The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (6 page)

Driving to Pickax in a huff he was stopped for speeding, but the state trooper looked at his driver's license and the distinctive moustache and merely issued a warning. At the men's store Scottie was waiting with a selection of dark blue suits, while a tailor with a tape measure around his neck stood nervously in the background.

"I don't want to pay too much," Qwilleran said, scanning the pricetags.

"Spoken like a true Mackintosh," said the storekeeper, nodding his shaggy gray head. "That clan always had deep pockets and shorrrt arrrms. Perhaps you'd like to rent a suit if it's only for a funeral."

Qwilleran scowled at him. "On the other hand, mon, a darrrk suit is handy to have in the closet in case you suddenly want to get married."

Qwilleran made a selection reluctantly, considering all the suits overpriced.

As the tailor checked the fit, hoisting here and tugging there, Scottie said, "So you're stayin' at the Goodwinter farmhouse, are you? Have you seen a dead man sittin' on a keg of gold coins?"

"So far I've been denied that pleasure," Qwilleran replied. "Is he supposed to be a regular visitor?"

"Old Ephraim Goodwinter was a miser, you know, and they say he still comes back to count his money. How do you want to pay for this suit? Cash? Credit card? Ten dollars a week?"

From the men's store Qwilleran drove to the Pickax industrial park, where the Moose County Something occupied a new building. Designed to house editorial and business offices as well as a modem printing plant, the building was a costly project made possible by an interest-free loan from the Klingenschoen Fund. The daily masthead on page four listed the following:

ARCH RIKER, editor and publisher

JUNIOR GOODWINTER, managing editor

WILLIAM ALLEN, general manager

Qwilleran first walked into the managing editor's office, which was dominated by a large, old-fashioned rolltop desk that dwarfed the young man sitting in front of it. The desk had belonged to his great-grandfather, the miserly Ephraim.

Junior Goodwinter had a boyish face and a boyish build and was growing a beard in an attempt to look older than fifteen. "Hey! Pull up a chair! Put your feet up!" he greeted Qwilleran. "That was a swell piece you wrote about Iris Cobb. I hear you're house-sitting at my old homestead.”

"For a while, until they find a new manager. I hope to do some research while I'm there. How's the ancestral desk working out?"

"Not so swift. All those pigeonholes and small drawers look like a good idea, but you file something away and never find it again. I like the idea of the rolltop, though. I can stuff my unfinished work in there, roll the top down, and go home with a clear conscience."

"Have you discovered any secret compartments? I imagine Ephraim had a few secrets he wanted to hide."

"Golly, I wouldn't know where to start looking for secret compartments. Why don't you bring Koko down here and let him sniff around. He's good at that."

"He's been doing a lot of sniffing since we moved into the farmhouse. He remembers Iris and wonders why she's not there. By the way, just before she died she talked about hearing unearthly noises. Did you ever have any supernatural adventures when you lived there?"

"No," said Junior. "I was too busy riding horses and scrapping with my six-foot-four brother."

"You never told me you were an equestrian, Junior."

"Oh, sure. Didn't you know that? I wanted to be a jockey, but my parents objected. The alternatives were a bell-hop or a hundred-ten-pound journalist."

"How's the new baby?" Qwilleran asked, never able to remember the name or sex of his young friends' offspring.

“Incredible kid! This morning he grabbed my finger so hard I couldn't pull away. And only four weeks old! Four weeks and three days!"

Tight-fisted like his great-great-grandfather, Qwilleran thought. Then he pointed toward the door. "Who's that? Is that William Allen?" A large white cat had walked into the office with a managerial swagger.

"That's him in person—not a reincarnation," Junior said. "He escaped from the fire in the old building, miraculously. Probably incurred a little smoke damage, but he cleaned it up without making an insurance claim. We found him a month ago, ten months after the fire. Guess where he was! Sitting in front of the State Unemployment Office!”

Next Qwilleran visited the office of the publisher. Arch Riker was sitting in a high backed executive chair in front of a curved walnut slab supported by two marble monoliths.

"How do you like working in this spiffy environment?" Qwilleran asked. "I detect the fine hand of Amanda's Design Studio."

"It cramps my style. I'm afraid to put my feet on my desk, " said Riker, who claimed to do his best thinking with his feet elevated.

"Those underpinnings look like used tombstones."

"I wouldn't be surprised if they were. Amanda has all the instincts of a grave robber... Say, that was a decent obit you wrote for Iris Cobb. I hope you write one that's half that good when it's my turn to go. What's the story behind the story?"

"Meaning what?"

"Don't play dumb, Qwill. You know you always suspect that a car accident is a suicide, and a suicide is a murder. What really happened Sunday night? You look preoccupied."

Qwilleran touched his moustache in a guilty gesture but said glibly, "If I look preoccupied, Arch, it's because I've bought a dark suit for the funeral—I'm one of the pallbearers—and it's a question whether Scottie will have it ready on time. Are you going to Dingleberry's tonight?"

"That's my intention. I'm taking the lovely Amanda to dinner, and we'll stop at the funeral home afterward, if she can still stand up and walk straight."

"Tell the bartender to water her bourbon," Qwilleran suggested. "We don't want your inamorata to disgrace herself at Dingleberry's."

As lifelong comrades the two men had sniggered about their boyhood crushes, gloated over their youthful affairs, confided about their marriage problems, and shared the pain of the subsequent divorces. Currently they indulged in private banter about Riker's cranky, outspoken, bibulous friend Amanda. There were many complimentary adjectives that could apply to this successful businesswoman and aggressive member of the city council, but "lovely" was not one of them.

Riker asked, "Will you and Polly be there?" "She has a dinner meeting with the library board, but she'll drop in later."

"Perhaps we could go somewhere afterward—the four of us," Riker proposed. "I always need some liquid regalement after paying my respects to the deceased."

Qwilleran stood up to leave. "Sounds good. See you at Dingleberry's."

"Not so fast! How long are you going to be downtown? Can you hang around until lunchtime?"

"Not today. I have to go home and unpack my clothes, and find out where they store the spare lightbulbs, and take inventory of the freezer. Iris always cooked as if she expected forty unexpected guests for dinner."

"Home! You've been there half a day, and you call it home. You have a faculty for quick adjustment."

"I'm a gypsy at heart," Qwilleran said. "Home is where I hang my toothbrush and where the cats have their commode. See you tonight."

Driving to North Middle Hummock he noticed that the wind had risen and the leaves were beginning to fall. On Fugtree Road the pavement was carpeted with yellow leaves from the aspens. It would be a pleasant day to take a walk, he thought. His bicycle was in Pickax, and he missed his daily exercise. He was feeling relaxed and in a good humor; a little banter with his colleagues at the Something always put him in an amiable mood. A moment later, his equanimity was shattered.

As he turned the comer into Black Creek Lane he jammed on the brakes. A small child was standing in the middle of the lane, holding a toy of some kind.

At the urgent sound of tires crunching on gravel Mrs. Boswell ran out of the house, crying helplessly, "Baby! I told you to stay in the yard!" She picked up the tiny tot under one arm and took the toy away from her. "This is Daddy's. You're not supposed to touch it."

Qwilleran rolled down the car window. "That was a narrow escape," he said. "Better put her on a leash."

“I'm so... sorry, Mr. Qwilleran.

He continued slowly down the lane, experiencing a delayed chill at the recollection of the near-accident, then thinking about Verona's ingratiating drawl, then realizing that the "toy" was a walkie-talkie. As he parked in the farmyard the Boswell van was pulling away from the old barn; the driver leaned out of the window.

"What time is the funeral tomorrow?" trumpeted the irritating voice, resounding across the landscape.

Ten-thirty."

"Do you know who they got for pallbearers? I thought they might call on me, being a neighbor and all that. I would've been glad to do it, although I'm plenty busy in the barn. Any time you want to see the printing presses, let me know. I'll take time out and explain everything. It's very interesting.”

"I'm sure it is," said Qwilleran, stony-faced. "We're thinking of going to the visitation tonight, the wife and me. If you want to hitch a ride with us, you're welcome. Plenty of room in the van!"

"That's kind of you, but I'm meeting friends in Pickax."

"That's okay, but don't forget, we're here to help, any time you need us." Boswell waved a friendly farewell and drove up the lane to the hired man's cottage.

Plucking irritably at his moustache Qwilleran let himself into the apartment and searched for the cats—always his first concern upon returning home. They were in the kitchen. They looked surprised that he had returned so soon. They seemed embarrassed, as if he had interrupted some private catly rite that he was not supposed to witness.

"What have you two rapscallions been doing?" he asked.

Koko said "ik ik ik" and Yum Yum nonchalantly groomed a spot on her snowy underside.

"I'm going for a walk, so you can return to whatever shady pastime has been giving you that guilty look."

Leisurely, after changing into a warm-up suit, he walked up the lane, enjoying the glorious October foliage and the vibrant blue of the sky and the yellow blanket of leaves underfoot. When he reached the hired man's cottage he hurried past, lest the Boswells should rush out and engage him in neighborly conversation. At the comer he turned east to explore a stretch of Fugtree Road he had never traveled. It was paved but there were no farmhouses—only rocky pastureland, patches of woodland, and squirrels busy in the oak trees. He walked for about a mile, seeing nothing of interest except a bridge over a narrow stream, evidently Black Creek. Then he retraced his steps, hurrying past the Boswell cottage and slowing down in front of the Fugtree farm.

The Fugtree name was famous in Moose County. The farmhouse had been built by a lumber baron in the nineteenth century, and it was a perfect example of Affluent Victorian—three stories high, with a tower and a wealth of architectural detail. The complex of barns, sheds, and coops indicated it had also been a working farm for a country gentleman with plenty of money. Now the outbuildings were shabby, the house needed a coat of paint, and the grounds were overgrown with weeds. The present occupants were not taking care of the Fugtree property in the manner to which it had been accustomed.

As Qwilleran speculated on its faded grandeur, someone in the side yard looked in his direction with hands on hips. He turned away and walked briskly back to Black Creek Lane. Passing the hired man's cottage he was careful to keep his gaze straight ahead. Even so he was aware of the tot running across the front lawn.

"Hi!" she called out.

He ignored the salutation and walked faster.

“Hi!" she said again as he came abreast of her. He kept on walking. As a youngster in Chicago he had been cautioned never to speak to strange adults, and as an adult in a changing society he considered it prudent never to speak to strange children.

"Hi!" she called after him as he marched resolutely down the lane, scattering leaves underfoot. She was probably a lonely child, he guessed, but he banished the thought and finished his walk at a jog-trot.

Arriving at the apartment he flipped the hall light switch out of sheer curiosity. Three candles responded. First it had been four, then three, then two. Now it was three again. Growling under his breath he strode to the kitchen, where Koko was sitting on the windowsill gazing intently at the barnyard. Yum Yum was watching Koko.

Qwilleran said in a louder voice than usual, "Since you two loafers spend so much time in the kitchen staring into space, perhaps you can tell me where to find the spare lightbulbs. Come on, Koko. Let's have a little input."

With seeming difficulty Koko wrenched his attention away from the outdoor scene and executed a broad jump from the windowsill to the large freezer chest that Mrs. Cobb had left well stocked with food.

"I said lightbulbs, not meatballs," said Qwilleran. He opened and closed the pine cabinets until he found what he needed—a flame-shaped lightbulb intended for use in candle-style fixtures. He carried this and a kitchen chair to the front hall, the Siamese romping alongside to watch the show. Any action out of the ordinary attracted their attention, and a man climbing on a kitchen chair rated as a spectacle.

 After Qwilleran had climbed on the chair, he forgot which light needed replacing. He stepped down and flicked the switch. All four candles responded.

"Spooks!" he muttered as he returned the chair to the kitchen and put the lightbulb back into the broom closet.

-5-

THE DINGLEBERRY FUNERAL home occupied an old stone mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard, one that had been built by a mining tycoon during Moose County's boom years. Though the exterior was forbidding, the interior had been styled by Amanda's Design Studio. Plush carpet, grasscloth walls, and raw silk draperies were in pale seafoam green, accented with eighteenth-century mahogany furniture and benign oil paintings in expensive frames. The decor was so widely admired that most of the fashionable residences in Pickax were decorated in Dingleberry green.

When Qwilleran arrived on Tuesday evening the large parking lot in the rear was filled and all the legal parking spaces on the boulevard were taken, as well as some of the illegal ones. Entering the establishment he heard a respectful babble of voices in the adjoining rooms. Susan Exbridge, handsomely dressed as usual, quickly approached him in the foyer.