The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (9 page)

"That's kind of you," said Qwilleran, "but Mr. Hough's time is limited. He simply wants to see the farmhouse."

"Be glad to show you the printing presses in the barn, sir."

"Not this time, thanks."

"Well, let me know if I can be of any assistance," said Boswell.

As the van drove away, Dennis said, "Do you think he's a Noble Son of the Noose?"

"He's a son of something," said Qwilleran, "but he bailed me out of a tight situation this morning, and I should be grateful. Maybe that's why he was hinting for your mother's cookbook."

"At the funeral home last night he asked Larry for my mother's job as resident manager. Sort of premature, don't you think?"

"Vince Boswell isn't noted for his finesse." First they walked around the grounds, Qwilleran pointing out the features of the house. The original section was built of square logs measuring fourteen by fourteen inches, chinked with mortar made of clay, straw, and hog's blood. The east and west wings were added later, and the whole structure was covered with cedar shingles, now weathered to a silvery gray.

Dennis showed no sentiment when they entered his mother's apartment. He strolled about with his hands in his pockets, commenting on the wide floorboards, the extravagant use of milled woodwork, and the six-over-six windows, many of the panes having the original wavy glass. He said nothing about the General Grant bed or the Pennsylvania Schrank or the pewter collection in the kitchen—all considered rare treasures by Iris Cobb.

When they entered the kitchen, Koko rose from his huddle on the windowsill, stretched his long body in a hairpin curve, and made a flying leap to the top of the freezer-chest, six feet away.

"Too early for dinner," Qwilleran told him.

"Is that Koko?" Dennis asked. "My mother told me about him. She said he's very smart."

Koko was now on the floor, tracing abstract patterns with his nose, moving his head from right to left, covering the entire room systematically.

"This is his bloodhound act," Qwilleran explained. As the cat neared the telephone he became excited, hopped to the seat of the old school desk and sniffed the desktop with moist snorts.

"What's in that desk?" Dennis asked.

Qwilleran lifted the lid. "Papers," he said. There were scribbled notes in Iris Cobb's illegible hand, newspaper clippings, index cards, a magnifying glass, and a battered looseleaf notebook, its black covers now gray with waterspots and flour and hard use.

Dennis said, "That looks like her personal cookbook. She told me it was the only thing she saved from the fire last year. That's because it was in her luggage at the time. She was taking it on her honeymoon, if you can believe that."

"Knowing your mother, I can believe it," said Qwilleran as he returned the book to the desk. "There are women in Moose County who would sell their souls to the devil if they could get their hands on this collection of recipes. Would you like to see the museum now?"

Dennis glanced at his watch. "Sure." The main section of the house was furnished with trestle tables, rope beds, a pie safe, banister-back chairs, iron-strapped chests and other trappings of a pioneer home. The east wing was devoted to collections of textiles, documents, lighting fixtures and the like. Dennis ignored the stenciled walls that had thrilled his mother, and the window curtains that had required so much research, and the heirlooms she had begged from old families in the area.

"It was the basement where she first heard the knocking," he said.

"Okay, let's go downstairs," said Qwilleran. A sign at the top of the basement stairs explained that the "cellar" originally had a dirt floor and was used for storing root vegetables and apples in winter, and possibly milk and cream from the family cow. Later a coal bin had been added, and a fruit closet for home canning. The basement now had a concrete floor and the latest in heating and laundry equipment, but the exposed joists overhead were fourteen-inch logs with the bark still in evidence.

Qwilleran found a door leading to a storeroom under the west wing, where damaged furniture and household cast-offs were piled without plan or purpose, among them a wooden potato masher. The stone walls were a foot thick, one of them roughly covered with cracked plaster. Had Iris cracked it, Qwilleran wondered, when she tapped out an answer to the ghostly visitor?

"Nothing here to explain the knocking," said Dennis. "The house is built like Fort Knox. Let's go back upstairs. Susan is picking me up and taking me to see the Fitch property. The real estate broker is meeting us there."

"Are you serious about moving to Moose County?"

“I won't know until I talk it over with Cheryl, but when I ten her about the Fitch estate she might get excited."

Don't tell her about Susan, Qwilleran thought. There was an obvious rapport developing between Dennis and the vivacious divorcee. He had observed it at Dingleberry's and at the luncheon following the funeral, and he noticed it again when Susan arrived and whisked the young man away to the Fitch estate. He was at least fifteen years her junior but tall like her former husband and with the same rugged good looks.

When he had waved the couple on their way he went indoors, flicking the hall lights out of sheer curiosity. The previous flick had activated four candles. Now it was three again. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache.

He had expected to spend the afternoon with Dennis, examining the museum exhibits and looking at the printing presses in the barn, after which they might have had drinks at the Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville, dinner at the Northern Lights Hotel overlooking the lake, and dessert at the colorful Black Bear Café.

Somewhat disappointed he telephoned Polly at the library. "Would you like to go out tonight? We could have dinner at the Northern Lights and finish up at the Black Bear."

"How would you like to come to my place instead?" she asked.

"You shouldn't have to cook after working all day," he protested.

"Don't worry. I can whip up something very easily." He knew what it would be. They had recently read a play aloud—The Cocktail Party by T. S. Eliot—and since then Polly had been whipping up curried dishes instead of broiling fish or pan-frying chops. He liked Indian fare, but Polly was whipping a good idea to death. Her cottage was beginning to have a permanent aroma of Bombay, as if it had seeped into the carpet and upholstery. "Are you sure you want to take the trouble?" he asked.

"Of course I do! Besides, I have a surprise for you."

"What is it?" Qwilleran hated to be surprised.

"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise, will it? Come at six-thirty. That will give me time to go home and change clothes."

And find the curry powder, he thought. Reluctantly he agreed. He would have preferred broiled whitefish or stuffed porkchops at the Northern Lights.

Now he had time to kill, and it occurred to him that he had never raked leaves. He had interviewed kings; he had been strafed on a Mediterranean beach; and briefly he had been held hostage by a crazed bank robber, but he had never raked leaves. He changed into jeans and a red plaid shirt and went to the steel barn to find a rake.

A year ago the barn had been the scene of an auction when the Goodwinters' household goods were liquidated. Now it functioned as a' garage and utility shed, housing garden tools, a work bench, odds and ends of lumber, and stacks of firewood. Mrs. Cobb's station wagon was parked there, and he assumed it would be sold. It was larger than his downscale compact and would more easily accommodate the cats' carrier and their commode. It might be enjoyable to take them on a few trips around the country. The Lanspeaks had been raving about the Blue Ridge Mountains. He wondered if the altitude would hurt their ears.

Finding a rake, Qwilleran embarked on a new experience—pleasant exercise that activated the muscles without engaging the mind. It gave him time to think about the irritating Vince Boswell, Koko's discovery of Iris Cobb's cookbook, the all-too-obvious attraction between Susan Exbridge and Dennis Hough, Polly's promised surprise, and the prospect of another dinner of curried something-or-other.

From the comer of his eye he was aware of someone small approaching him.

"Hi!" said Baby. Qwilleran grunted a reply and raked faster. "What are you doing?"

"Raking leaves."

"Why?"

"For the same reason you brush your teeth. It has to be done."

She considered this analogical reasoning briefly and followed up with, "How old are you?"

"That's classified information, How old are you?"

"Three in April."

"What kind of car do you drive?" Qwilleran asked.

"I don't have a car," she said with a pretty pout. He had to admit she was a pretty child as well as articulate.

"Why not?"

"I'm too little."

"Why don't you grow up?"

As Baby pondered an answer to this baffling question her mother came running down the lane. "Baby? Baby?" she called out in her gentle and ineffectual way. "Daddy doesn't want you to come down here, I'm sorry, Mr. Qwilleran. Was she bothering you? She's always asking annoying... questions?”

"She's training to be a journalist," Qwilleran said, raking industriously.

He finished his chore with satisfaction, heaping the leaves in piles for the yard crew to remove. Then he went indoors to feed the Siamese. The freezer-chest contained, he estimated, a two-month supply of spaghetti sauce, chili, macaroni and cheese (his favorite), vichyssoise, pot roast, turkey tetrazzini, shrimp gumbo, deviled crab, Swedish meatballs and other Cobb specialties—nothing in curry sauce, he was glad to note.

He thawed some pot roast for the cats, and while they were devouring it he took Mrs. Cobb's personal cookbook from the small desk and looked for his favorite coconut cream cake with apricot filling, but the handwriting defeated him. Over the years the pages had been spotted with cook's fingerprints and smeared with tomato, chocolate, egg yolk, and what appeared to be blood. He thought, One could boil this and make a tasty soup. Koko had probably smelled the presence of the book and tracked it to its hiding place in the desk. Remarkable cat! Sniffing the book himself, he could detect no noticeable scent. He returned it to the desk and dressed for dinner.

Polly lived in a small house on the old MacGregor farm. The last of the MacGregors had died, the main farmhouse was for sale, and the intelligent goose that used to patrol the property was no longer around. For one dark moment as he parked the car Qwilleran envisioned curried goose as Polly's surprise, but when he approached the front door the aroma of curried shrimp assailed his nostrils and he half expected to hear raga music.

"Don't tell me! I can guess what's for dinner," he said. Her greeting was unusually ardent. She bubbled with an excitement unlike her normal air of subdued happiness. "Shall we have an Attitude Adjustment Hour before dinner?" she asked, blithely jingling ice cubes in glasses. She served him Squunk water with a twist and passed a plate of olive-and-cheese hors d'oeuvres. Then, raising her sherry glass she said, "Eat thy bread with joy and drink thy Squunk water with a merry heart."

"You're in a good mood tonight," he said. "Did the library board vote you a raise?"

"Guess again."

"They approved a new heating system for the library?"

Polly jumped up. Ordinarily she rose gracefully, but she jumped up saying, "Close your eyes," as she hurried to the bedroom. When she returned he heard a faint squeak, and he opened his eyes to see her holding a small basket in which lay a small white kitten with large brown ears, large brown feet, a dark smudge on his nose, and the indescribably blue eyes of a Siamese.

"Meet my little boy," she said proudly. "He came all the way from Lockmaster on the bus today, traveling by himself."

"Is this what Siamese look like when they're young?" Qwilleran asked in astonishment. He had adopted both Koko and Yum Yum after they were grown.

"Isn't he adorable?" She lifted him from the basket and nuzzled her face against his fur. "We love him to pieces! He's such a sweetheart!... Are you my little sweetheart?... Yes, he's my little sweetheart. Listen to him purr."

She placed the kitten carefully on the floor, and he lurched across the carpet like a windup toy, his skinny legs splayed at odd angles and his large brown feet flopping like a clown in oversize shoes. Polly explained, "He's still unsteady on his legs, and he doesn't quite know what to do with his feet. Of course, he's a little dismayed, being away from his mother and siblings... Aren't you, sweetums?"

Qwilleran had to admit he was an appealing little creature, but he found Polly's commentary cloying. He occasionally called Yum Yum his little sweetheart, but that was different. It was a term of endearment, not maudlin gush. "What's his name?" he asked.

"Bootsie, and he's going to grow up to be just like Koko."

Fat chance, Qwilleran thought, with a name like that! Koko bore the dignified cognomen of Kao K'o Kung, a thirteenth-century Chinese artist. He said, "You told me you didn't want a pet. You always said you were too busy and too often out of town."

"I know," she said, sweetly sheepish, "but the librarian in Lockmaster had a litter, and Bootsie was just too irresistible. Do you want to hold him? First I have to give him a kiss-kiss so that he knows he's loved."

Qwilleran accepted the small bundle gingerly. "He must weigh about three ounces. What's he stuffed with? Goose down?"

"He weighs exactly one pound and eight and a half ounces on my kitchen scale."

"Do you feed him with an eyedropper?"

"He gets a spoonful of nutritional catfood four times a day. It doesn't take much to fill up his little tum-tum."

Bootsie was quite content on Qwilleran's lap, his loud purr shaking his entire twenty-four and a half ounces. Occasionally he emitted a small squeak, closing his eyes in the effort.

"He needs oiling," Qwilleran said.

"That means he likes you. He wants you to be his godfather. Give him a kiss-kiss."

"No thanks. I have jealous cats at home." He was glad when Bootsie was returned to the bedroom and dinner was served.