingles, now weathered to a silvery gray.

Dennis showed no sentiment when they entered his mother's apartment. He strolled about with his hands in his pockets, commenting on the wide floorboards, the extravagant use of milled woodwork, and the six-over-six windows, many of the panes having the original wavy glass. He said nothing about the General Grant bed or the Pennsylvania Schrank or the pewter collection in the kitchen - all considered rare treasures by Iris Cobb.

When they entered the kitchen, Koko rose from his huddle on the windowsill, stretched his long body in a hairpin curve, and made a flying leap to the top of the freezer-chest, six feet away.

"Too early for dinner," Qwilleran told him.

"Is that Koko?" Dennis asked. "My mother told me about him. She said he's very smart."

Koko was now on the floor, tracing abstract patterns with his nose, moving his head from right to left, covering the entire room systematically.

"This is his bloodhound act," Qwilleran explained. As the cat neared the telephone he became excited, hopped to the seat of the old school desk and sniffed the desktop with moist snorts.

"What's in that desk?" Dennis asked.

Qwilleran lifted the lid. "Papers," he said. There were scribbled notes in Iris Cobb's illegible hand, newspaper clippings, index cards, a magnifying glass, and a battered looseleaf notebook, its black covers now gray with waterspots and flour and hard use.

Dennis said, "That looks like her personal cookbook. She told me it was the only thing she saved from the fire last year. That's because it was in her luggage at the time. She was taking it on her honeymoon, if you can believe that."

"Knowing your mother, I can believe it," said Qwilleran as he returned the book to the desk. "There are women in Moose County who would sell their souls to the devil if they could get their hands on this collection of recipes. Would you like to see the museum now?"

Dennis glanced at his watch. "Sure." The main section of the house was furnished with trestle tables, rope beds, a pie safe, banister-back chairs, iron-strapped chests and other trappings of a pioneer home. The east wing was devoted to collections of textiles, documents, lighting fixtures and the like. Dennis ignored the stenciled walls that had thrilled his mother, and the window curtains that had required so much research, and the heirlooms she had begged from old families in the area.

"It was the basement where she first heard the knocking," he said.

"Okay, let's go downstairs," said Qwilleran. A sign at the top of the basement stairs explained that the "cellar" originally had a dirt floor and was used for storing root vegetables and apples in winter, and possibly milk and cream from the family cow. Later a coal bin had been added, and a fruit closet for home canning. The basement now had a concrete floor and the latest in heating and laundry equipment, but the exposed joists overhead were fourteen-inch logs with the bark still in evidence.

Qwilleran found a door leading to a storeroom under the west wing, where damaged furniture and household cast-offs were piled without plan or purpose, among them a wooden potato masher. The stone walls were a foot thick, one of them roughly covered with cracked plaster. Had Iris cracked it, Qwilleran wondered, when she tapped out an answer to the ghostly visitor?

"Nothing here to explain the knocking," said Dennis. "The house is built like Fort Knox. Let's go back upstairs. Susan is picking me up and taking me to see the Fitch property. The real estate broker is meeting us there."

"Are you serious about moving to Moose County?"

"I won't know until I talk it over with Cheryl, but when I ten her about the Fitch estate she might get excited."

Don't tell her about Susan, Qwilleran thought. There was an obvious rapport developing between Dennis and the vivacious divorcee. He had observed it at Dingleberry's and at the luncheon following the funeral, and he noticed it again when Susan arrived and whisked the young man away to the Fitch estate. He was at least fifteen years her junior but tall like her former husband and with the same rugged good looks.

When he had waved the couple on their way he went indoors, flicking the hall lights out of sheer curiosity. The previous flick had activated four candles. Now it was three again. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache.

He had expected to spend the afternoon with Dennis, examining the museum exhibits and looking at the printing presses in the barn, after which they might have had drinks at the Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville, dinner at the Northern Lights Hotel overlooking the lake, and dessert at the colorful Black Bear Caf‚.

Somewhat disappointed he telephoned Polly at the library. "Would you like to go out tonight? We could have dinner at the Northern Lights and finish up at the Black Bear."

"How would you like to come to my place instead?" she asked.

"You shouldn't have to cook after working all day," he protested.

"Don't worry. I can whip up something very easily." He knew what it would be. They had recently read a play aloud - The Cocktail Party by T. S. Eliot - and since then Polly had been whipping up curried dishes instead of broiling fish or pan-frying chops. He liked Indian fare, but Polly was whipping a good idea to death. Her cottage was beginning to have a permanent aroma of Bombay, as if it had seeped into the carpet and upholstery. "Are you sure you want to take the trouble?" he asked.

"Of course I do! Besides, I have a surprise for you."

"What is it?" Qwilleran hated to be surprised.

"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise, will it? Come at six-thirty. That will give me time to go home and change clothes."

And find the curry powder, he thought. Reluctantly he agreed. He would have preferred broiled whitefish or stuffed porkchops at the Northern Lights.

Now he had time to kill, and it occurred to him that he had never raked leaves. He had interviewed kings; he had been strafed on a Mediterranean beach; and briefly he had been held hostage by a crazed bank robber, but he had never raked leaves. He changed into jeans and a red plaid shirt and went to the steel barn to find a rake.

A year ago the barn had been the scene of an auction when the Goodwinters' household goods were liquidated. Now it functioned as a' garage and utility shed, housing garden tools, a work bench, odds and ends of lumber, and stacks of firewood. Mrs. Cobb's station wagon was parked there, and he assumed it would be sold. It was larger than his downscale compact and would more easily accommodate the cats' carrier and their commode. It might be enjoyable to take them on a few trips around the country. The Lanspeaks had been raving about the Blue Ridge Mountains. He wondered if the altitude would hurt their ears.

Finding a rake, Qwilleran embarked on a new experience - pleasant exercise that activated the muscles without engaging the mind. It gave him time to think about the irritating Vince Boswell, Koko's discovery of Iris Cobb's cookbook, the all-too-obvious attraction between Susan Exbridge and Dennis Hough, Polly's promised surprise, and the prospect of another dinner of curried something-or- other.

From the comer of his eye he was aware of someone small approaching him.

"Hi!" said Baby. Qwilleran grunted a reply and raked faster. "What are you doing?"

"Raking leaves."

"Why?"

"For the same reason you brush your teeth. It has to be done."

She considered this analogical reasoning briefly and followed up with, "How old are you?"

"That's classified information, How old are you?"

"Three in April."

"What kind of car do you drive?" Qwilleran asked.

"I don't have a car," she said with a pretty pout. He had to admit she was a pretty child as well as articulate.

"Why not?"

"I'm too little."

"Why don't you grow up?"

As Baby pondered an answer to this baffling question her mother came running down the lane. "Baby? Baby?" she called out in her gentle and ineffectual way. "Daddy doesn't want you to come down here, I'm sorry, Mr. Qwilleran. Was she bothering you? She's always asking annoying... questions?"

"She's training to be a journalist," Qwilleran said, raking industriously.

He finished his chore with satisfaction, heaping the leaves in piles for the yard crew to remove. Then he went indoors to feed the Siamese. The freezer-chest contained, he estimated, a two-month supply of spaghetti sauce, chili, macaroni and cheese (his favorite), vichyssoise, pot roast, turkey tetrazzini, shrimp gumbo, deviled crab, Swedish meatballs and other Cobb specialties - nothing in curry sauce, he was glad to note.

He thawed some pot roast for the cats, and while they were devouring it he took Mrs. Cobb's personal cookbook from the small desk and looked for his favorite coconut cream cake with apricot filling, but the handwriting defeated him. Over the years the pages had been spotted with cook's fingerprints and smeared with tomato, chocolate, egg yolk, and what appeared to be blood. He thought, One could boil this and make a tasty soup. Koko had probably smelled the presence of the book and tracked it to its hiding place in the desk. Remarkable cat! Sniffing the book himself, he could detect no noticeable scent. He returned it to the desk and dressed for dinner.

Polly lived in a small house on the old MacGregor farm. The last of the MacGregors had died, the main farmhouse was for sale, and the intelligent goose that used to patrol the property was no longer around. For one dark moment as he parked the car Qwilleran envisioned curried goose as Polly's surprise, but when he approached the front door the aroma of curried shrimp assailed his nostrils and he half expected to hear raga music.

"Don't tell me! I can guess what's for dinner," he said. Her greeting was unusually ardent. She bubbled with an excitement unlike her normal air of subdued happiness. "Shall we have an Attitude Adjustment Hour before dinner?" she asked, blithely jingling ice cubes in glasses. She served him Squunk water with a twist and passed a plate of olive-and-cheese hors d'oeuvres. Then, raising her sherry glass she said, "Eat thy bread with joy and drink thy Squunk water with a merry heart."

"You're in a good mood tonight," he said. "Did the library board vote you a raise?"

"Guess again."

"They approved a new heating system for the library?"

Polly jumped up. Ordinarily she rose gracefully, but she jumped up saying, "Close your eyes," as she hurried to the bedroom. When she returned he heard a faint squeak, and he opened his eyes to see her holding a small basket in which lay a small white kitten with large brown ears, large brown feet, a dark smudge on his nose, and the indescribably blue eyes of a Siamese.

"Meet my little boy," she said proudly. "He came all the way from Lockmaster on the bus today, traveling by himself."

"Is this what Siamese look like when they're young?" Qwilleran asked in astonishment. He had adopted both Koko and Yum Yum after they were grown.

"Isn't he adorable?" She lifted him from the basket and nuzzled her face against his fur. "We love him to pieces! He's such a sweetheart!... Are you my little sweetheart?.. Yes, he's my little sweetheart. Listen to him purr."

She placed the kitten carefully on the floor, and he lurched across the carpet like a windup toy, his skinny legs splayed at odd angles and his large brown feet flopping like a clown in oversize shoes. Polly explained, "He's still unsteady on his legs, and he doesn't quite know what to do with his feet. Of course, he's a little dismayed, being away from his mother and siblings... Aren't you, sweetums?"

Qwilleran had to admit he was an appealing little creature, but he found Polly's commentary cloying. He occasionally called Yum Yum his little sweetheart, but that was different. It was a term of endearment, not maudlin gush. "What's his name?" he asked.

"Bootsie, and he's going to grow up to be just like Koko."

Fat chance, Qwilleran thought, with a name like that! Koko bore the dignified cognomen of Kao K'o Kung, a thirteenth-century Chinese artist. He said, "You told me you didn't want a pet. You always said you were too busy and too often out of town."

"I know," she said, sweetly sheepish, "but the librarian in Lockmaster had a litter, and Bootsie was just too irresistible. Do you want to hold him? First I have to give him a kiss-kiss so that he knows he's loved."

Qwilleran accepted the small bundle gingerly. "He must weigh about three ounces. What's he stuffed with? Goose down?"

"He weighs exactly one pound and eight and a half ounces on my kitchen scale."

"Do you feed him with an eyedropper?"

"He gets a spoonful of nutritional catfood four times a day. It doesn't take much to fill up his little tum-tum."

Bootsie was quite content on Qwilleran's lap, his loud purr shaking his entire twenty-four and a half ounces. Occasionally he emitted a small squeak, closing his eyes in the effort.

"He needs oiling," Qwilleran said.

"That means he likes you. He wants you to be his godfather. Give him a kiss-kiss."

"No thanks. I have jealous cats at home." He was glad when Bootsie was returned to the bedroom and dinner was served.

It was curry again - and hot enough to send him catapulting out of his chair after the first forkful. "Wow!" he said.

"Hot?" Polly inquired.

"Like Hades! What happened?"

"I learned how to mix my own curry powder - fourteen spices, including four kinds of pepper. Would you like some ice water?"

Every few minutes Polly peeked into the bedroom to check the kitten. Asleep or awake? In or out of the basket? Happy or unhappy? Qwilleran could hardly believe that an intelligent, sophisticated, middle-aged woman with an executive position in a public library could be reduced overnight to a blithering fool.

For dessert she served a welcome dish of sherbet and suggested having coffee in the living room. "Would you like Bootsie to join us?" she asked coyly.

"No," he said firmly. "I have a serious matter to discuss with you."

"Really?" She said it with a distracted glance at the bedroom door, having heard a squeak, and he knew he would have to drop a bomb to galvanize her attention.

"It's my theory," he said, "that Iris Cobb's death was a case of murder."