The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (16 page)

"Hmmm," he mused, searching for good reasons to decline. "Wouldn't two big cats with loud voices frighten him?"

"I doubt it. He's a well-adjusted little fellow. Nothing bothers him."

"Yum Yum might think he's a mouse."

"She's smart enough to know better. He won't be any trouble, Qwill, and you'll love him as much as I do."

"Well... I'll give it a try... but if he expects me to kiss-kiss, he's grievously mistaken."

Qwilleran pushed his way through the growing crowd, noting the presence of attorney Hasselnch and his wife, Dr. Zoller and his latest blond, Arch Riker and the lovely Amanda, the Boswells with Baby, and several politicians whose names would be on the November ballot. Vince Boswell's voice could be heard above all the rest. "Are they going to have refreshments? Iris used to make the best damned cookies!"

Eventually Qwilleran reached the disaster exhibit. As Mildred had said, the dramatic impact was created with photo murals. They depicted the 1892 logjam that took seven lives, the 1898 fire that destroyed Sawdust City, the wreck of a three-masted schooner in the 1901 storm, and other calamities in Moose County history, but the dominating display was the "Truth or Myth?" vignette, which revived old questions about the mysterious end of Ephraim Goodwinter.

The story of the mine explosion and its aftermath was presented graphically without commentary. Photo blowups and newspaper clippings were grouped under four dates:

May 13, 1904—Photo of rescue crew at Goodwinter Mine. Headlines from Down Below say: 32 KILLED IN MINE EXPLOSION.

May 18, 1904—Photo of weeping widows and children. Excerpt from Pickax Picayune of that date: "Mr. and Mrs. Ephraim Goodwinter and family left today for several months abroad."

August 25, 1904—Architect's rendering of proposed library building. Feature story in the Picayune: "The city soon will have a public library, thanks to the munificence of Mr. Ephraim Goodwinter, owner and publisher of this newspaper.”

November 2, 1904—Photo of Ephraim's funeral procession. Report in the Picayune: "Mourners accompanied the earthly remains of the late Ephraim Goodwinter to the grave in the longest funeral procession on record. Mr. Goodwinter died suddenly on Tuesday."

Interspersed with the enlarged photos and clippings were miners' hats, pickaxes, and sledgehammers—even a miner's lunchbucket with reference to the meat-and-potato "pasties" that they traditionally carried down the mine shaft. A portrait of the sour-faced philanthropist showed the knife slash it received while on display in the lobby of the public library. A fuzzy snapshot of the Hanging Tree with its grisly burden was identified as "unidentified." There was also a photocopy of the alleged suicide note in handwriting remarkably similar to that of A. Lincoln. A ballot box invited visitors to vote: Suicide or Murder?

Qwilleran's elbow was jostled by Hixie Rice, advertising manager for the Moose County Something. "I get one message from all this," she said. "What Ephraim needed was a good public relations counselor."

"What he needed," said Qwilleran, "was some common sense."

He retraced his course through the crowd and found the Lanspeaks in the office. "You said something was missing. What is it?"

"The sheet," said Carol.

"What sheet?"

"We displayed a white sheet that the Reverend Mr. Crawbanks found near the Hanging Tree after Ephraim's death."

"Do you mean to say that someone stole it?" Qwilleran asked.

Larry said somberly, "It's the only thing that has ever been removed from our exhibit space, and we've had some valuable stuff on display. Obviously we have a crackpot in our midst. And we know it's an inside job because it was missing when the doors first opened to the public at one o'clock. It's no great loss. The sheet had dubious value even as a historic artifact. But I don't like the idea that we have a petty thief on the staff."

Qwilleran asked, "How many people have keys to the museum. Homer tells me you have seventy-five volunteers.”

"No one has a key. The volunteers let themselves in with the official key hidden on the front porch."

"Hidden where? Under the door mat?"

"Under the basket of Indian com hanging above the doorbell," said Carol.

"We've always considered our people completely trustworthy, " said Larry.

Qwilleran excused himself and went in search of the exhibit chairperson. He found Mildred in conversation with Verona Boswell, who was saying, "Baby talked in complete sentences by the time she was eight months old." She was clutching the hand of the tiny girl in blue velvet coat and hat.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Boswell," said Qwilleran. "May I borrow Mrs. Hanstable to explain one of the exhibits?"

"Why, of course... Baby, do you know who this is? Say hi to Mr. Qwilleran." "Hi!" she said.

"Hi," he replied more graciously than usual.

He steered Mildred into the deserted textile room. "It's a quiet place to talk," he explained. "I have yet to see a single visitor looking at this godawful exhibit."

"It's grim, isn't it?" she agreed. "We tried to spark it up with colored backgrounds and clever signs, and we roped it off to make it look important, but everyone loves the red velvet roping and hates the textiles. What's on your mind, Qwill?"

"I'd like to compliment you on the disaster exhibit. It's attracting a lot of attention."

"I thank you, and Fran Brodie thanks you. It will be interesting to see the result of the voting."

"Have you looked at the exhibit today?"

"I haven't been able to get near it. Too many people. Did someone take another poke at Ephraim's portrait?"

"No, Mildred, someone walked off with the Reverend Mr. Crawbanks' sheet."

"Really? You wouldn't kid me, would you?"

"Carol discovered that it was missing. She and Larry are surprised to say the least. They have no idea who might have pilfered it. Have you?"

"Qwill," she said, "I don't pretend to understand anything that's going on in today's society. Why don't you ask Koko whodunit? He's smarter than either of us."

"Speaking of Koko," he said, "I wish you would look at that Inchpot bed pillow. Do you see anything unusual about it?”

She studied the limp pillow critically. "Only that it's been moved." She stepped over the velvet roping, plumped the pillow and arranged it more artfully. "There! Does that look better?"

"Is it a normal occurrence for displayed objects to be moved?"

"Well... no. The volunteers are told never to disarrange the exhibits. Why do you ask?"

He lowered his voice. "I brought Koko in here the other day, and he zeroed in on that pillow and sniffed it. He wouldn't leave it alone until I ejected him bodily from the museum. Now, don't tell me it's stuffed with chicken feathers, because the pillow from the Trevelyan farm is also stuffed with chicken feathers, but he ignored it completely.”

"Let's see what it says on the ill card," Mildred said, I stepping over the roping again and picking up the handprinted label. "It was used on the Inchpot farm prior to World War I... The cover is a washed flour sack... It's stuffed with chicken feathers from the Inchpot coops... It was donated by Adeline Inchpot Crowe."

"Did you say Crow?"

"With an e on the end."

"Let's get out of here, Mildred. These seventy-five-year-old chicken feathers give me an acute case of depression. How would you like to have a look at Iris's cookbook while you're here?"

Qwilleran ran interference through the throng and suggested a cup of coffee when they entered the kitchen of the west wing.

"Or a little something else?" Mildred said coyly. "Large crowds make me nervous unless I have a glass in my hand."

"I'll see what I can find. Iris didn't maintain a well-stocked bar."

"Anything will do if it has a little buzz."

Qwilleran started rattling ice cubes. "The cookbook is in the school desk under the telephone. Lift up the lid... I find dry sherry, Dubonnet and Campari. What'll it be?" There was no response.

"Did you find it?" he asked. "It's just a looseleaf notebook, mixed in with a lot of clippings and scraps of paper."

Mildred was bending over the small desk. "It's not here."

"It's got to be there! I saw it a couple of days ago."

"It's not here," she insisted. "Come and look."

Qwilleran hurried to peer over her shoulder. "Where could it have gone?"

"The cats stole it," she said archly.

"Koko lifted the lid, and Yum Yum heisted it with her famous paw."

"Not likely. They're larcenous, but a looseleaf notebook two inches thick is out of their class."

"You may have mislaid it."

"I looked at the handwriting for about ten seconds and then put it back in the desk. Someone came in here and pinched it—someone who knew where Iris kept it. Did she ever invite the museum staff in for coffee or anything?"

"Yes, often, but—"

"There's no lock on the door between here and the museum. Someone had three days to do the job. I’ve been out every day. We’ve got to get a lock on that door! What’s to stop anyone from coming in and snatching the cats?” He stopped and looked around. “Where are they? They’re usually in the kitchen. I haven’t seen them. Where are they?”

-12-

AFTER THE SIAMESE had been found asleep on a pink towel the bathroom (insulated from the museum hubbub), and after Mildred had finished her Campari, and after the crowd had thinned out, Qwilleran went in search of Larry Lanspeak. The president was in the office conferring with a few directors of the museum.

"Come in, Qwill," said Larry. "We were just discussing the incident of the missing sheet."

"Now you can discuss the incident of the missing cookbook," Qwilleran said. "Iris's collection of recipes has disappeared from her desk."

"The cookbook I can understand," said Susan, "but who would take a sheet with holes in it?"

Carol suggested posting a large sign on the volunteers’ bulletin board. "We could say, 'Will the volunteers who borrowed the sheet from the disaster exhibit and the cookbook from Iris Cobb's desk please return them to the museum office immediately. No questions asked.' How does that sound?"

Qwilleran said, "The time has come to install a lock on the connecting door between the museum and the manager's apartment. Iris had a large collection of valuable collectibles—small items, easy to pick up. People who wouldn't steal from the living think it's okay to steal from the dead. It's a primitive custom, practiced for centuries."

"Yes, but not around here," said Susan.

 "How do you know? The dead never report it to the police. Moose County may have computers and camcorders and private planes, but there are plenty of primitive beliefs. Ghosts, for example. I keep hearing that Ephraim walks through the walls occasionally."

Larry smiled. "That's a popular joke, Qwill, just something to talk about over the coffee cups." He reached for the phone, at the same time glancing at his watch. "I'll call Homer about the lock. I hope he's still up. It's only five-thirty, but his bedtime keeps getting earlier and earlier."

"His new bride will change his habits," Qwilleran said. "She's a live one!"

"Yes," Larry said with a chuckle, "they'll be sitting up watching television until eight o'clock at night... Why are we laughing? When we're Homer's age, we won't even be here!" He completed the call and reported that Homer would round up a locksmith first thing in the morning.

Qwilleran said, "I have another suggestion to make, apropos of locks and valuables. Iris had a lot of private papers in her desk in the parlor. They should be bundled up, sealed, and turned over to her son."

"I'll be happy to do that," said Susan. "I'll be seeing Dennis this week."

Qwilleran gave her an expressionless stare and then turned to Larry.

The president said, "I propose we do it right now. Susan, you and Qwill and I can take care of it. How big a box will we need?"

The three of them trooped to the west wing, carrying a carton, sealing tape, and a felt marker. Koko and Yum Yum met them at the door.

"Hello, cats," said Larry jovially.

The Siamese followed them into the parlor, where the desk occupied a place of prominence.

"This is the ugliest desk I've ever seen," Qwilleran commented. It was basically a flat box with one drawer and a pull-out writing surface, perched on tall legs and topped with a cupboard.

"This is an original handmade Dingleberry, about 1890," Larry informed him. "Iris bought it at the Goodwinter auction. I was bidding against her, but I dropped out when the bidding reached four figures."

Behind the doors of the cupboard were shoeboxes labeled in large block letters with a felt marker: Bills, Letters, Financial, Medical, Insurance, and Personal. In the drawer were the usual pens, scissors, paper clips, rubber bands, memo pads, and a magnifying glass.

Qwilleran said, "She had magnifying glasses allover the house. She even wore one on a chain around her neck."

"Okay," said Larry. "Let's lock this stuff up in the museum office and have Dennis sign for it when he comes."

"Good idea," said Qwilleran.

Susan had nothing to say. She seemed to be sulking. As they were leaving the parlor she almost tripped over a rug.

Qwilleran caught her. "Sorry," he said. "There's a cat under the rug. This is the second time he's crawled under an Oriental."

"He has good taste," Larry said. "These are all antiques and museum-quality."

"Do you have any more booby traps around?" Susan said testily as she followed Larry back to the museum.

Qwilleran thawed some chicken a la king for the Siamese, who devoured it hungrily, carefully avoiding the pimento and the slivered almonds. He watched the fascinating ritual absently, thinking about the missing sheet, the misplaced pillow, the purloined cookbook, and Susan's eagerness to handle Iris Cobb's private papers.

Something had happened to Susan Exbridge after her husband divorced her for another woman. While she was the wife of a successful developer she had been an active clubwoman, serving on the board of every organization and working diligently for the common good. Since that blow to her ego she had concentrated on working for Susan Exbridge. In a way she was justified. According to the Pickax grapevine, her ex-husband had so maneuvered the divorce settlement that Susan was rich on paper but short of cash, and if she liquidated the securities, she would be liable for a large tax bite.