The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (12 page)

When the cartons were packed, he labeled them and carried them to the museum office. Koko wanted to accompany him.

"Sorry," Qwilleran said. "The sign stipulates no smoking, no food or beverages, and no bare feet."

When the chore was completed, however, Koko was still bouncing up and down at the door to the museum, trying to turn the doorknob. He had been allowed in the exhibit area once before when Mrs. Cobb was alive, and on that occasion he had been attracted to some model ships.

Qwilleran finally acquiesced. "All right, but you'll be disappointed," he told the cat. "The ship exhibit has been dismantled."

As soon as the connecting door was opened, Koko bounded into the museum, ignoring the pioneer rooms and heading for the east wing, which housed the theme exhibits, study collections, and the museum office. He scampered directly into the office, looked behind the door, and started jumping to reach Ms. Finney's feather duster.

"You devil!" Qwilleran said. "How did you know it was there?" He removed the cat and closed the office door, then watched him closely as he explored.

Koko bypassed the room that had formerly featured model ships; the door was closed, and a sign announced a new exhibit opening soon. He showed no interest in historic documents or the distinguished collection of early lighting devices. What fascinated this remarkable cat was an exhibit that everyone considered the most boring in the museum: textiles. It consisted of bed linens and table linens yellow with age; quilts faded from laundering with lye soap; hand-woven blankets perforated with moth holes; hand-hooked rugs dingy with wear; dreary dishtowels made from flour sacks; a stained mattress stuffed with straw; curtains dyed with berries and onion skins. Yet, the identification cards stated proudly the names of the early settlers who had woven, quilted, hooked, dyed, and stuffed these artifacts. Koko especially liked a bed pillow made from a flour sack and filled, according to the ID card, with chicken feathers from the Inchpot Centennial Farm. He sniffed it intently.

"Chicken feathers! I might have known!" said Qwilleran. "Let's go home." He picked up the cat, who squirmed from his grasp and rushed back to the Inchpot pillow. Curiously, a similar pillow from the Trevelyan Farm, dating somewhat earlier in Moose County history, was totally overlooked. Qwilleran got a stranglehold on Koko and wrestled him back to the apartment.

They were met by Yum Yum, who touched noses with Koko and proceeded to groom the historical odors out of his fur. This business finished, Koko undertook a new mission: staring at the freezer compartment at the top of the refrigerator.

"There's nothing in that freezer for cats," Qwilleran advised him. "You're barking up the wrong tree. You can have some meatloaf from the big freezer, but not until dinner-time."

Koko persisted, prancing on his hind legs. To prove his point, Qwilleran opened the freezer door, exposing stacks of cinnamon doughnuts, blueberry muffins, chocolate brownies, banana nutbread, and other confections. It was then that an idea flashed into his mind: A package of Mrs. Cobb's pecan rolls would make an ideal thank-you for the family at the Fugtree farm, a gift beyond price and with a touch of sentiment. Later he might present a cherry pie to the Boswells, if he could do so without getting involved in neighborly chitchat. Mrs. Boswell was all right, but her husband's voice made Qwilleran's blood curdle, and Baby was a little pest.

It was early afternoon, a suitable time to pay an impromptu visit. He thawed the pecan rolls and drove to the Fugtree farm. Although it was within walking distance, he reasoned that dropping in on foot would suggest back-fence familiarity, and even the obligatory sharing of refreshments. Arriving by car appeared more businesslike, and he could make a quick getaway. He decided to drive.

At close hand the neglected farmhouse was even more dilapidated than it appeared from the highway. Obviously. the front door had not been used for years; even the steps were sprouting weeds. He drove around to the side door, and as he did so a young woman came walking from the nearest barn, wearing grubby coveralls and a feed cap. She had a designer figure, but they were not designer coveralls; rather, they had the air of the Farmers' Discount Store in North Kennebeck.

"You're Mr. Qwilleran," she greeted him. "I recognized you from your picture in the paper. Excuse the way I look; I've been mucking the barn."

Her manner and her speech seemed incompatible with mucking barns, and Qwilleran's curiosity was kindled. Stepping out of the car he handed her the package of pecan rolls. "I came to thank you for telling me about my car lights Tuesday night. This is something from Mrs. Cobb's freezer. I thought your family might enjoy it."

"Thank you, I don't have a family," she said, "but I love Iris's baking. I'm sorry we've lost her. She was such a neat lady."

Qwilleran was puzzled. "When you first called about Iris... you mentioned... that your youngsters were ill," he said hesitantly.

Her face went blank for a moment and then brightened. "I guess I said I was taking care of my sick kids. I meant I... baby goats."

"Pardon my ignorance. I'm a recent refugee from Down Below and I haven't mastered the vocabulary up here."

"Please sit down," she said, waving toward some rusty garden chairs. "Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Thanks, Ms. Waffle, but alcohol isn't on my list of vices.”

"Kristi," she said. "Call me Kristi, spelled K-r-i-s-t-i. Then how about some fresh lemonade made with honey from local bees?"

"Now you're speaking my language." He sat down carefully in one of the infirm garden chairs and surveyed the farmyard. It was a scene of unfinished chores, uncut grass, unpainted barns, unmended fences. What was she doing here alone? he wondered. She was young. About thirty, he guessed. But serious in her mien. She was cordial, but only her lips smiled. Her eyes were heavy with sorrow, or regret, or worry. An interesting face!

Along with the lemonade came crackers and a chunk of soft white cheese. "Goat cheese," she explained. "I make it myself. Are you going to be staying at the museum?"

"Only until they find a replacement for Mrs. Cobb." Trying not to stare at the neglected grass and shabby house, I he said, "How long have you had this place?"

"Ever since my mother died, a couple of years ago grew up here, but I've been away for ten years. When I inherited the house, I came back to see if I could make a living with goats. I'm the last of the Fugtrees."

"But your name is Waffle."

"That was my married name. After my divorce I decided to keep it."

Qwilleran thought, Anything is better than Fugtree.

  “Anything is better than Fugtree," she said as if reading his mind.

"I'm not familiar with your family history, although I understand Captain Fugtree was a war hero."

Kristi sighed ruefully. "My earlier ancestors made a lot of money in lumbering, and they built this house, but the captain was more interested in being a war hero, which doesn't pay the bills. When my parents inherited the house, they struggled to keep it up, and now that they're gone, I'm trying to make it go. People tell me I should sell the land to a developer for condominiums, like the ones in Indian Village, but it would be a crime to tear down this fabulous house. At least, I want to give farming a try," she said, smiling sadly.

"Why goats?"

"For several reasons." She brightened perceptibly. "They're really sweet animals and not expensive to feed, and there's a growing market for goat products. Did you know that? I raise dairy goats now, but someday I'd like to have some Angoras and spin their hair and weave it. I studied weaving in art school."

"This sounds like material for the 'Qwill Pen' column," said Qwilleran. "May I make an appointment with you and the goats?"

"That would be neat, Mr. Qwilleran!"

"Please call me Qwill," he said. He was feeling comfortable and somewhat captivated. The lemonade was the best he had ever tasted, and the goat cheese was delectable. Kristi's soft, sad eyes were mesmerizing. He had no desire to leave. Looking up at the house, he said, "This is a unique example of nineteenth-century architecture. What was the reason for the tower? Was it simply a conceit?"

"I don't know exactly. My ancestors were gentlemen farmers, and my mother thought they used the tower as a lookout—to spy on the field hands and see if they were loafing.”

"And what do you use it for?"

"I go up there to meditate. That's how I knew you'd left your car lights on."

"What's up in the tower?"

"Mostly flies. Flies love towers. Spraying doesn't do much good. They're always buzzing and sunning and multiplying. Would you like to see the house?"

"Very much so."

"I should warn you. It's a mess. My mother was an absolutely mad collector. She went to auctions and bought all kinds of junk, It's a disease, you know, bidding at auctions."

"I had an acute attack of auctionitis once," said Qwilleran, "and I can see how the germ could get into anyone's blood and cause a chronic condition for which there is no cure."

They entered the house through the side door, picking their way among shopping bags stuffed with clothing, shoes, hats, dolls and umbrellas; rusty tricycles and a manual lawnmower; open cartons loaded with dented pots and pans, chipped platters, bar trays and old milk bottles; wooden buckets and galvanized pails; an oak icebox and a wicker fern stand; stacks of magazines and bushels of books. Having been too long in attics and basements, these relics were giving their musty scent to the entire house.

Kristi said with a rueful smile, "I've been trying to thin out her accumulation—selling some and giving some away, but there's tons of it!"

The dining room alone harbored two large tables, twenty chairs, three china cabinets, and enough china to start a restaurant.

"See what I mean?" she said. "And this is only the beginning. The bedrooms are worse. Try not to look at the clutter. Look at the carved woodwork and the sculptured ceilings and the stained glass windows, and the staircase."

From the foyer a wide staircase angled up to the second floor. The newel post and handrail were massive, and the balusters were set extravagantly close together, harking back to the days when lumber was king. It was all. black walnut, Kristi said.

"But this is not the original staircase," she pointed out.

"The first one spiraled up into the tower and was very graceful. My great-grandfather replaced it and sealed off the tower."

"Too many flies?" Qwilleran asked. "Or too hard to heat?"

"That's a long story," she said, turning away. "Do you feel like climbing four flights?"

After they reached the third floor she unbolted a door leading to the tower. Here the stairs were plain and utilitarian, but they ended in a small enchanting room no bigger than a walk-in closet, with windows on four sides and windowseats cushioned in threadbare velvet. On a shabby wicker table there were binoculars, a guttered candle, and a book on yoga in a brown paper cover. Iridescent bluebottle flies were sunning on the south window.

Qwilleran picked up the glasses and looked to the north, where the big lake shimmered just below the horizon. To the west a church spire rose out of a forest of evergreens. To the east was the Goodwinter property with Boswell's van in the barnyard, a blue pickup in the museum drive, and half a dozen energetic young persons raking leaves, bagging them, and loading them in the truck.

Qwilleran asked, "What is the purpose of the diagonal line of trees cutting across the fields?"

"That's Black Creek," Kristi said; "You can't see the stream, but trees thrive on its banks, and there are some very old willows hanging over the water."

"This house," Qwilleran said as they went back down the four flights of stairs, "should be registered as a historic place."

"I know." Kristi's eyes filled with melancholy. "But there's too much red tape, and I wouldn't have time to do research and fill out the forms. And then the house and grounds would have to be fixed up, and that's more than I could afford to do."

Qwilleran patted his moustache smugly, thinking, This might be a project for the Klingenschoen Fund to underwrite. The Fugtrees were pioneers who helped develop the county, and their house is an architectural showplace worthy of preservation. Eventually it might be purchased by the Historical Society and opened to the public as a museum. He could visualize Fugtree Road becoming a "museum park" with the Goodwinter farmhouse demonstrating the life of the early settlers and the Fugtree mansion showing Moose County during its boom years. Even the antique presses in the barn had possibilities as a "Museum of the Printed Word." Qwilleran liked the name. One or two good restaurants might open in the vicinity, and the ghost town of North Middle Hummock would rise again, with the inevitable condominiums on the other side of Black Creek. The fact that Kristi was an attractive young woman had nothing to do with his enthusiastic speculations, he told himself.

"Would you like another glass of lemonade?" she asked to break the silence that fell after her last statement.

"No thank you," he said, snapping out of his reverie, "but how about two o'clock tomorrow afternoon for the interview?"

As she walked with him toward his car, he mentioned casually, "The Klingenschoen Fund might help you with the historic registration. Why don't you write a letter to the Fund in care of Hasselrich, Bennett and Barter? And see what happens."

Her eyes lost their melancholy for the first time. "Do you really think I'd stand a chance?"

"No harm in trying. All you have to lose is a postage stamp."

"Oh, Mr. Qwilleran – Qwill—I'd hug you if I hadn't been mucking the barn!"

"I'll take a raincheck," he said. Arriving back at the farmhouse Qwilleran ignored the Siamese and looked up "goat" in the unabridged dictionary. Then he called Roger MacGillivray at the newspaper office. "Glad I caught you, Roger. I have a favor to ask. Are you free for dinner tonight?"

"Uh... yeah... but it would have to be early. I promised to be home by seven o'clock to babysit."

"I'll buy your dinner at Tipsy's if you'll stop at the Pickax library and bring me some books on goats."