The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (18 page)

It was then that Qwilleran noticed the contents of the barn. Wooden packing crates and grotesque machines resembling instruments of torture stood about the straw-strewn floor.

"This is only part of it," the old man went on. "The rest of the crates are down in the stable. Senior Goodwinter was obsessed with handprinting. Every time an old printshop went out of business or modernized, he bought their obsolete equipment. Never got around to taking inventory or even opening the crates. He just kept on collecting."

"That's where I come in!" said a jarring voice behind them. Vince Boswell stood silhouetted in the open doorway. "My job is to find out what's in those crates and catalogue the stuff so they can start a printing museum," he said in his penetrating voice. It was easy to believe he had been an auctioneer. "Yesterday I uncrated a wooden press that's eighteenth century."

"You carry on," Homer told him. "I want to go back to the house before my legs give out. I'm getting a pain in my knees." He retreated down the grassy ramp.

At that moment a doll-size figure came trudging toward the ramp, wearing doll-size blue jeans and a wisp of a red sweater. She carried a green plastic pail in one hand and a yellow plastic spade in the other. She was followed by an anxious mother, running and calling in a small voice, "Baby! Baby! Come back here!"

Vince looked at them and stiffened. "Can't you control that kid?" he demanded. "Get her out of here. It isn't safe."

Verona scooped the child into her arms, the pail and spade flying in opposite directions.

"My pail! My shovel!" Baby screamed. Qwilleran gathered them up and handed them to her.

"Say thank you," Verona murmured.

"Thank you," said Baby automatically. As they retreated up the lane she looked back toward the barn with longing. There was something disturbingly adult about her, Qwilleran thought, and she was so unhealthily thin.

With a shrug Boswell said, "I'll show you what I've found here, if you're interested." He pointed to a contraption with fancy legs. "That's a Washington toggle press, 1827. I've found old typecases, composing sticks, a primitive cylinder press, woodblocks—all kinds of surprises. I open a crate and never know what I'll find." He picked up a crowbar and wrenched the top off a wooden box. It was packed with straw. "Looks like a hand-operated papercutter."

"I'm vastly impressed," said Qwilleran as he edged toward the door.

"Wait up!" Boswell said in piercing tones. "You haven't seen the half of it yet."

"I must confess," said Qwilleran, "that I'm not greatly interested in mechanical equipment, and some of those presses look diabolical." He nodded toward something that seemed half sewing machine and half guillotine.

"That's a treadle press," said the expert. "And this one's an Albion. And that one's a Columbian. When the counterpoise lever moves, the eagle goes up and down." The Columbian was a cast-iron monster embellished with eagle, serpents, and dolphins.

"Amazing," said Qwilleran in a minor key. "You must tell me more about this fascinating subject some other time." He consulted his watch and headed for the ramp.

"Would you care to have a bowl of soup with the wife and me?"

"Thank you for the invitation, but I'm expecting an important phone call."

Boswell picked up a walkie-talkie from the top of a crate. "Coming home to lunch, Verona," he said. "How about some tomato soup and a hot dog?"

The two of them closed the big doors, latching them with the crude hook and eye, and walked down the grassy ramp. Then Boswell drove away in his rusty van and Qwilleran strolled back to the house, grateful to escape the stilletto-voiced expert with the textbook patter. Why did he need a walkie-talkie? Why didn't he simply stand on the ramp and yell? How could the delicate Verona endure that deafening delivery? It irked him that she and Baby were expendable, that they could be shipped back to Pittsburgh like unwanted merchandise if Vince was named Mrs. Cobb's successor. That he should even presume to follow in her footsteps was obscene, Qwilleran told himself.

As he opened the door to the west wing, a furry blur whizzed past his ankles and flew off the steps. With a roar Qwilleran made a flying tackle, grabbing the cat's slippery body in both hands. They landed in a pile of leaves.

"Oh no, you don't, young man!" Qwilleran scolded as he carried him back into the house. "Where do you think you're going? To the Jellicle Ball with the bamcats? Or are, you interested in printing presses?"

As he spoke the words he dropped the cat on the floor, and Koko made a surprised four-point landing. As for Qwilleran, the idea that flashed across his mind at that moment made his moustache curl.

Exactly what, he asked himself, is in those unpacked crates? Printing presses? Or something else...

-13-

QWILLERAN'S NEW-FOUND suspicions regarding the printing presses were relegated to the back burner as he faced the exigencies of the day. There was a long telephone conversation with the CEO of the K Fund and then a follow-up call to Kristi at the Fugtree farm.

"Nothing to report," she said wearily. "The police keep dropping in. They've put up road blocks around the county, expecting Brent to make a getaway in a stolen car, but no car thefts have been reported. Where's your car? I looked for it with the binoculars, and it wasn't in the yard. I was just going to phone you."

"It's locked up in the steel barn, but I appreciate your concern.”

"The board of health is here again, and the men who do dead stock removal. It's too painful to watch. I can't bear to see them hauling away my beautiful Black Tulip and my sweet little Geranium."

"It's a terrible thing," Qwilleran said, "but you must put it behind you and think about your next step."

"I know. I must think constructively. That's what I've been trying to do. My friend says he'll help me fix up the house if I want to open a restaurant or bed-and-breakfast. But first I've got to unload all my mother's junk. I don't know whether to have a big garage sale or a big bonfire. And it will take money to get the house into shape. I don't know how much I'll get from the insurance. Oh, God! I don't want the insurance money! I just want to wake up and find Gardenia and Honeysuckle waiting to be milked and looking at me with those soulful eyes. I love goat farming!"

"I know you do, Kristi, but whether you start another herd or a B-and-B, the Klingenschoen Fund would like to help you register the house as a historic place. If you're interested, they're prepared to offer you a grant to cover research and renovation."

"Am I interested! Am I interested! Oh, Qwill, that would be neat—really neat! Wait till I tell Mitch."

"Mitch? Do you mean Mitch Ogilvie, by any chance?"

"Yes. He says he knows you. And Qwill, could I ask you a big favor? He's applied for the job of resident manager at the museum. Would you put in a few good words for him? He feels about the museum the same way I feel about goats. And he can't be a desk clerk at the hotel forever. He has too much to offer."

"Isn't he the one who tells ghost stories to the kids at Halloween?"

"Yes, and he really makes their teeth chatter!"

"I'd like to talk to him. Why don't you bring him over to the west wing for some cider and doughnuts?"

"When?"

"How about tonight?" Qwilleran suggested. "About eight o'clock."

"I'll bring some goat cheese and crackers," she said in great excitement. "And don't worry—the cheese isn't poisoned."

Next Qwilleran phoned Polly at the library. He said, "I'm driving into Pickax to do errands. Would you care to join me there for dinner?"

"Delighted," she said, "provided it's early. I must go home, you know, to feed my little sweetheart. He has four meals a day on a regular schedule."

Qwilleran recoiled. Many a time he had said, "I've got to go home and feed the cats," but Polly's simpering was intolerable.

"Why don't you come to my apartment when the library closes?" he suggested. "I'll have the Old Stone Mill send over some food. What shall I order for you?"

"Just a green salad with turkey julienne and some melba toast. I'll take some of the turkey home to my sweetheart. He eats like a little horse."

Qwilleran winced, forgetting how many doggie bags he had toted home to the Siamese, forgetting how the pocket of his old tweed overcoat had once smelled of turkey gravy. True, he often called Yum Yum "my little sweetheart," but he did it in private.

He spent that afternoon writing a "Qwill Pen" column on the museum's new disaster exhibit. About the missing sheet he was mum, but he questioned why there was no mention of the miners lost in the explosion. On display was a photo of a granite monument in the cemetery, erected by public subscription to the memory of the thirty-two, but they were not identified.

He filed his copy at the office of the Something and bought cider and doughnuts for his soirée with Kristi and Mitch, arriving at his Pickax apartment in time to order dinner. Although home delivery was not an advertised service of the Old Stone Mill, the chef catered meals for the Siamese when they were in town, and a busboy named Derek Cuttlebrink was used to making daily visits with sushi, shrimp timbales, braised lamb brains and other delicacies.

Polly arrived on foot. Leaving her car in the library parking lot she cut through the rear of the property to the former Klingenschoen carriage house, an ounce of the discretion that she found wise to practice as head librarian in a gossipy town, although it fooled no one. The carriage house, now a four-car garage, was a sumptuous fieldstone building with arched doors and eight brass carriage lanterns posted at the comers. Using her own key, Polly unlocked what had been the servants' door and climbed the narrow stairs to Qwilleran's quarters. There was a warm moment of greeting that would have titillated the Pickax grapevine, and then he inquired about the health of her new boarder.

"He's becoming more adorable every day!" cried Polly. "The things he does are so darling, like sleeping on my pillow with his nose buried in my hair and purring his little heart out. He's gained five ounces, imagine!"

Qwilleran shuddered and picked up a decanter. "May I pour the usual?" As Polly sipped her sherry she asked about the goat poisoning. "Any more news?"

"Nothing official. We also have a couple of mysteries at the museum. You may not have noticed it during the festivities yesterday, but the Reverend Mr. Crawbanks' sheet has disappeared from the disaster exhibit. Also missing is Iris Cobb's cookbook."

"Really? That's most unusual! The cookbook I can understand, but why the sheet? The young people used to flit about the countryside in white sheets around Halloween, trying to frighten people, until the county outlawed it with what they call the pork-and-beans ordinance."

"And what might that be?"

"It was the result of an incident near Mooseville. A woman sent her teenage son to buy groceries at a crossroads store, and he was walking home on a country road after dark. As he approached the bridge over the Ittibittiwassee, a white-sheeted figure rose out of the dark riverbed and started moaning and screaming. The intrepid youth kept on walking until he was a few yards from the ghost. Then he reached into his grocery sack and hurled a can of beans at the spectre—right between the eye holes. It was a young woman under the sheet, and she went to the hospital with a concussion."

"And I presume the youth went to the majors," Qwilleran said.

Just then the doorbell sounded, and Polly thought it prudent to retire to the bathroom to fix her hair. A tall lanky busboy arrived with Polly's salad and Qwilleran's lambchop—plus two servings of pumpkin chiffon pie with the compliments of the chef.

"Where are the cats?" the busboy asked.

"On vacation," Qwilleran said as he handed him a tip. "Thanks, Derek."

"They've got it made. I never get to go anywhere."

"I thought you were going away to college this fall." Derek shrugged. "Well, you see, I got this good role in the next play at the theatre, and I met this girl from Lockmaster who's a blast, so I decided to work another year."

"Thanks again, Derek," said Qwilleran, ushering him to the door. "I'll look forward to seeing you in the November play. Don't tell me anything about your role; it's bad luck. The Siamese send you their regards. Give my thanks to the chef. Watch your step with that girl from Lockmaster. Don't trip on the stairs." In slow stages he maneuvered the gregarious Derek Cuttlebrink from the apartment.

Polly emerged from the bathroom, looking not much different. "He's a nice boy, but he hasn't found himself yet," she said.

"He's looking in the wrong place," Qwilleran muttered. They dined at the travertine table, and Polly inquired how he liked the Othello recording.

"A stunning opera! Even the cats have enjoyed it. I've played it several times." Not all the way through, but he withheld that detail.

"How did you like Iago's Credo?"

"Unforgettable!"

"And don't you agree with me that Dio! mi potevi is gorgeous?"

"My word for it exactly!... And what did you think of the disaster exhibit?" he asked, changing the subject deftly.

"The girls accomplished a miracle! That was a difficult subject to dramatize. And the balloting idea was very clever."

"In my opinion they missed the boat. They should have honored the thirty-two victims by name, and I said so in my column."

"No one knows who they were, except for an occasional family recollection," Polly informed him. "There is no official list. We have old copies of the Picayune on microfilm, but the issues of May thirteenth to eighteenth are missing, oddly enough."

"Where did you get this film?"

"Junior Goodwinter turned everything over to us when the Picayune ceased publication. We also checked the county courthouse files, but death records prior to 1905 were destroyed in a fire that year."

"It would be interesting to know who threw the match," Qwilleran said. "It's doubtful that all the records were destroyed accidentally. Who would want the victims' names forgotten? The Goodwinters? Or would their names give a clue to the identity of the lynch mob? There were probably thirty-two in the gang, one to avenge each victim. A ritualistic touch, don't you think? They were draped in sheets so no one would know the identity of the actual hangman. I imagine they drew straws for the privilege."