The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (19 page)

"An interesting deduction," Polly said, "assuming that the lynching story is true."

"If Ephraim committed suicide, why would he do it in a: public place? He had a big barn. He could have jumped off the haymow. Actually, does anyone really care—at this late date—about the exact fate of the old scoundrel? Why do the Noble Sons of the Noose persist generation after generation?"

"Because Ephraim Goodwinter is the only villain Moose County ever had," said Polly, "and people love to have a bête noire to hate."

She declined the pumpkin pie, and Qwilleran had no difficulty in consuming both pieces. Then he said, "What do you know about Vince and Verona?"

"Not much," Polly said. "They suddenly appeared a month ago and proposed a deal, which the museum board was delighted to accept. Vince offered to catalogue the presses, in return for which they gave him the cottage rent-free. Those presses were a white elephant, so Vince's arrival on the scene was considered a blessing from heaven."

"Don't you consider his offer unusually generous?"

"Not at all. He's writing a book on the history of printing, and this is a unique opportunity for him to see actual equipment that was used a hundred or two hundred years ago."

"I wouldn't mind knowing how he found out about the presses."

"He seems quite knowledgeable about printing," Qwilleran said, "During my career, Polly, I've interviewed thousands of persons, and I can detect the difference between (a) those who know what they're talking about and (b) those who have memorized information from a book, I don't think Boswell is an 'a,' "

"No doubt the project is a learning experience for him," she persisted stubbornly. "He's always checking out books on the subject. Thanks to Senior Goodwinter, our library has the definitive collection on handprinting in the northeast central states."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "Coffee?" he asked.

"Vince was an auctioneer Down Below," Polly added. "Or a sideshow barker. His voice would wake the dead. There's one thing about Boswell's operation that puzzles me. Every time I return to the museum from somewhere else, his van is pulling away from the barn. Today I discovered that he uses a walkie-talkie to tell Verona when he's going home to lunch, and I suspect she uses it to tip him off when I turn into Black Creek Lane, One of these days I'm going to trick him—drive away from the museum, park my car somewhere, and sneak back on foot, coming in the back way."

"Oh, Qwill, you're a born gumshoe!" Polly laughed. "All you need is a deerstalker cap and a magnifying glass."

"You may laugh," he retorted, "but I'll tell you something else: Koko spends most of his waking hours watching the barn from the kitchen window."

"He's looking for barncats or fieldmice."

"That's what you may think, but that's not the message I'm getting from the feline transmitter." He smoothed his moustache significantly. "I have a theory, not fully developed as yet, that Boswell is up to no good in that barn, He's looking for something other than printing equipment in those crates. And when he finds it, he drives around to the livestock doors, loads his van, and delivers the goods."

"What kind of goods?" Polly asked with an amused smile.

"I have no evidence," Qwilleran said, "and I'm not prepared to say. If I could spend an hour in that barn with a crowbar, I might have some answers. Bear in mind that Boswell is the first person to touch those crates since Senior Goodwinter's death a year ago. How did he know about them? Someone in Moose County tipped him off and is probably collaborating in the distribution."

Polly glanced at her watch. Still smiling she said, "Qwill, this is very interesting—confusing, but provocative. You must tell me more about it next time. I'm afraid I must excuse myself now. Bootsie has been alone all day, and the poor thing will want his din-din."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "When do you leave for Lockmaster?"

"Early tomorrow evening. I'll drop off Bootsie on the way. He'll have his special food and his own little commode and his brush. He'll appreciate it if you give him a brush-brush and a kiss-kiss once in a while. He's so affectionate! And he's housebroken, of course. It's adorable to see the little dear scratching in the litterbox and then sitting down with a beatific expression on his smudged-nose face."

Polly returned to her car in the library parking lot, glancing about casually to see who was watching. Qwilleran waited a few discreet minutes and then loaded his bike in the trunk of his own car and headed for North Middle Hummock, where two Siamese were anxiously watching the freezer-chest.

"Guess who's coming to dinner tomorrow," he announced. "Bigfoot!"

-14-

AT APPROXIMATELY EIGHT o'clock Monday evening Qwilleran was preparing for his guests, chilling the cider, finding paper napkins, piling a plate with doughnuts enough for ten, and laying a fire in each of the two fireplaces. Without warning Koko came racing into the kitchen from nowhere and hopped onto the windowsill that faced the barn. To Qwilleran's eye the window was nothing but a reflective black rectangle after dark, but Koko saw something that excited him.

Qwilleran cupped his eyes and peered into the blackness. Two lights were bobbing in the barnyard, and his mind flashed back to the bobbing lights on the hats of Homer's ghostly miners. But these lights were different; they darted erratically and swung in wide arcs. As they came closer he could distinguish two faces, and then he recognized Kristi and Mitch. They had walked from the Fugtree farm with flashlights—walked along the Willoway—and were approaching the museum property from the rear.

Qwilleran met them at the entrance, accompanied by the chief security officer.

Kristi said, "It's such a nice night that we decided to walk. The trail alongside the creek is a shortcut but kind of scary at night. Mitch ought to take the kids down there for the Halloween ghost stories this year." She gave Qwilleran an enthusiastic hug and a plastic tub of goat cheese. "I've been high," she said, "ever since you told me about the Klingenschoen offer."

The men shook hands, and Qwilleran said, "You have a fine old Scottish name. My mother was a Mackintosh."

"Yes, the Ogilvie clan goes back to the twelfth century," said Mitch with obvious pride. "My family came here from Scotland in 1861."

"And I happen to know that your grandfather won all the spelling bees with his eyes closed."

"You've been talking to Homer. That old guy has some memory!"

Kristi said to Qwilleran, "I'll weave you a scarf in the Mackintosh tartan as soon as I dig out my loom from under my mother's junk... Oooooh! What a beautiful cat! Is he friendly?”

"Especially to persons who come bearing goat cheese. Where would you like to sit? In the parlor or around the big table in the kitchen? In either place we can have a fire."

  They elected the kitchen. While Qwilleran poured the cider, Mitch put a match to the kindling in the fireplace and Kristi lighted the pink candles that Mrs. Cobb had left on the table. "This is so cozy," she said. "Iris used to invite us over for lemonade and cookies. Mitch, wouldn't you love to live here?"

"Sure would! I'm living over the Pickax drug store right now, " he explained to Qwilleran. "I wonder if they've had many applications for Iris's job."

"What are your qualifications, Mitch?"

"Well, I've belonged to the Historical Society ever since high school, and I've read a lot about antiques, and I'm on Homer's committee, supervising the kids who do the yardwork. Plus I have some ideas for special events I could stage if I lived here full time."

" And he gets along with everybody," Kristi said. "Even Amanda Goodwinter. Even Adam Dingleberry."

Mitch said, "Old Adam won't be around much longer. He's moved into the Senior Care Facility, but his mind is still sharp."

"And he still gropes girls," Kristi said.

"You should interview him for your column, Mr. Qwilleran, before it's too late."

"Call me Qwill, Mitch. Does Adam have any ghost stories to tell?"

"Everyone around here has had at least one supernatural experience," he said, looking pointedly at Kristi, but she ignored the hint.

"Unfortunately I haven't joined the club as yet," said Qwilleran. "How about the stories you tell the kids on Halloween? Are they classics? Or do you invent them?"

"They're all true, based on events in Moose County and Scottish history. Naturally I add a few hair-raising details."

"Have you ever seen the thirty-two miners?"

Mitch nodded. "About three years ago. I was coming back from a party in Mooseville, and I stopped at the side of the road for a minute, you know. It was near the Goodwinter hill—the old slag pile—and I saw them."

"What did they look like?"

"Just shadows of men, slogging along. I knew they were miners because they had lights on their hats."

"Did you count them?"

"I didn't think of it until some of them had disappeared over the hill, but here's something funny: It was May thirteenth, the anniversary of the explosion."

"Did you say you were coming home from a party?"

"That had nothing to do with it, I swear."

"Okay, I'll square with you. I've always been skeptical of these stories. I always thought there was some logical explanation. I still do, in the back of my mind, but I'm beginning to be skeptical of my own skepticism. Let me tell you what's been happening here."

He told them about Iris Cobb's terrified call in the middle of the night, about the knocking in the basement and the moaning in the walls, and about her "seeing something" just before her death. He said, "I've been told that Senior Goodwinter just before he died—saw Ephraim walking through a wall. I'm trying to sort out the evidence, you understand.”

Kristi said, "There are lots of rumors about Ephraim. They say he stashed away a lot of gold coins in case he wanted to make a quick getaway, but he died suddenly and now he comes back looking for them."

"The old miser!" said Mitch. "He never gives up!"

"One of my cats," Qwilleran said, "has been acting strangely since we moved here. He talks to himself and stares out the window where Iris saw the thing that frightened her."

"Cats are always doing crazy things," Kristi said.

"Koko," said Qwilleran, "is not your ordinary cat. He always has a damned good reason for doing what he does."

Hearing his name, the cat walked into the kitchen, looking elegant and vain.

"God! He's a beautiful animal," said Mitch.

"He looks so intelligent," Kristi added.

"Koko is not only intelligent but remarkably intuitive. I won't say that he's psychic, but he senses when something is out in left field, and if Ephraim's ghost is prowling around here, Koko is going to find him!"

All three turned to look at the remarkable cat. Unfortunately Koko had taken that moment to attend to the base of his tail.

Qwilleran said quickly, "Would you like to see the basement where Iris first heard the knocking? It's just a junkroom for the museum. Do you know the one I mean?"

"I know about it, but I've never been down there. I'd like to see it," Mitch said.

"I'll take Koko along. He can hear earthworms crawling and butterflies pollenating, and if there's anything irregular down there, he'll sniff it out. I'll put him on a leash so that I have a little control."

He strapped the cat into a blue leather harness and coiled a few yards of nylon cord that served as the leash, and the four of them went to the basement, Koko quite willingly.

In the storeroom a few bare lightbulbs threw garish light over the broken furniture, rusty tools, moldy books, cracked crockery, and cobwebs.

"My mother would love this!" Kristi said.

"This is what Homer calls the magpie nest," said Qwilleran. "Iris was looking for a broken bed warmer when she first heard the knocking in the wall. Here's the potato masher she used to reply." He picked up the small wooden club and rapped the Morse code for SOS on the plastered wall—the only skill he remembered from his year in the Boy Scouts—and followed it with the burlesque tattoo, "shave and a haircut, two bits." Neither message called forth a response, but the plaster cracked a little more.

Meanwhile Koko was snapping at cobwebs instead of investigating.

"Cats never cooperate," Qwilleran explained. "The trick is to ignore him for a while. Let's find something to sit on."

Kristi found a platform rocker that no longer rocked; Mitch perched on a barrel; Qwilleran sat on a kitchen chair with three rungs missing, all the while keeping a furtive eye on Koko, who was beginning to move around stealthily.

"I hear rumbling," Kristi said.

"That's thunder," Mitch told her, "but it's a long way off. It's not supposed to rain tonight."

Koko sniffed a wicker baby buggy without wheels. "Some kid cannibalized it to make a go-cart," Mitch guessed.

When the cat sniffed the potato masher, Qwilleran said, "We're getting warm. He knows Iris handled it. Now watch him!"

Koko was making his way to the cracked plaster wall, hopping over a coal skuttle, slinking under a three-legged chair, climbing up on the monstrous sideboard that stood against the plaster wall. It was a hodgepodge of shelves, mirrors, and carved ornament.

"My mother bought two of those dumb things," Kristi said. "Listen! Thunder again! It's coming closer!" Koko was standing on his hind legs and stretching to see the wall behind the sideboard.

"He senses something," Qwilleran whispered. Mitch said, "I think he sees a spider walking up the wall."

"I hate spiders," said Kristi. With one swift movement Koko jumped up, swatted the insect, brought it down in the cup of his paw, and chomped on it with satisfaction.

"Ugh!" she said.

"Let's go," said Qwilleran, grabbing the cat. "He's not in good form tonight."

"We should think about leaving," Mitch said as they emerged from the basement and saw the sky illuminated with blue lightning.

"I'll drive you home," Qwilleran offered, "so have another glass of cider before you go." The four paraded back to the kitchen.

"This is good stuff,” said Mitch. "Did it come from Trevelyan's cider mill? They throw in bruised apples, windfalls, worms and everything. My grandfather insisted on using perfect apples, and it was the flattest cider anybody ever tasted."