The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (15 page)

Qwilleran moved cautiously toward the source. Rounding a bend in the trail he ducked quickly behind a tree and listened. A woman was speaking angrily.

"I don't have any money!"

"Then get some!" a man said threateningly. "I need a car, too. They're after me."

"Why don't you steal one? You seem to know how." This was followed by a small cry of pain. "Don't you touch me, Brent!"

Qwilleran threw a rock into the stream, and the splash halted the hostile interchange for a few seconds.

"What's that?" the man asked in alarm.

"A fish... And you can't stay at the house, Brent, so get that out of your head."

There was incoherent whimpering about “no place to go."

"Go back where you came from, or I'll tell the police you're here!"

The man made a retort that sounded vicious, and Qwilleran threw another rock into the stream.

“Somebody's around," the man said.

"Nobody's here, stupid! And now I'm leaving, and I never want to see you again or hear from you! And I'm warning you, Brent: Don't try anything funny. I have a gun at the house!"

"Kristi, I'm hungry." The voice was pleading. "And it's cold at night."

There was a moment of silence. "I'll leave some bread and cheese on the big stump, but that's the end! Go back to Lockmaster and give yourself up."

Her final words faded away as she turned her back. Qwilleran, ventured a stealthy peek around the trunk of an oak tree and saw her running along the trail with noiseless steps. He also saw a man in a dark green jacket with stenciling on the back. Then, hearing the sounds of a zipper and urinating in the stream, Qwilleran turned and made his own retreat, climbing the bank to a dirt access road that led to the rear of the Goodwinter property.

His first action was to move his car to the steel barn and lock the door. Then he phoned Kristi's number. Her voice was shaking when she answered.

"It's Qwill calling again," he said. "You must think I haven't got it all together, but I forgot to ask the names of the bucks."

"Oh... yes... They're Napoleon... and Rasputin... and Attila," she said.

"Very appropriate! Thank you, Kristi. It's a beautiful day. How's everything at the farm?"

"Okay." Her reply was not convincing.

"You can expect a lot of traffic on Fugtree Road this afternoon. The museum is opening a new exhibit. I hope the activity won't throw the animals off their feed."

"It won't bother them."

"Let me know if there's any problem, any problem at all. " Do you hear?"

"Yes," she said weakly. "Thank you."

Hardly reassured by this conversation, Qwilleran wandered aimlessly about the apartment. Kristi's plight troubled him, but she gave the impression that his intervention was neither needed nor wanted. After all, she had a friend in Pickax with a pickup truck who seemed to be available in emergencies. Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingers.

What he needed was a strong cup of coffee and something distracting to read—something to pass the time until one o'clock when the museum opened to the public. In Pickax he had been reading Kinglake's Eothen aloud to the cats, and there were three secondhand Arnold Bennetts he was to start, but he had neglected to bring his books to North Middle Hummock. Mrs. Cobb's magazines were not to his taste; he knew all he wanted to know about brown Rockingham ware and early Massachusetts glass-blowers and Newport blockfronts. As for her bookshelves, they were filled with figurines and cast-iron toys and colored glass. The few books on the shelves were paperback titles that he had read at least twice. He was in no mood for Gone With the Wind again.

His rambling thoughts were interrupted by a familiar sound: thlunk! Then again, thlunk! It was the unmistakable evidence of a paperback book hitting an Oriental rug. Qwilleran could recognize it anywhere. He strode into the parlor in time to see Koko making an exit with the low-slung body and drooping tail that spelled mischief. Two books had been knocked off the shelf. Qwilleran read the titles and went directly to the telephone. The time had come, he concluded, to discuss Koko's behavior with an expert.

There was a young woman in Mooseville who seemed to know all about cats. Lori Bamba was also the free-lance secretary who handled Qwilleran's correspondence when the fan mail became too heavy. He called her number, using the kitchen telephone and taking care to close the door. Otherwise, Koko would make himself a pest. He liked Lori Bamba, and he knew when she was on the line.

Lori answered in the blithe way that made it a pleasure to hear her voice, and Qwilleran opened with the amenities. "Haven't seen you for a while, Lori. How's the baby?"

"He's crawling now, Qwill. Our calico thinks he's a kitten and tries to mother him."

"And how’s Nick?"

"Well, he hasn't found a new job yet. Let us know if you have any ideas. He has an engineering degree, you know.

"I'll do that, but tell him not to quit until he's lined up something else. And how about you? Do you have time to write some letters for me?"

"Sure do! Nick goes to Pickax on Wednesdays. He can pick up your stuff."

"I'm not in Pickax, Lori. The cats and I are staying in Iris Cobb's apartment at the museum for a few weeks."

"Oh, Qwill! That was terrible news! We'll miss her."

"Everyone misses her, including the Siamese."

"How do they react to living in a museum?"

"That's why I'm calling you, Lori. Something is bothering Koko. The bird population has gone south, and yet he sits on the windowsill for hours, watching and waiting. One day when I took him into the exhibit area he went directly to a bed pillow stuffed with chicken feathers before World War I, and a few minutes ago he knocked two books off the shelf: To Kill a Mockingbird and One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest."

Without hesitation Lori asked, "Is there enough poultry in his diet?"

"Hmmm... We've been using up the food in Iris's freezer." Qwilleran said, "and now that you mention it, I believe it's mostly meat and seafood."

"Try serving more poultry," she advised. "Okay, Lori, I'll give it a shot."

Qwilleran went in search of the Siamese. Standing in the central hall he called out, "Hey, you gastronomes, wherever you are! Doctor Purrgood wants you to eat more duckling, pheasant, and Cornish hen!"

Yum Yum could be heard scratching the gravel in the commode; it made a characteristic sound when flicked against the metal sides of the turkey roaster. Koko had done his famous vanishing act, however. "Koko! Where are you?"

The cat had an exasperating way of making himself invisible when the occasion demanded, and Qwilleran always worried when he was out of sight.

Yum Yum soon emerged from the bathroom, walking delicately pigeon-toed. She went directly to one of the Oriental rugs in the parlor. There was a suspicious-looking hump in the middle of it, which she sniffed ardently. The hump wriggled.

Throwing back the rug Qwilleran demanded, "What's wrong with you, Koko? Is the thermostat set too low? Are you hiding from something? What are you trying to tell me?"

Koko drew himself up to his full height, as only a Siamese can do, and stalked loftily from the room.

-11-

THE FIRST CARS to arrive at the museum for the opening of the disaster exhibit were those of Historical Society members, looking well-dressed in their church clothes: the men with coats and ties, the women with skirts and heels. Mitch Ogilvie as traffic director instructed them to unload the elderly and infirm at the museum entrance and then park in the barnyard, leaving the regular parking slots for the public. A good turnout was expected following the story on the front page of the Moose County Something:

GOODWINTER MUSEUM REOPENS

FEATURING MAJOR DISASTERS

The Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum in North Middle Hummock will resume regular hours Sunday with a new exhibit featuring memorable events in Moose County history. The museum has been closed for a week following the death of Iris Cobb Hackpole, resident manager.

The new show displays photographs and artifacts from lumbering, shipping, and mining days, according to spokesperson Carol Lanspeak. Photo murals portray dramatic views of shipwrecks, forest fires, mine disasters, logjams and other mishaps, including a 1919 "disaster" when the sheriff poured gallons of bootleg liquor on the dump at Squunk Corners.

Of special interest, Lanspeak said, is a vignette titled “Truth or Myth?" exploring the controversial death of Ephraim Goodwinter in 1904.

"The Goodwinter farm and surrounding countryside are at the height of autumn brilliance," Lanspeak said. "The color show makes a trip to the Hummocks doubly enjoyable." Regular hours are 1 to 4 P.M., Friday through Sunday. Groups may be accommodated by appointment.

At one o'clock Qwilleran dressed for the occasion, wearing a new paisley tie that Scottie had cajoled him into buying by burring his r's. With Kristi's bible tucked under his arm he went directly to the museum office, where Larry was punching keys on the computerized catalogue.

"How's it going, Larry?"

"Good publicity always pays off," said the president. "What's that under your arm? Are you planning to deliver a sermon?"

"It's a bible donated by the young woman at the Fugtree farm. What shall I do with it?"

"Is it the Fugtree bible, I hope?"

"No, just something her mother bought at an auction."

"Too bad. Well, write the donor's name on this card and leave the bible on the catalogue table. The registrar will take care of it."

"Any luck, Larry, in finding a successor for Iris?"

"We've had a couple of nibbles. Iris, as you know, wouldn't take a penny, but we're prepared to pay a decent salary plus the apartment, including utilities. Mitch Ogilvie has applied for the job. He likes antiques, and God knows he's enthusiastic, but he's rather young, and the young ones stay a year and then take off for greener pastures. Susan thinks Vince Boswell would be good. He used to conduct antique auctions Down Below, and he's handy with tools. He could make minor repairs that we're having to pay for now."

"In my opinion," Qwilleran said, "Mitch has the better personality for the position. Being on the desk at the hotel he's accustomed to meeting people, and I've observed how he gets along with the elderly. Boswell comes on too strong and too loud. He turns people off. Besides, the manager's apartment is hardly large enough for a family of three."

Larry glanced around the office before answering. "Actually, Verona isn't his wife. If we give him the job he'll ship her and the kid back to Pittsburgh."

"How'd he get his bad leg?"

"Polio. That happened way back before they had the vaccine. Considering he has pain, he does pretty well."

"Hmmm... Too bad," Qwilleran murmured. "But Mitch, at least, has clean fingernails."

Larry shrugged. "Well... you know... Vince is doing all that dirty work in the barn. Some of those presses are filthy with an accumulation of ink and grease."

Qwilleran filled out the donation card and then asked, "What happens out here when snow flies?"

"We keep Black Creek snowplowed, and the county takes care of Fugtree Road. No problem."

"Does anyone visit the museum in winter?"

"Definitely! We schedule busloads of students and seniors and women's clubs, and we stage special events for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine's Day, and so forth. For Halloween we have a marshmallow roast for the kids, and Mitch Ogilvie tells ghost stories. As for the snow, it makes this place really beautiful."

"Incidentally," Qwilleran said, "you should consider putting the yardlights on a timer, to turn on automatically at dusk. Also one or two interior lights for security reasons."

"Good idea," said Larry, taking a small notebook from his pocket and making an entry.

"Another matter I want to draw to your attention is the land grant signed' Abraham Lincoln' in the document exhibit.”

"That's the most valuable document we have," Larry said proudly.

"Except that it was not actually signed by Lincoln."

"You mean it's a forgery? How do you know?"

"I wouldn't suspect any felonious intent. I daresay there were thousands of certificates issued, and Secretary Seward was authorized to sign for the president. He did it with a flourish. Lincoln's signature was small and controlled, and he didn't spell out his first name."

"Glad you told me, Qwill. We'll put that information on the ID card." Out came Larry's notebook again. "The value of the document has just dropped a few thousand dollars, but thanks anyway, old pal."

At that moment Carol Lanspeak burst into the office. "Something's missing in the new exhibit, Larry," she said. "Come and see!"

She left immediately, with her husband close behind. Qwilleran followed but was intercepted every step of the way. Mildred Hanstable and Fran Brodie, chatting together like the best of friends, stopped him to comment on his paisley tie.

Mildred said to Fran, "How does he stay so svelte?"

Fran said to Mildred, "How does he stay so young?"

"I stay sober and single," Qwilleran advised them before moving on.

Susan Exbridge whispered in his ear, "Good news! Dennis Hough has made an offer on the Fitch property. He's going to open a construction business up here."

The bad news, Qwilleran thought, is that he's bringing his wife.

Next, Homer Tibbitt and Rhoda Finney approached him, and Homer said in his high-pitched voice, "Were you trying to reach me? We went down to Lockmaster to see the horse races and fix her hearing aid, and while we were there we got married so it wouldn't be a total loss."

"We've had the license for weeks, but he's a terrible stick-in-the-mud," the new Mrs. Tibbitt said, smiling fondly at the groom.

Qwilleran extended his felicitations and pressed on through the crowd, most of whom were trying to get into the crowded room featuring disasters.

Polly Duncan tugged at his sleeve and said in a half-whisper, "I have a great favor to ask, Qwill."

"I'll do anything," he said, "except cat-sit with a three-ounce kitten."

Reprovingly she said, "That's exactly what I was going to ask you to do. There's a seminar in Lockmaster, and I hoped I could leave Bootsie with you for one overnight."