The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (3 page)

"It's H-o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff."

"Are you catching the five o'clock shuttle out of Minneapolis?”

"That's right... and Mr. Qwilleran, there's something I want to tell you when I arrive, something that was happening to my mother in the last week or so. It had to do with the museum. She was greatly disturbed."

Qwilleran touched his moustache tentatively. "I certainly want to hear about it."

"Thanks for everything, Mr. Q. Isn't that what Mother always called you?"

"Most people call me Qwill. You do the same, Dennis."

As he slowly hung up the phone, questions about Iris Cobb's mental state raced through his mind. It had to be the medication!

"What's the decision?" Larry asked.

"The arrangements are all up to us. Funeral and burial here. Her son will arrive this evening. I'll have the Klingenschoen Fund cover expenses, and I want everything done right.”

"I agree. We'll use the Dingleberry funeral home and have the service at the Old Stone Church."

"Would you be good enough to make a couple of phone calls while I rustle up some instant coffee?" Qwilleran asked. "We should line up Dingleberry and inform the hospital. If they need to know the next of kin, it's Dennis H-o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff. Then I'll call WPKX and the night desk at the paper. They can run a bulletin on page one, and I'll write an obituary for Tuesday."

Larry said, "Tell them the museum will be closed for the entire week."

They sat at the dining table in the kitchen, pushing aside the pink candles in milk-glass holders and swigging coffee from majolica mugs as they worked out the details: friends invited to call at Dingleberry's Tuesday evening, final rites to be held at the church on Park Circle Wednesday morning, the Pickax Funeral Band to lead the procession of cars to the cemetery. As past president of the chamber of commerce Larry was sure that all places of business would close on the morning of the funeral. As current president of the board of education he would ask that schools also close for half a day.

"Grades K to twelve have all made field trips to the museum," he said, "and Iris always had cookies and lemonade for the kids."

For a century or more, funerals had been events of moment in Pickax. The townspeople always turned out en masse to pay their respects and count the number of vehicles in the procession. These statistics became a matter of record, to be memorized and quoted: ninety-three cars for Senior Goodwinter's funeral the year before; seventy-five when Captain Fugtree was buried. Most spectacular of all was Ephraim Goodwinter's funeral in 1904; fifty-two buggies, thirty-seven carriages, more than a hundred mourners on foot, and seventeen on bicycles. "Everything but camels and elephants," one irreverent bystander was heard to remark on that occasion. Ephraim, owner of the Goodwinter Mine, was intensely disliked, and his funeral procession resembled a march of triumph, but that was a long story, veiled in hearsay and prejudice—one that Qwilleran hoped eventually to research.

Next came the question of flowers or no flowers. "I'm sure Iris would like flowers," he said. "There's a certain sentimentality in floral tributes, and our friend was a sentimental soul."

"And how about eulogies? Iris was modest to a fault."

"Yes, but she craved approval. When she first came to Pickax I introduced her at a city council meeting, and the audience applauded as a matter of courtesy. Iris was so touched by the applause that she went home and cried. So I vote for eulogies."

"Good! We'll line up the mayor and the president of the county commissioners. Or should we have a woman give one of the eulogies? Susan, perhaps. Or Carol."

"Knowing Iris, I'd say the eulogies should be given by men."

"Maybe you're right. We'll ask Susan to pick out the casket and something for Iris to wear." Larry leaned back in his chair. "Well, I believe that's all we can do tonight. I have Columbus Day specials at the store tomorrow—I mean, today—and if I rush home now I can snatch about three hours of sleep.”

Qwilleran said, "I'd like to mention one thing: Iris complained of hearing peculiar noises after dark. Did you ever hear anything unusual?"

"Can't say that I did. I've been here many times at a late hour when we were setting up exhibits, and all I ever heard was crickets and frogs and maybe a loon."

"When I arrived tonight, Larry, the whole place was in darkness. I thought it was a power failure, but when I tried the wall switches, everything worked. How do you explain that?"

"I don't know," said Larry, obviously tired and impatient to leave. "When we found out her eyesight was getting bad, we told Iris not to try to conserve electricity, but she had thrifty habits. I'll get you some keys from the office."

He went through the doorway to the museum and soon returned, holding up two keys. "This one is for the front door of the apartment, and this one is for the barn. You might want to put your car in the barn in bad weather. There's a good supply of wood for the fireplaces, too."

"Which barn?"

"The new steel barn. The old barn is full of printing presses."

"How about this door to the museum? Does it lock?"

"No, we've never bothered to install a lock, and Iris always left it open except whet) she was cooking."

"I'll keep it closed," Qwilleran said, "because of the cats. I don't want them prowling around the museum."

"Do whatever you wish, Qwill. I don't know how to thank you for coming to our rescue. I hope you'll be comfortable. Let me know how it works out."

The two men walked to their cars and drove up Black Creek Lane, Larry in the long station wagon that signified a moneyed country estate, and Qwilleran in his economy-model compact. He drove back to Pickax at a normal speed, thinking:

Someone turned off the lights—switch by switch, room by room, indoors and out.

Someone turned off the microwave oven. Someone closed the door between the kitchen and the museum.

-3-

IT WAS ALMOST dawn when Qwilleran arrived at his apartment in Pickax. The city was eerily silent. Soon alarm clocks would jolt the populace awake, and the seven o'clock siren on the roof of the city hall would rout late sleepers out of bed. They would turn on their radios and hear about the death of Iris Cobb, whereupon the Pickax grapevine would go into operation, relaying the shocking news via telephone lines, across back fences, and over coffee cups at Lois's Luncheonette near the courthouse.

Qwilleran labored wearily up the steep narrow stairs to his rooms over the Klingenschoen garage. Waiting for him at the top of the flight were two disgruntled Siamese—Yum Yum giving him her reproachful look and Koko giving him a piece of his mind. With glaring eyes, switching tail and stiff-legged stance he delivered a single high-intensity syllable, "YOW!" that said it all: Where have you been? The lights were on all night! Nobody fed us! You left the window open!

"Quiet!" Qwilleran protested. "You sound like Vince Boswell. And don't weary me with petty complaints. I have news that will turn your ears inside out. We've lost Mrs. Cobb! No more homemade meatloaf for you two reprobates!"

He shooed them into their own apartment—a room with soft carpet, cushions, baskets, and TV—and then fell into bed. He slept through the seven o'clock wailing of the siren, and he slept through the first blast of the pneumatic drill on Main Street, where the city was digging up the pavement again.

At eight o'clock he was jerked back to consciousness by a phone call from Arch Riker, his lifelong friend, now publisher of the local newspaper.

Without greeting or apology Riker blurted, "Did you hear the newscast, Qwill? Iris Cobb was found dead at her apartment last night!"

"I know," Qwilleran replied, grumpy and hoarse. "I was the one who found the body, called the police, notified next of kin, planned the funeral, phoned the news to the radio station and your news desk, 1!nd got home at five o'clock this morning. Got any more hot breaking news?"

"Go back to sleep, you old grouch," said Riker.

At eight-thirty Polly Duncan called. "Qwill, are you up? Did you hear the distressing news about Iris Cobb?"

Qwilleran controlled his umbrage and gave her a gentler version of his tirade to Arch Riker. Then in the next half hour he was called by Fran Brodie, his former interior designer; Mr. O'Dell, his janitor; and Eddington Smith, who sold secondhand books, all of them taking seriously their commitment to the Pickax grapevine.

In exasperation he rolled out of bed, pressed the button on his computerized coffeemaker, and opened a can of red salmon for the Siamese. As he gulped the first welcome swallows of the hot beverage he watched them eat—bodies close to the floor, tails horizontal, heads snapping sideways.

After that, they performed a primitive ritual with wide-open jaws and long pink tongues, followed by a laving of mask and ears with moistened paws, all painstakingly choreographed. And this mundane chore was done with elegance and grace by a pair of fawn-furred, brown-pointed, blue-eyed objects of living art. Qwilleran had discovered that watching the Siamese was therapeutic, relieving fatigue, frustration, irritability, and restlessness—a prescription less drug with no adverse side effects.

"Okay, you guys," he said, "I have more news for you. We're moving to the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum." It was his policy to communicate with them in straightforward terms. As if they understood what he said, they both scooted from the room; they abhorred a change of address.

Qwilleran loaded his car with writing materials, an unabridged dictionary, two suitcases of clothing for the nippy weather ahead, his portable stereo, a few cassettes including Otello, and the turkey roaster that served as the cats' commode. Then he produced the wicker hamper in which they were accustomed to travel.

"Let's go!" he called out. "Where are you rascals?" Eighteen pounds of solid cat-flesh had suddenly evaporated. "Come on! Let's not play games!" Eventually, crawling on hands and knees, he found Yum Yum under the bed and Koko in the farthest comer of the clothes closet, hiding behind a pair of running shoes.

Limp and silent they allowed him to drop them into the hamper, but they were hatching a countertactic. As soon as he headed the car for North Middle Hummock they began their program of organized squabbling and hissing. Their lunges at each other rocked the hamper, and their snarls suggested bloody mayhem.

"If you heathens will shut up," Qwilleran yelled, "I'll give you a running commentary on this trip. We are now headed north on Pickax Road and approaching the defunct Goodwinter Mine. As you may recall, it was the scene of a disastrous explosion in 1904."

There was a momentary lull in the backseat racket. The cats liked the sound of his voice. It had a resonance that soothed the savage breasts under that pale silky fur.

He continued in the style of a tour director. "Coming up on the right is the Dimsdale Diner, famous for bad food and worse coffee. Windows haven't been cleaned since the Hoover administration. Here is where we turn onto lttibittiwassee Road."

His passengers were quietly contented now. The sun was shining; the sky was an October blue with billowing white clouds tinged with silver; the woods were aflame with autumn color. The journey was far different from the game of blind-man's buff that Qwilleran had played the night before.

"Hold on to your teeth," he said. "We are about to cross the Old Plank Bridge. Next we'll be rounding some sharp curves. On the left is the infamous Hanging Tree."

After that came the ghost town that had once been North Middle Hummock... then the white rail fence of the Fugtree farm... and finally the sign carved on barnwood:

GOODWINTER FARMHOUSE MUSEUM

1869 Open Friday through Sunday

1 to 4 P.M. or by appointment

Black Creek Lane was lined with trees in a riot of gold, wine red, salmon pink, and orange—living reminders of the ancient hardwood forests that had covered Moose County before the lumbermen came. At the end of the vista was the venerable farmhouse.

"We're here!" Qwilleran announced. He carried the hamper into the west wing of the rambling building. "You'll have two fireplaces and wide windowsills with a view of assorted wildlife. That's something you don't get in downtown Pickax." The Siamese emerged from the hamper cautiously, and then made straight for the kitchen, Yum Yum to the place where she had caught a mouse four months before and Koko to the exact spot where Mrs. Cobb had collapsed. He arched his back, bushed his tail, and pranced in a macabre dance.

Qwilleran shooed them out of the kitchen, and they proceeded to explore methodically, sniffing the rugs, leaping to tabletops with the lightness of feathers, testing the seats of chairs for softness and congenial contour, checking the view from the windowsills, and examining the bathroom, where their commode had been placed. In the parlor Koko recognized a large pine wardrobe—a Pennsylvania German Schrank—that had come from the Klingenschoen mansion. It was seven feet high, and he could sail to the top of it in a single calculated leap. On the bookshelves he found only a few paperbacks, most of the space devoted to displaying antique bric-a-brac. Chairs were covered in dark velvet, the better to show cat hairs, and the polished wood floors were scattered with antique Orientals, good for pouncing and skidding.

While the Siamese inspected the premises, Qwilleran brought in the luggage. The writing materials he piled on the dining table in the kitchen. The stereo equipment he placed on an Austrian dower chest in the parlor. His clothing was a problem, however, since the bedroom was filled with Mrs. Cobb's personal belongings. Worse still, in his opinion, was the bedroom furniture: chests and tables with cold marble tops, a platform rocker too dainty in scale, and an enormous headboard of dark wood, intricately designed and reaching almost to the ceiling. It looked as if it might weigh a ton, and he had visions of the thing toppling on I him as he lay in bed.

"Tonight will be the test," he said to the prowling Siamese. "Either this old house emits weird noises after dark, or they were all in the poor woman's head. But I doubt whether we'll ever solve the mystery of the darkened house and yard. How many lights were on before she collapsed? There would be light in the kitchen where she was warming milk, perhaps in the bedroom where she was packing a bag, certainly in the yard because she was expecting me. And obviously the microwave had been in use."