The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (14 page)

"That's kind of you, Qwill, but my friend is here from Pickax, and everything's under control."

"Good! Have a nice evening," said Qwilleran. Was the phone message really from her ex-husband? he wondered. And who was this "friend" who suddenly appeared and made everything right? He turned back to the table where he had dropped Kristi's two donations. Yum Yum was eating one of them, and Koko was sitting on the other.

-10-

QWILLERAN HAD A reason for inviting Roger's mother-in-law to dinner. He wanted to know more about Kristi Fugtree Waffle—not to flesh out his goat interview but to satisfy his curiosity—and Mildred Hanstable was the one to ask. A lifelong resident of Moose County, she had taught school for almost thirty years, and she knew two generations of students as well as their parents and grandparents, the past and present members of the school board, the county commissioners—in short, everyone.

When Qwilleran phoned her in Mooseville she squealed with her usual exuberance, "Qwill! So good to hear from you! Roger tells me you're house-sitting at the museum. That was such a shock—losing Iris! She always looked so healthy, didn't she? Perhaps she was a little overweight, but I... oh, Lord! so am I! I'm going on a diet right away."

"Start your diet tomorrow," he said. "Are you free to have dinner tonight?"

"I'm always free to have dinner. That's my problem." "I'll pick you up at six-thirty, and we'll go to the Northern Lights Hotel."

Qwilleran thawed some lobster meat for the Siamese, wondering if the waterfront hotel in Mooseville would offer anything half as good. Then he showered and dressed in something he considered commendable for the occasion. When dating Polly Duncan, who was not attuned to fashion, he wore what was readily available, and clean. Mildred, on the other hand, taught art as well as home ec, and she had an eye for color, design, and coordination. For Mildred he tried harder. For Mildred he wore a camel's-hair cardigan over a white open-neck shirt and tan pants, an ensemble that enhanced the suntan he had acquired during recent months of biking. Admiring himself in Mrs. Cobb's full-length mirror, a nicety that was lacking in his Pickax apartment, he noted that the shades of tan flattered his graying hair and luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache.

In a mood of self-congratulation he drove from the rolling hills and cultivated fields of the Hummocks to the wild, wooded lakeshore, experiencing once again the miraculous change in atmosphere near the lake. Ii was not merely the aroma of a hundred miles of water and a fleet of fishing boats; it was an indescribable element that elevated one's spirit and made Mooseville a vacation paradise.

Mildred greeted him with a platonic hug. "You're looking wonderful! And I love your tan and white combination!" She was licensed to hug platonically, being not only Roger's mother-in-law but Qwilleran's former neighbor and the food writer for the Moose County Something and the loyal wife of an absentee husband.

Qwilleran returned the compliment, admiring whatever it was she was wearing. "Did you design it, Mildred?"

"Yes, it's intended to be a flattering cover-up for a fat lady."

"Nonsense! You are a handsome mature woman with a mature figure," he said with a declamatory flourish.

"I always love your choice of words, Qwill." As they drove toward downtown Mooseville there were signs that the vacation season was coming to a close. They encountered less tourist traffic, fewer recreation vehicles, and, almost no boats on trailers. Summer cottages were boarded up for the winter. There were not many fishing boats bobbing alongside the municipal piers that bordered Main Street, and the seagulls were screeching their last hurrah of the season.

"It's kind of sad," Mildred observed, "but it's pleasant, too. October belongs to us and not to those loud, swaggering tourists from Down Below. Fortunately they throw their money around and keep our economy going. I just wish they had better manners."

The Northern Lights Hotel was a barracks-like building with three floors of plain windows in dreary rows, but it was a historic landmark that had served the community in the nineteenth century when sailors and loggers-likewise lacking in manners—patronized the free-lunch saloon and rented a room for two bits.

As Qwilleran and his guest seated themselves in the dining room at a window table overlooking the docks, Mildred said, "A hundred years ago people looked out this very same window and saw three-masted schooners taking on passengers in bustles and top hats, and new-fangled coal steamers taking on cargoes of lumber and ore." She glanced at the menu. "And a hundred years ago this hotel served slumgullion to deckhands and prospectors, instead of broiled whitefish and petite salads to dieters. What are you having, Qwill? You never have to worry about calories."

"Since the cats are having lobster tonight, I think I'm entitled to French onion soup, froglegs, Caesar salad, and pumpkin pecan pie."

"How do the cats like their new environment?" she asked.

"They've okayed the blue velvet wing chair, the Pennsylvania German Schrank, and the kitchen windowsill. About the General Grant bed, when polled they voted 'undecided.' Gastronomically they're in seventh cat heaven, chomping their way through Iris's twenty-four-cubic-foot freezer."

"I read about Iris's will in yesterday's paper. Did she really want to have her recipes published? Or did you invent that? To me it sounded suspiciously like a Qwilleranism."

"If you read it in the Something, it's true," he said. "Well, when her cookbook is published, I want to buy the first copy."

"I was hoping you'd consent to be the editor, Mildred. The recipes will need editing and testing, I imagine. Iris was one of those casual cooks—a fistful of this, a slug of that. I'll volunteer to be your official taster."

"I'd be honored!" said Mildred. "Let me warn you: her handwriting looks like Egyptian hieroglyphics."

"After correcting school papers for thirty years, Qwill, I can read anything."

He wanted to quiz her about Kristi but thought it prudent to defer the subject until the dessert course. Whenever he invited Mildred to dinner, it seemed, his motive was to pry information from her incredible memory bank, although he tried to be subtle about it. So he asked her about the new exhibit at the museum, soon to be unveiled. She was chairman of the exhibit committee.

"It was finished three weeks ago," she said, "but we postponed the opening to coincide with the autumn color season—sort of a double feature, you know. The show is all about disasters in Moose County history. The public likes disasters. I'm sure you know that. Didn't the circulation of the Daily Fluxion always go up after a major plane crash or earthquake?"

"How do you celebrate a disaster in a small room in a museum?" he asked.

"It takes a certain amount of ingenuity, if I say so myself. We're covering the walls with photo blowups, and I must tell you about the violent controversy that arose. A member of our committee, Fran Brodie, for your information, found a questionable photo in the museum files with no information as to origin or donor, only a date scribbled on the back: October 30, 1904. Does that ring a bell?"

"Isn't that when Ephraim Goodwinter's body was found?"

"A date that will live forever in coffee-shop gossip! It was just a snapshot—a ghoulish picture of the Hanging Tree with (presumably) a body dangling from a rope. Fran wanted to enlarge it to three by four feet. I said that would be pure sensationalism. She said it was local history. I said it was pandering to bad taste. She said it was objective reportage. I said it was probably a roll of carpet trussed up to look like a body."

"Why would anyone take the trouble to do that?"

"Ephraim-haters have gone to great lengths, Qwill, to 'prove' that he was lynched by a posse of men draped in white sheets. In fact, the museum even has a sheet with two eyeholes burned in it, allegedly found near the Hanging Tree on October 30, 1904, by the pastor of the Old Stone Church. I suspect it was planted there for the good reverend to find."

“I detect a note of skepticism in your remarks, Mildred."

"If you want to know, it's my opinion that the lynching story is a hoax. Ephraim's suicide note is in the possession of Junior Goodwinter, and the handwriting checks out. Junior has allowed us to photocopy it for the exhibit. Of course, Fran Brodie—who can be a pain in the you-know-what—said the suicide note could be a forgery. So the hassle began allover again, and Larry had to come in to arbitrate. The result was a compromise. We're calling the Goodwinter Mine disaster "Truth or Myth?" with a big banner to that effect. We're showing the alleged suicide note and the alleged hanging snapshot, but in actual size. No lurid blow-ups!"

"I'm glad you stood by your guns, Mildred. You always do! Was Fran ever a student of yours?"

"Ten years ago, yes. And now that she's an interior designer, she likes to challenge her old teacher. She's talented—I'll admit that—but she was always a brat in school and she's still a brat."

The entrees were served, and Qwilleran asked, "Did you attend the Exbridge and Cobb reception this afternoon?"

"It was fabulous!" she said. "You should have been there. They served excellent champagne and hors d'oeuvres. All the important people were there. Everyone dressed up for the occasion. Susan was looking smashing in a designer original, but then she always does; I wish I had that woman's figure. I met Iris's son; he's very personable. And the antiques—you wouldn't believe! They had a $10,000 Chippendale chair! A side chair! It didn't even have arms! And a $90,000 highboy!"

"Who's going to pay those prices in Moose County?"

"Don't kid yourself, Qwill. There's plenty of old money up here. They don't flaunt it, but they've got it—people like Doctor Zoller, Euphonia Gage, Doctor Halifax, the Lanspeaks, and how about you?"

"I've explained that before, Mildred. I'm not the acquisitive type. If I can't eat it or wear it, I don't buy it. Iris and Susan must have invested a fortune in that shop."

"They did," Mildred said, "and now Susan has it all. She really lucked out." Lowering her voice she added, "Don't repeat it, but—from what I noticed this afternoon—she's got her sights on Iris's son, too. I happen to know that he checked out of the hotel Thursday night but isn't leaving town until tomorrow. The hotel auditor is married to our school counselor, and I saw them both in Lanspeak's store today.”

"I would have gone to the reception," Qwilleran said, "but I was interviewing an interesting young woman—Kristi Fugtree."

"I remember her," said Mildred. "I had her in art class—a very good weaver. She had intriguing eyes, like some movie star I've seen, but I can't remember who. She married and moved away. Is she back again?"

"She's back again and living on the family farm, raising goats and selling goat's milk."

"Well, that's different, isn't it? Kristi was always different. When my other students were weaving acrylic and chenille, Kristi was weaving cornhusks and milkweed."

"Do you know the fellow she married? His last name was Waffle."

"I knew him only by sight and reputation, and I thought Kristi made a bad choice. He was a good-looking kid and popular with the girls. Kristi was the only one who didn't run after him, so naturally he pursued her. Probably thought she had Fugtree money. If he had had any brains he would have known that the family fortune was thrown away by Captain Fugtree, who was very well-liked, but he was a snob and a loafer with a large ego. If Kristi's raising goats, at least she has more ambition than her illustrious forebear."

Qwilleran said, "The house has been neglected for years, but it's an architectural gem."

"Especially the tower! In my nubile days, when we used to hang out in the Willoway, we could see the tower above the trees, and we thought it looked haunted."

"What's the Willoway?"

"Haven't you discovered the Willoway? You're slipping, Qwill," she said with a mischievous smile. "It's a lover's lane under the willow trees that grow on the banks of the Black Creek. The trail starts at the bridge near the museum and then angles across the back of the Goodwinter and Fugtree property. It's notoriously romantic! You should explore it, Qwill—with a suitable companion!"

On Sunday morning Qwilleran explored the Willoway, alone—although not so alone as he expected.

The expedition was not premeditated. He had been strolling about the grounds of the museum with his hands in his pockets, inhaling deeply, enjoying the riotous autumn color, when he received the distinct impression that he was being watched. He looked in all directions in a casual way, as if admiring the view.

Had he looked toward the farmhouse he would have discovered two pairs of intensely blue eyes fastened on him, but that did not occur to him. He glanced toward the east and saw farmland; to the north was the barn, minus Boswell's van; to the west one could see the tower of the Fugtree mansion rising above the treetops. Perhaps, he thought with pleasure, Kristi was watching him through the binoculars. It was amazing, he thought, how one could sense the fact from such a distance. He groomed his moustache and straightened his shoulders and decided to explore the Willoway.

The crisp, bright October day was so clear that one could hear the faint sound of church bells in West Middle Hummock three miles away. First he walked up Black Creek Lane, then east on Fugtree Road to the bridge, where he slid down an embankment to the stream. Although narrow and shallow, the creek rippled and gurgled briskly over the stones under the drooping branches of willows, while the trail-soft with decades of humus and now gaudily patterned with fallen leaves—was shaded by maples and oaks.

He found it an engagingly private place and he wondered if Iris had discovered this tranquil spot. Probably not; she was a confirmed indoorswoman. Ambling along the trail that meandered to follow the stream, he occasionally caught a glimpse of the Fugtree tower, which loomed larger as he drew closer. Here in the Willoway Emmaline and Samson had kept their ill-fated trysts.

Except for the bubbling water it was hauntingly quiet, as an October day can be, the dew-drenched trail muffling his footsteps. Once he paused to marvel at the picturesque scene, wishing he had brought his camera, and as he stood there he heard the crackling of underbrush. It was followed by indistinct voices. The inflections suggested the ritual of greeting, but not a joyous meeting. There were fragments of dialogue that he could not catch.