The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (2 page)

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WHEN QWILLERAN DISCOVERED Mrs. Cobb's lifeless body he reacted with more sorrow than shock. He had sensed the worst as soon as he turned down Black Creek Lane and found the premises in darkness. Now, looking down at the pink-clad figure—pink to the very end!—he pounded his moustache with his fist, pounded it in sadness mixed with anger. It was unthinkable that this good woman should slip away in the prime of life, at the apex of her career, at the height of her joy. She had won the admiration of the community; her last husband had left her well-off; and at the age of fifty-five she was a grandmother for the first time. But then, he reminded himself, Fate had never been known for its good timing.

Finding the kitchen telephone, he punched the police emergency number and reported the incident without emotion, stating all the necessary details. The phone stood on a relic from an old schoolhouse: a cast-iron base supporting a wooden seat and a boxlike desk with lift-up top. The writing surface was grooved for pens and pencils and inkwell, and it was carved with generations of initials. Also on the desk was an alphabetized notebook containing phone numbers; it was open to E. Qwilleran called Susan Exbridge in Indian Village, and she answered on the first ring.

"Susan, this is Qwill," he said somberly. "Did Iris call you a short time ago?"

"Yes, the poor thing was frightened out of her wits for some reason or other. She was almost incoherent, but I gathered that you're bringing her over here to spend the night. I've just put pink sheets on the guestbed."

"That was the plan. I'm at the farmhouse now. She won't be able to make it."

"Why? What happened, Qwill?"

"I found her on the kitchen floor. Not breathing. No pulse. I've called the police."

Susan wailed into the phone. "How terrible! How perfectly awful! What will we do without her? I'm devastated!"

She had a tendency to be dramatic and a personal reason to feel bereft. The two women were partners in a new enterprise in downtown Pickax, and the gold lettering had just been painted on the shop window: Exbridge & Cobb, Fine Antiques. The formal opening was scheduled for Saturday.

Qwilleran said, "We'll talk tomorrow, Susan. The sheriff will be here momentarily."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Get some rest and prepare for a busy day tomorrow. I'm calling Larry, and I'm sure he'll need your help with arrangements.”

Larry Lanspeak was president of the Historical Society and chairperson of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum as well as owner of the local department store. As merchant, civic leader, and talented actor in the Pickax Theatre Club he brought boundless energy to everything he undertook. Qwilleran put in a call to the Lanspeak country house in fashionable West Middle Hummock, and, although it was almost two o'clock, Larry answered the phone as briskly as he would in midday.

"Larry, this is Qwill. Sorry to disturb you. We have trouble. I'm calling from the museum. Iris called me in hysterics not long ago, and I rushed out here. You know about her heart condition, don't you? I was too late. I found her dead on the kitchen floor. I've called the police."

There was a prolonged silence at the other end of the line.

"Larry... ?"

In a hollow voice Larry said, "It can't be! We need her! And she was too young to go!"

"She was our age." Qwilleran's tone was understandably morose.

"I'll throw on some clothes and get there as soon as possible. God! This is terrible news. Carol will be floored!" Qwilleran turned on the yardlights and turned off his headlights just as the sheriff's car came down the lane.

A young officer in a wide-brimmed hat stepped out. , 'Somebody report a dead body?"

"It's Mrs. Cobb, manager of the museum. She called me in a panic, and I came out to see if I could help. I'm Jim Qwilleran from Pickax."

The deputy nodded. Everyone knew the outsize moustache that belonged to the richest man in the county.

They went indoors, and Qwilleran pointed the way to the kitchen.

"Emergency's on the way," said the deputy. "They'll take the body to Pickax Hospital. The medical examiner will have to sign the death certificate."

"He might want to check with Doctor Halifax. She was being treated for a heart condition."

The deputy nodded, writing up his report.

Qwilleran explained, "Mrs. Cobb called me because she was hearing strange noises and was afraid to stay here."

"She put in a call a couple of nights ago. I checked it out, but I couldn't find anything irregular. No evidence of prowlers on the grounds. Are you next of kin?"

"No. She has a son in St. Louis. He'll have to decide where we go from here. I'd better call him and break the news."

At that moment the emergency vehicle arrived, and silent attendants removed the pink-clad remains of one who had captivated the community with her generosity, her cheerful personality, and her encyclopedic knowledge of antiques. And her baking, Qwilleran thought. Whenever there was a charity bazaar or civic reception, Mrs. Cobb stayed up all night baking cookies—not just chocolate chip but an array of lemon-coconut squares, butterscotch pecan meringues, apricot-almond crescents, and more. Ironically, there were Moose County citizens who would remember Iris Cobb chiefly for her cookies.

Qwilleran leafed through the notebook on the school desk in search of her son's phone number. Unfortunately he was unable to remember the young man's name. He had a vague recollection that it was Dennis. The last name was not Cobb but something like Gough, pronounced Goff... or Lough, pronounced Luff... or Keough, pronounced Kyow. Under H he found a listing with a St. Louis area code, and he punched the number. A man's sleepy voice answered.

Many a time Qwilleran had been enlisted to notify a victim's next of kin, and he did it with sensitivity. His voice had a richness of timbre and a sympathetic gentleness that gave the impression of genuine feeling.

"Dennis?" he said in a sober monotone. "Sorry to wake you at this hour. I'm Jim Qwilleran, a friend of your mother, calling from North Middle Hummock."

The young man was immediately alarmed. "What's wrong?" he demanded. His gulp was audible.

"I received a phone call from Iris after midnight. She was afraid to stay at the farm alone, so I offered to drive her to a friend's house..."

"What's happened? Tell me what's happened!"

"I found her on the kitchen floor. No doubt she'd had a heart attack. It pains me to bring you this news, Dennis."

Her son groaned. "Oh, God! I was flying up there to see her tomorrow—I mean, today. Her doctor suggested it."

"Her going is a great loss. She made many friends here and won over the entire community."

"I know. She told me in her letters how happy she was. For the first time in her life she felt as if she really belonged.”

"That brings up the matter of funeral arrangements, Dennis. What should we do! It's your decision, although the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund would consider it a privilege to cover all expenses. Had Iris ever expressed her wishes?"

"Gosh, no," said her son. "She was too busy living! I don't know what to say. This is so totally unexpected. I've got to think about it-talk it over with Cheryl."

"Call me back, here at the farmhouse, soon as possible. The hospital is waiting for instructions."

Returning the receiver to the cradle Qwilleran noticed the shelf of paperback cookbooks on the wall—a sad substitute for the three-dozen hardbound cookbooks she had lost in a disastrous fire. Other shelves displayed antique pewter plates, porringers, and tankards; the overhead beams were hung with copper pots and baskets; around the fireplace were wrought-iron utensils used in the days of open-hearth cooking. It was a warm and friendly place. Mrs. Cobb loved her kitchen.

Absently he browsed through her phone book, where the listings were written with bold-tip pen in large block letters, a sign of her failing eyesight. The book contained the numbers of museum volunteers for the most part... also someone named Kristi... and Vince and Verona, whoever they were... and Dr. Halifax. Both his home and office numbers were listed. In Pickax one could call the doctor at home in the middle of the night. HB&B obviously was the law firm of Hasselrich, Bennett and Barter. No doubt they had handled her inheritance and drawn up her will. Mrs. Cobb had realized a sizable estate from her third husband, although she chose not to use his name.

As he waited Qwilleran wandered about the apartment, looking for clues to the final minutes of her life. In the open luggage on her bed were a pink robe and pink slippers. The milk carton was still on the kitchen counter, and he put it in the refrigerator. There was a mug of milk in the microwave; the oven had been turned off, but the milk was warm. He poured it down the drain and rinsed the mug. The door leading from the kitchen into the main part of the museum was unlocked, and he was browsing through the exhibit rooms when the phone rang. He was pleased that Dennis would call back so soon. The voice he heard, however, was that of a woman.

"This is Kristi at the Fugtree farm," she said. "Is Iris all right? I saw a police car and ambulance going down the lane."

"I regret to say," he announced solemnly, "that Mrs. Cobb has had a fatal attack."

"Oh, no! I'm so sorry. I knew she was seeing Doctor Hal, but I didn't know it was so serious. Is this Mr. Lanspeak?"

"No, just a friend from Pickax."

"How did it happen?" She sounded young and breathless.

"The details will be in tomorrow's paper, I believe."

"Oh... Well, I'm very sorry. I really am! I was sitting up with my sick kids and I saw the flashing lights, so I just had to call."

"That's all right."

"Well, thank you. What's your name?"

"Jim Qwilleran," he mumbled.

Most women would have reacted with an excited "Ooooooh," as they realized they were talking to an eligible and very wealthy bachelor, but this young woman merely said, "My name is Kristi Waffle."

"It was good of you to call. Good night."

He heard a car pulling into the farmyard and went to meet Larry Lanspeak. Despite the man's elevated standing in the community he was unprepossessing. Ordinary height, ordinary coloring, and ordinary features gave him an anonymity that enabled him to slip into many different roles for the Theatre Club.

"What a tragedy!" he said, shaking his head and speaking in the well-modulated tones of an actor. He walked into the apartment with the deliberate and elongated stride of a man who wishes he were taller. "No one will ever appreciate how much that woman has done for our community! And she wouldn't take a penny for it! We'll never find another manager to equal – “

He was interrupted by the telephone bell.

I "This will be her son calling from St. Louis," Qwilleran said as he picked up the receiver, but he winced at the first words he heard.

"Say! This is Vince Boswell!" It was a loud piercing voice with a nasal twang. "I called to see about Iris. Something happen to her? The wife and me, we were sort of watching a video, and we saw the ambulance lights."

Qwilleran replied coolly, "I regret to say that Mrs. Cobb I has had a fatal attack."

"No kidding! That's a damn shame!" said the ear-shattering voice, adding with muffled volume as he turned away from the mouthpiece, "Some guy says Iris had a fatal attack, honey!" Then he shouted into the phone, "We liked Iris a helluva lot, my wife and me. Anything we can do?"

Qwilleran was holding the receiver six inches from his ear. "I don't believe so, but thanks for calling."

"We're right close by if you need any help at the museum, understand? Glad to pitch in at a time like this."

"That's kind of you. Good night, Mr. Bosworth."

"Boswell," the man corrected him. "We're staying in the cottage up at the comer, the wife and me. Larry Lanspeak is a friend of ours."

"I see. Well, good night, Mr. Boswell. We appreciate your concern."

Qwilleran hung up and said to Larry, "Who's Boswell?"

"Haven't you met Vince and Verona? She's one of our volunteers, and Vince is cataloguing the antique printing presses in the barn. He's writing a book on the history of printing.”

Qwilleran thought, Does the world need another book on the history of printing? "Where did you find this guy, Larry?"

"He came up here from Pittsburgh."

Must have been a coach for the Steelers, Qwilleran thought.

Larry went on, "Vince offered to do the job gratis, so we let him live in the hired man's cottage rent-free. Now that Iris is gone we should have someone living on the premises for security reasons. I'm thinking the Boswells might fill in temporarily."

"I'll be willing to move in until you locate a permanent resident," Qwilleran said.

"That's a kind offer, Qwill, but it would be an imposition."

"Not at all. I've been wanting to spend some time at the museum—especially in the document collection-digging up material for my column."

"If you're serious, Qwill, it would solve our problem, and you wouldn't have to be involved with the museum operation. It's a separate telephone line, and the volunteers come and go with their own key. No one would bother you."

"I'd have the cats with me, of course," Qwilleran pointed out. "Koko is a self-appointed security officer, and Yum Yum once distinguished herself by catching a museum mouse. Iris used to invite them over here once in a while, and they never did any damage."

"I'm not worried about that," Larry said. "I know they're well-behaved, and they could have a ball, socializing with the barncats and stuffing themselves with fieldmice."

"They're indoor cats," Qwilleran quickly corrected him. "I'm very careful not to let them out."

The telephone rang again, and this time it was Dennis. "We've talked it over, Mr. Qwilleran, and Cheryl and I think the funeral and burial should be up there, where Mother had so many friends. I'll fly up today as I originally planned, and in the meantime you can make whatever decisions have to be made. She always wrote about you in her letters. You were very good to her."

"I'm glad you're coming up, Dennis. I'll meet your plane at the airport and make a reservation for you at the Pickax Hotel, but I don't have your last name."