The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (5 page)

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AFTER DROPPING DENNIS Hough at the hotel Qwilleran drove to North Middle Hummock through a cloud of spectral blue vapor-moonlight mixed with wisps of fog settling in the valleys of the Hummocks. When he arrived home and turned off his headlights, the farmyard and the farmhouse were bathed in a mystic blueness.

He let himself in and turned on the four-candle ceiling fixture. Only three candles lighted. At the same time two shadowy forms came slinking from the dark parlor and blinked at him.

"What happened to the lights?" he asked them. "Last night all four were operating."

The Siamese yawned and stretched.

"Have you anything to report? Did you hear any unusual sounds?"

Koko groomed his breast with a long pink tongue, and Yum Yum rubbed against Qwilleran's ankles, suggesting a little something to eat. This was the first time they had been left alone here, and Qwilleran looked for tilted pictures, books on the floor, dislodged lampshades, and shredded bathroom tissue. One could never guess how they might react to abandonment in a new environment. Happily, only a few cat hairs on a blue velvet wing chair and some dried weeds on the parlor floor testified to their feline presence; they had chosen Mrs. Cobb's favorite chair as their own, and one or both of them had leaped to the top of the seven-foot Schrank to examine the dried arrangement that filled a Shaker basket.

Qwilleran made a cup of coffee before sitting down to read Iris Cobb's last letters, thankful that Dennis had given her the typewriter. The first letter was dated September 22 and began with grandmotherly questions about Dennis Junior, comments on the fine weather, raves about the new antique shop scheduled to open October 17, and a lengthy recipe for a new high-calorie dessert she had invented, after which she wrote:

I'm having so much fun at the museum. The other day I thought it would be nice if we displayed a long-handled bedwarmer in one of our exhibit bedrooms, and I remembered that someone had donated a bed-warmer in poor condition. I looked it up on the computer. (The Klingenschoen Fund paid to have our catalogue computerized. Isn't that nice?) Sure. enough, it said the brass pan was dented and the handle was loose but it was worthy of restoration. So I went downstairs to look for it.

The basement is a catchall for damaged stuff, and I was poking around, looking for the bedwarmer, when I heard a mysterious (did I spell that right?) knocking sound in the wall. I said to myself—Oh, goody! We’ve got a ghost! I listened and decided which wall it was coming from, and then I picked up an old wooden potato masher that was lying around and went rat-tat-tat on the wall myself After that there was no more knocking. If it was a ghost, I guess I frightened it away.

I wish you could come for the shop's grand opening. It's going to be very gala. Susan's arranging for champagne punch and flowers and everything.

Love from Mother

Qwilleran thought, Gold and rust mums, no doubt. He turned to the next letter, dated September 30, and discovered a drastic change of mood. Mrs. Cobb wrote:

Dear Dennis and Cheryl,

I'm terribly upset. I just got my report from Dr. Hal and everything is wrong!! Heart, blood, cholesterol, everything! I've been crying too hard to talk, or I would have phoned. If I don't go on a strict diet and do certain exercises and take medication, I'll need surgery!! It was a horrible shock. Never thought this would happen to me. I felt so good! Now I feel positively suicidal. Did I spell it right? Forgive me for unloading my troubles on you. Can't write any more tonight.

Mother

Poor Iris, Qwilleran thought. His mother had experienced the same panic when her doctor handed her a sentence of death. He picked up the next letter, pleased to find her in a better frame of mind. It was written five days later.

Dear Kids,

Your phone call cheered me up no end. I should have gone down there when you first invited me, but now I have to stay here for the grand opening. In the daytime I feel okay, but at night I get very nervous and depressed, mostly because of the wierd (did I spell that right?) noises. I told you about the knocking in the basement. Now I hear it all the time—moaning and rattling too. Sometimes I think it's all in my head, and then I get really worried and that awful tightness in my chest.

I've always said an old house reflects the people who've lived in it, like something gets into the wood and plaster. It sounds crazy, I know, but bad things have always happened to the Goodwinters—suicide, fatal accidents, murder. I can feel it in the atmosphere of the house, and it's making me very uncomfortable. Is it my imagination? Or is it evil spirits?

I've been so concerned about my own troubles that. I forgot to ask about little Denny. Did you find out what caused his rash?

Love from Mom and Grandmom

The last letter was not dated, but Dennis had received it on Saturday, the day before his mother died.

Dear Dennis,

I don't know how much longer I can stand it—the noises, I mean. The volunteers don't hear anything. I'm the only one that hears it. I told Dr. Hal, and he took me off medication for a few days, but it doesn't make any difference. I still hear the noises, but only when I'm alone. I hate to tell Larry. He'll think I'm crazy. The museum's open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and there'll be people around. I'm going to wait until Monday, and if it isn't any better, I'm going to resign.

Mother

P.S. Now I don't hear it any more.

Dennis, receiving the letter on Saturday, called Dr. Halifax and bought a plane ticket for Monday. On Sunday night she died, her face contorted with pain—or what? She was frightened to death, Qwilleran decided. By what? Or by whom?

After reading the last letter he was in no hurry to go to bed with that monstrous headboard towering over him. He considered sleeping on the sofa, but first he had to conduct an experiment. It was his intention to sit up until midnight with lamps and chandeliers alight in every room and with the stereo blasting at full volume. Then, precisely at midnight, he would turn everything off and sit in the dark, listening.

For Phase One of this strategy he marched through the apartment, flipping on light switches and activating lamps. In the entrance hall only two candles responded. The night before, it had been four. An hour ago it was three. He huffed into his moustache, having little patience with electrical equipment that failed to do its duty, and he was in no mood to go hunting for spare lightbulbs.

Comfortable in his Mackintosh bathrobe and moosehide slippers, he treated the cats to a sardine and prepared another cup of coffee for himself. Then he inserted the Othello cassette into the stereo and settled into the blue velvet wing chair in front of the fireplace. He refrained from building a fire; the crackling logs would spoil the pure tones on the cassette.

This time he hoped to hear the recording from start to finish without interruption. To his consternation, just as Othello and Desdemona approached their love duet in Act One, the telephone rang. He turned down the volume and went to the phone in the bedroom.

"Qwill, this is Larry," said the energetic voice. "I've just talked to Dennis Hough on the phone. Thanks for getting him installed at the hotel. He says his accommodations are very good."

"I hope they didn't give him the bridal suite with the round bed and satin sheets," Qwilleran said moodily, resenting the interruption.

"He's in the presidential suite—the only one with a telephone and color TV. Everything's set for tomorrow. Susan will take him to lunch; Carol and I will take both of them to dinner. Is everything okay at the museum? Are you comfortable there?"

"I expect to have nightmares from sleeping in that monster of a bed."

In a tone of mock rebuke Larry said, "That monster, Qwill, is a priceless General Grant bed that was made a century ago for a World's Fair! Look at the quality of the rosewood! Look at the workmanship! Look at the patina!"

“Be that as it may, Larry, the headboard looks like the door to a mausoleum, and I'm not ready to be interred. Otherwise, all is well."

"I'll say good night, then. It's been a hectic day, and neither of us had much sleep last night, did we? I finally lined up the other pallbearers, so now I'm going to have a much deserved nightcap and turn in."

"One question, Larry. Did you see Iris during museum visiting hours this past week?"

"I didn't, but Carol did. She said Iris looked tired and worried—the result of her medical report, no doubt, and maybe the stress of opening the new shop. Carol told her to go and lie down."

Qwilleran went back to his opera, but he had missed the love duet. He turned off the machine peevishly, checked the cats' whereabouts, doused the lights, and sprawled in the blue wing chair with his feet on the footstool. Then he waited in the dark—waiting and listening for the knocking, moaning, rattling, and screaming.

Four hours later he opened his eyes suddenly. He had a kink in his neck and two Siamese on his lap, their combined weight having caused one foot to be totally numb. Asleep they weighed twice what they weighed on the veterinarian's scale. Qwilleran limped about the room, grumbling and stamping his deadened foot. If there had been noises in the walls, he had slept through them in a blissful stupor. Larry's phone call was the last thing he remembered.

In retrospect there was something about the call that bothered him. Larry had mentioned pallbearers. He said he had lined up "the other pallbearers." What, Qwilleran wondered, did he mean by "other"?

He waited fretfully for seven o'clock, at which time he telephoned the Lanspeak country house. Without preamble he said, "Larry, may I ask a question?"

"Sure, what's on your mind?"

"Who are the pallbearers?"

"The three male members of the museum board and Mitch Ogilvie—in addition to you and me. Why do you ask?"

"Just for the record," Qwilleran said, "no one up to this minute has even hinted that I might be a pallbearer—not that I have any objection, you understand—but I'm glad I happened to find out."

"Didn't Susan talk to you?"

"She talked to me at considerable length about a pink suede suit and a casket with pink lining and pink flowers being flown in from Minneapolis, but not a word about pal1bearing.”

"I'm sorry, Qwill. Does it create a problem?"

"No. No problem. I merely wanted to be sure."

The truth was that it created a definite problem. It called for a dark suit—something Qwilleran had not owned for twenty-five years. Neither in his lean years nor in his newly acquired affluence had he found an extensive wardrobe important to his lifestyle. In Moose County he could get by with sweaters, windbreakers, a tweed sports coat with leather patches, and a navy blue blazer. At the moment he owned one suit, a light gray, purchased when he was best man at Iris Cobb's marriage to Hackpole. It had not been off the hanger since that memorable occasion.

At nine o'clock sharp he telephoned Scottie's Men's Shop in downtown Pickax, saying, "I need a dark suit in a hurry, Scottie.”

"How darrrk, laddie, and in how much of a hurrry," said the proprietor. He liked to burr his r's for Qwilleran, who always made it known that his mother's maiden name was Mackintosh.

"Very dark. I'm going to be a pallbearer, and the funeral's at ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Do you have a tailor on tap?"

"Aye, but canna say for how long. He were goin' to the doctor. Get over here in five minutes and he can fit you."

"I'm not in Pickax, Scottie. I'm living at the Goodwinter farmhouse. Can you keep him there for half an hour? Bribe the guy!"

"Weel, he's a stubborrrrn Scot, but I'll do my best." Qwilleran made a dash for his razor, slapped on the lather, and cut himself. Just as he was stanching the blood and muttering under his breath, the brass door knocker clanged.

"Damn that Boswell!" he said aloud. He was sure it was the bothersome Boswell; who else would call at such an hour?

In his short shavecoat and with half a faceful of lather, he strode to the entrance hall and yanked open the door. There on the doorstep stood a startled woman holding a plate of biscuits. She covered her face with one hand in embarrassment. "Oh, you're shavin'! Pardon me, Mr. Qwilleran," she said in a soft southern drawl. Each lilting statement ended with emphasis on the last word and an implied question mark. "I'm your neighbor, Verona Boswell? I brought you some fresh biscuits... for your breakfast? " It was a refreshing sound in Moose County, 400 miles north of North, but Qwilleran had no time for refreshment.

"Thank you. Thank you very much," he said briskly, accepting the plate.

"I just wanted to say... welcome?"

"That's kind of you." He tried not to be curt. On the other hand, the lather was drying on his face and Scottie's tailor was pacing the floor.

"Let us know if there's any thin' we can... do for you?"

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"I hope we can get better acquainted after the... funeral?”

"Indeed, Mrs. Boswell." He had stepped back and was beginning to close the door.

"Oh, please call me... Verona? You'll see us around a lot."

"I'm sure I shall, but I must ask you to excuse me now. I'm leaving for Pickax on urgent business."

"Then I won't hold you up. We'll probably see you tonight at the... visitation?" Reluctantly she backed away, saying, "My little girl would love to meet your kitties."

Qwilleran finished dressing with clenched jaw. He had always lived in cities, where one could ignore neighbors and be completely ignored in return. The smothering neighborliness of the Boswells, he feared, might be a problem—not to mention "Baby" who wanted to meet the "kitties." Was that really her name? Baby Boswell! Qwilleran disliked the child even before setting eyes on her. He was sure she would be one of those insufferable tots—cute, vain, and precocious. Like W. C. Fields he had never developed a liking I for small children.

As for Verona Boswell, she was not unattractive, and her gentle voice was a welcome contrast to her husband's shrillness. Verona was somewhat younger than Vince, but she had lost her freshness—probably, Qwilleran decided, from listening to his whining harangue. Whatever their neighborly virtues, he determined to see as little as possible of the Boswells.