The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (17 page)

Rumor also had it that ninety percent of the Exbridge & Cobb venture was financed by Iris. If that were true, Qwilleran pondered, Susan's inheritance would be substantial. Granted, the two women were good friends as well as business partners, but that was a situation that aroused Qwilleran's suspicion. A more unlikely pair of chums could hardly be found. Iris was neither chic nor sophisticated nor glib, yet Susan had engulfed her with friendship, and Iris was flattered to be taken up by a woman so distinguished in manner, dress, and social connections.

It irritated Qwilleran to think that Iris Cobb had been used; it was her know-how as well as her money that had established the new antique shop. It irritated him also to see Susan making a play for Dennis Hough, who had a wife and infant son as well as the bulk of the Cobb-Hackpole fortune.

He worked off his resentment by concocting a sandwich for himself, using caraway rye bread from one freezer, corned beef from the other, and mustard and horseradish from the refrigerator. The Siamese watched him eat, and he shared the meat. "The spirit of Mrs. Cobb is still with us," he told them. It was true. Her presence was palpable, invoked by the food she had cooked, the friendly kitchen, her taste in antiques, the pink sheets and towels, and even her magazines and paperback novels. At any moment she might walk into the room and say, "Oh, Mr. Q, would you like some of my chocolate coconut macaroons?"

He looked up from his sandwich and almost thought he could see her. Was this the invisible presence that engaged; Koko in conversation?

Qwilleran jumped up and went outdoors, taking a brisk walk around the grounds to restore some semblance of peace to his life.

It was Sunday night. A week ago he had been listening to Othello when Mrs. Cobb's frantic phone call had interrupted Act One. Since then he had made two more attempts to hear the opera in its entirety. He would try again. Sunday evening was usually quiet in Moose County, and it was doubtful that anyone would be calling. Briefly he considered silencing the two phones, but communication was his life, and the idea of willfully missing an incoming call struck him as a moral lapse.

With a mug of coffee in his hand and two cats in the blue velvet wing chairs, the comfortable scene was set. He pressed the Play button. Again the crash of the opening chords catapulted the Siamese out of the parlor, but they returned and withstood the trumpets, although they laid their ears back.

All went well until Act Three and the aria that Polly had called gorgeous. Just as Othello began the poignant Dio! mi potevi... the telephone rang. Qwilleran tried to ignore it, but the insistent ringing ruined the music. Even so, he was determined to let it ring itself out. He turned up the volume. The tenor agonized, and the telephone rang. Qwilleran clenched his teeth. Ten rings... fifteen rings... twenty! Then it occurred to him that only a desperate person would persist so long, only someone who knew he was at home. He turned down the volume and went to the bedroom phone.

"Hello?" he said with apprehension.

"Qwill, this is Kristi," said a nervous voice. "Don't run the column about my goats."

"Why not, Kristi?"

"Something terrible has happened. Eight of them are dead, and the others are dying."

"My God! What happened?"

"I fed them at five o'clock and they were okay. Two hours later I went out there and three were lying dead." There was a catch in her voice. "The rest were struggling to breathe, and one of them fell over right at my feet. I can't—I can't—" Her words turned into sobs.

Sympathy welled up in Qwilleran's throat as his thoughts flew to Koko and Yum Yum. He knew how precious animals can be. "Easy now, Kristi," he said. "Easy! What did you do?"

She sobbed for a while and sniffed moistly before saying, "I called the vet's emergency number, and he came right away, but by that time all the kids were gone and most of the does." She choked up again.

He waited patiently for her to recover.

"The bucks are all right," she said. "They were penned separately."

"Do you have any idea what caused it?"

"The vet says it's poison—probably insecticide in the feed. Their lungs—" She stopped and cried again. "Their lungs filled with fluid, and they suffocated. The vet is sending samples to the lab. It's almost more than I can bear! The whole herd!"

"How could it possibly have happened?"

"The police call it vandalism."

Qwilleran felt a tingling sensation on his upper lip, and he knew the answer to his next question. "Do you have any idea who would commit such an unthinkable crime?"

"I know who did it!" Her grief gave way to anger. "The stupid fool I used to be married to!"

"Did you tell that to the police?"

"Yes. They've been looking for him ever since he walked away from a minimum-security camp near Lockmaster. He thought he could hide out here, or else I'd give him money and a car. I told him he was out of his mind. I didn't want anything to do with him! Oh, why didn't I turn him in?" she cried, ending with a heart-rending wail.

"This is shocking, Kristi! Did you have any idea he'd sabotage the farm?"

"He threatened me this morning, and I warned him I had a gun. I didn't expect anything like this. I could kill him! I It's not just the loss of two years' work, but... all those sweet animals! Buttercup... Geranium... Black Tulip! They were so dear to me!" she said with a whimper.

"I wish there were something I could do. Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"There's nothing anyone can do," she sighed. "Just don't run the column. The poisoning will be in the paper tomorrow. One of the reporters called me."

"Phone me, Kristi, if any trouble develops, no matte what it is."

"Thank you, Qwill. Good night."

Qwilleran turned off the stereo. He had heard enough tragedy for one night.

Early Monday morning his telephone began to ring, as the grapevine went into operation. Mildred Hanstable, Polly Duncan, Larry Lanspeak and others called to say, "Did you hear the newscast this morning?... Do you know what happened to your neighbor?... Isn't that the woman you were going to interview?... The board of health has removed all goat products from the market... They think it was poison."

It was a rude start to another busy day. Even before he had prepared his first cup of coffee Qwilleran saw Mr. an Mrs. Tibbitt drive up in their ponderous old car, followed closely by Al's Fix-All truck. That was the accepted system in Moose County; workmen always arrived six hours late or before breakfast. Qwilleran greeted them moodily.

"I'm going to do a little dusting," Rhoda announced.

"I'm going to have a cup of coffee," said Homer.

"Will you join me?" Qwilleran asked, waving a coffee mug.

"No, thanks. I'll mix a cup of my own blend in the office." Homer patted his hip pocket and maneuvered his angular limbs briskly in the direction of the office.

Great guy! Qwilleran thought. He gulped a roll and coffee while the locksmith worked on the door and then joined Tibbitt in the museum office.

“Someone swiped my feather duster,” Rhoda complained.

"I did!" said her husband. "I threw it in the trash. You can use a dustrag like everyone else. Spray it with that stuff that's supposed to pick up dust."

"Once a principal, always a principal," she explained to Qwilleran. "He likes to be boss." She took a duster from the cleaning closet and left the office, flicking it temperamentally at chairs and filing cabinets as she passed.

Qwilleran said to Homer, "Someone once told me there's no such thing as a locksmith in Moose County because there are no locks. So who's the guy working on my door?"

"A locksmith would starve to death in these parts," said Homer, "but this fellow fixes refrigerators, phonographs, typewriters—anything. Why do you want a lock between you and the museum? Has old Ephraim been bothering you? A door won't stop him, you know. Not even a stone wall."

"I don't worry about dead prowlers," Qwilleran said. "I worry about the live ones."

"Halloween's coming, and you can expect pranksters. When I was a young lad we used to spook houses around Halloween, especially if it was someone we hated, like a strict teacher or the town skinflint."

"How do you spook a house? That wasn't in our bag of tricks in Chicago, where I grew up."

"As I recall," said the old man, "you stick a big nail or something under a loose board on the outside of a house, with a long string attached. Then you pull the line taut and run a stick over it like bowing a violin. It reverberates all through the house. Screaming in the attic! Moaning in the walls! I doubt whether it would work with the aluminum siding and plywood they use nowadays. They're eliminating all life's little pleasures. Everything's synthetic, even our food."

"One of life's little pleasures, I gather, was carving initials on school desks," said Qwilleran. "Mrs. Cobb's telephone stand is an old desk with the initials H. T. carved on the top. Would you know anything about that?"

"In the lower righthand comer? That's my desk!" Homer exulted. "It came from the old Black Creek School. The teacher gave me what-for with a cane for carving that little masterpiece. If I'd been smart I would have carved someone else's initials. Adam Dingleberry had that desk before I did—he was four years ahead of me—and he carved the initials of the preacher's son. He had a madcap sense of humor. Still does! Got expelled from school for playing practical jokes. No one gave him credit for originality and creativity. Are there any other initials on the desk?"

"Quite a few. I remember B.O. I suppose those letters didn't have any significance in those days."

"That's Mitch's grandfather, Bruce Ogilvie. He came after me. He won all the spelling bees with his eyes closed—couldn't spell with 'em open."

Qwilleran said, "In this north country it seems that lives are interwoven. It gives the community a rich texture. Life in the cities Down Below is a tangle of loose threads."

"You should write a 'Qwill Pen' column about that," Homer suggested.

"I think I shall. Speaking of the 'Qwill Pen,' Rhoda tells me you know something about old barns."

"Yes, indeed! That's another tradition that's disappearing. They build steel things that look like factory warehouses. You can't convince me that the cattle are happy in those contraptions! But there's still a good barn on this property." He crooked an arm toward the north window. "It'll still be standing long after the steel barns have blown away."

"I haven't had a chance to look at it," Qwilleran admitted.

"Then let's go out there. It's a beauty!" Homer stood up slowly as if unlocking his joints one by one. "Contrary to popular opinion I'm not put together with plastic bones and steel pins. What you see is all original parts. Rhoda," he called out, "tell Al to leave his bill and we'll send him a check."

Walking toward the barn the two men made slow progress, although Homer's flailing arms and legs gave an impression of briskness. Qwilleran looked back toward the farmhouse and saw a small fawn-colored bundle on the kitchen windowsill; he waved a hand.

The Goodwinter barn was a classic style with a gambrel roof, its boards once painted red and now a red-streaked silvery gray. A lean-to had been added on one side, and the remains of a squat stone silo stood at the opposite comer like a gray ghost.

They walked in silence. "Can't walk... and talk... at the same time," said Homer, flinging his limbs rhythmically.

The barn was farther from the house than Qwilleran had realized, and larger than he had imagined. The closer they approached it, the loftier it loomed. A grassy ramp led up to enormous double doors. He said, "Now I know what they mean by big as a barn door."

They were pausing at the foot of the ramp for Homer to catch his breath before attempting the ascent. When he recovered from the exertion he explained, "The doors had to be large so a loaded hay wagon could drive into the barn. The man-size door cut in the big door is called the eye of the needle."

As he spoke, a corner of the latter flapped open, and a pregnant cat stepped through the cat-hatch and waddled away.

"That's Cleo," he said. "She's on my committee in charge of rodent control. Looks like another litter of mousers is on the way. You can never have too many barncats."

"What's the function of the lean-to?" Qwilleran asked.

"Ephraim built it to house his carriages. He had some elegant ones, they say. Later his son kept his Stanley Steamer in there. After Titus Goodwinter was killed, his widow bought a Pierce Arrow-with windshield wipers, mind you! Everyone thought that was the cat's pajamas!"

The weathered wood barn perched high on a fieldstone foundation, and as the land sloped away to the rear, the foundation became a full story high.

"That's what they called a byre in Scotland," Homer said. "The Goodwinters kept cattle and horses down there in the old days." They climbed the grassy ramp slowly and entered the barn through the eye of the needle, the old man pointing out the door hardware—simple hooks and eyes of hand-wrought iron, the work of a local blacksmith.

The interior was dark after the sunshine outdoors. Only a few shafts of light slanted in from unseen windows high in the gables. All was silent except for the muted cooing of pigeons and beating of wings.

"Better open the big doors so we can see," said Homer. “This place gets darker every year."

Qwilleran suddenly realized he had never been inside a barn. He had seen them in the distance while speeding down a highway, and an apple barn was included with the Klingenschoen property, but he had not inspected it. Now, gazing upward at the vast space under the roof, crisscrossed with timbers, he felt the same sense of awe he had experienced in Gothic cathedrals.

Homer saw him gazing upward. "That's a double hay-mow," he explained. "The timbers are sixty feet long, fourteen inches square. Everything's put together with mortise-and-tenon construction—no nails. All white pine. You don't see white pine any more. It was all lumbered out."

He pointed out the marks of the hand axe and hewing adze. "The main floor was called the threshing floor. The boards are four inches thick. It takes a solid floor like this to support a loaded hay wagon—or those danged printing presses."