The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (10 page)

It was curry again—and hot enough to send him catapulting out of his chair after the first forkful. "Wow!" he said.

"Hot?" Polly inquired.

"Like Hades! What happened?"

"I learned how to mix my own curry powder—fourteen spices, including four kinds of pepper. Would you like some ice water?”

Every few minutes Polly peeked into the bedroom to check the kitten. Asleep or awake? In or out of the basket? Happy or unhappy? Qwilleran could hardly believe that an intelligent, sophisticated, middle-aged woman with an executive position in a public library could be reduced overnight to a blithering fool.

For dessert she served a welcome dish of sherbet and suggested having coffee in the living room. "Would you like Bootsie to join us?" she asked coyly.

  "No," he said firmly. "I have a serious matter to discuss with you."

"Really?" She said it with a distracted glance at the bedroom door, having heard a squeak, and he knew he would have to drop a bomb to galvanize her attention.

"It's my theory," he said, "that Iris Cobb's death was a case of murder."

-7-

WHEN POLLY HEARD the word "murder," she was aghast. In Moose County homicide was traditionally considered the exclusive property of the cities Down Below. "What leads you to that conclusion, Qwill?"

"Observation, speculation, cerebration," he replied, smoothing his moustache slyly. "At the Old Stone Mill last night, you may remember, I asked if the Goodwinter farmhouse has the reputation of being haunted. I wasn't simply making conversation. Prior to her death Iris complained about noises in the walls—knocking, moaning, and even screaming. In her last letter to her son she was almost deranged by her fears, hinting that there were evil spirits in the house. Then, just before she died, she saw something outside the kitchen window that terrified her."

"How do you know?"

"She was talking to me on the phone at the time. Shortly after, I arrived and found her dead on the kitchen floor. Strangely, all the lights were turned off, inside and outside the house. A heart attack, the coroner said, but I saw the look of terror on her face, and I say it was not a heart attack pure and simple. She was frightened to death, purposely or accidentally, by something outside the window. It could be the same something that turned off the lights, either before or after she collapsed."

Polly gasped and forgot to look at the bedroom door. "Are you implying—a phantom? You've always scoffed at such things."

"I'm simply saying I don 't know. Something is going on that I don't understand. Koko spends hours gazing out the very window where Iris saw the frightening vision."

"What is the view from that window?"

“After dark, nothing, unless cats can see things that we don't. In the daytime there's only the barnyard and the old barn beyond. The birds have gone south, it appears, and the squirrels are all up on Fugtree Road, raiding the oak trees. Yet something rivets Koko's attention. He also prowls the kitchen floor, sniffing and mumbling to himself."

"Have you heard any of the noises that disturbed Iris?"

"Not as yet. There's a light fixture that flashes on and off mysteriously, but that's the only spooky occurrence."

Polly said, "I've heard stories about Ephraim's ghost but considered them nonsense. This is a terrible development, Qwill! Why should it happen to that dear woman?"

"There's a possibility that her medication made her susceptible to certain influences in the house that would not disturb anyone else—or even Iris if her health had been normal."

"Should anything be done about it?"

"I don't see how we can act without more evidence," Qwilleran said. "Give me time. After all, it happened only three days ago."

Polly's brow was creased in puzzlement and concern. Not once had she mentioned Bootsie nor glanced in the direction of the bedroom door. With an agreeable feeling of satisfaction Qwilleran made excuses for leaving early.

Driving home to North Middle Hummock he did some serious thinking about Polly and the way she fussed over that kitten. He himself admired and respected his cats—and God knows he indulged them—but he was not sentimental, he told himself. Polly's fatuous prattle was entirely out of character for a sensible woman. Reviewing the course of their friendship he recalled that it was her intelligence that first attracted him. On certain subjects she was quite erudite. After getting off to a slow start, because of her inherent reserve, their relationship had blossomed. Then, with familiarity she became possessive and slightly officious and sometimes jealous. All of this he could understand, and he could handle it, but her gushing over the kitten was more than he could stomach. There would be no more relaxing country weekends at Polly's cottage with just the two of them—reading Shakespeare aloud and playing music—not while Bootsie diffused her attention. Bootsie! It was a vile name for a Siamese, Qwilleran insisted. Considering her passion for Shakespeare, why didn't she name him Puck?

The reading of Iris Cobb's will took place in the office of Hasselrich, Bennett and Barter on Thursday morning in the presence of Dennis Hough, Larry Lanspeak, Susan Exbridge, and Qwilleran, who attended reluctantly. The senior partner was noted for his affability and buoyant optimism. He was the kind of attorney, Qwilleran had once said, who made it a pleasure to be sued, or divorced, or found guilty—an elderly, balding man with quivering jowls and a slight stoop.

When all were assembled Hasselrich remarked, "I well remember the day Iris Cobb Hackpole came to me to draft her last will and testament. This was three months before her health started to decline. There was nothing morbid about the occasion. She was happy in the knowledge that her possessions would go to those she loved and respected, and to causes she embraced."

He opened cabinet doors behind his desk, rolled out a video screen and touched a remote control. There on the screen was Iris Cobb in her pink suede suit and rhinestone-studded eyeglasses. She was smiling. Her round face was glowing. A hush fell on the viewers.

From the speaker came the cheerful voice: "I, Iris Cobb Hackpole, a single woman of Pickax City in Moose County, being of sound mind and memory but mindful of the uncertainties of life, do hereby declare this instrument to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking any and all wills made by me at any time heretofore."

Swift looks passed between the listeners as she went on to bequeath her extensive financial holdings to her son and his family. To Susan Exbridge she left her share of the assets of Exbridge & Cobb. She wished the Historical Society to liquidate her antique collection, her car, and her personal belongings, the proceeds to benefit the museum. Excluded were only two items: She wished James Qwilleran to have the Pennsylvania German Schrank—for reasons he would understand—and her personal recipe book.

The image on the screen faded, and there was a moment of silence followed by appropriate exclamations and some murmured platitudes from Hasselrich.

Susan said to Qwilleran, "I'll make a deal. You give me the cookbook, and you can have Exbridge and Cobb." To Dennis she said, "Now you can move up here and take over the Fitch property."

"I like the idea," he said, and Qwilleran observed a meaningful stare lingering between them.

When a clerk appeared with a silver tray, Hasselrich himself poured coffee and passed the cups, pointing out proudly that they were his maternal grandmother's Wedgwood.

Larry said to Qwilleran, "I didn't know you were a cook."

"I know as much about cooking as I do about black holes in the universe," he replied, "but Iris had a sly sense of humor. The joke is that no one can read her handwriting. As for the Schrank, I'm glad she left me that and not the General Grant bed."

"How's everything at the farmhouse?"

"I'm learning to live with pink sheets and pink towels, but there is one problem. The closets and dressers are filled with Iris's clothing. With my shirts and pants and sweaters draped over chairs and doorknobs, I wake up at night and think I'm surrounded by spectres."

"Just move her things out of your way, Qwill," said Larry. "You'll find some empty cartons in the basement. Our donation committee will take it from there."

"Another thing, Larry. Either we have gremlins or we have faulty wiring in the hall light fixture. It should be investigated by an electrician."

"I'll alert Homer. He'll get a repairman out there right away.” Larry went to the attorney's desk and used the phone. Quick decisions and immediate action were his trademark.

Qwilleran had a second cup of coffee, congratulated the heir, and offered him a ride to the airport.

"Thanks, Qwill, but I've decided to stay over until Sunday," said Dennis. "The formal opening of Exbridge and Cobb was scheduled for Saturday, and Susan is going ahead as planned."

Susan said, "The invitations went into the mail last week, Qwill, and I know Iris wouldn't want us to cancel. She'll be with us in spirit, but I feel it's appropriate to have Dennis represent her in the flesh."

Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought. "People may think the shop is going to limp along on one leg without Iris," she went on, speaking with animation, "but Dennis's presence will give the venture some stability, don't you think? It's terribly kind of him to offer to stay a few more days."

Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought. She was looking unusually happy; her dramatic gestures were more expansive than ever, and Dennis glanced at her too often.

Before leaving, Qwilleran asked Hasselrich if he proposed to notify the newspaper about the terms of the will.

"It has never been our policy to do so," said the attorney.

"In this case you should reconsider. The Hackpole money is news, and Iris was a V.I.P.," Qwilleran argued. "If you don't make an official statement, the Pickax grapevine will start distorting the facts."

“I'll have to cogitate about that," said Hasselrich. Qwilleran left him cogitating and drove to the office of the Moose County Something, where he found the publisher in his richly decorated office.

"Arch, I never noticed this before," said Qwilleran, "but your walls are Dingleberry green."

"That's where I'll end up—at Dingleberry's—so I'm getting used to it a little at a time. What's on your mind? You look purposeful."

"The Cobb-Hackpole bequests have been announced. You ought to send Roger to the attorney's office to get the story.”

"Who are the beneficiaries?"

"Her family, her business partner, the Historical Society, and—to a lesser extent—myself."

"You? What do you need? You own half the county already."

"She left me the seven-foot wardrobe that I gave her for a wedding present. Koko always enjoyed sitting on top of it."

"Let Koko sit on a stepladder. That's a Pennsylvania German Schrank and worth a small fortune," said Riker, who knew something about antiques. He touched the intercom button and barked, "Iris Cobb's will has been read. Qwill tipped us off. Get someone over to HB and B."

Qwilleran said, "She also left me a looseleaf notebook containing all her personal recipes, but you don't need to mention that in the story."

"I thought you were opposed to censorship," said Riker. "I see it as a provocative headline: MILLIONAIRE WIDOW BEQUEATHS COOKBOOK TO BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR. That has all kinds of interesting implications."

The intercom buzzer sounded, and a voice squawked, "Is Qwill there? Ask if he has any copy for us. We've used up his backlog."

"Did you hear that?" Riker asked. "Has the Qwill Pen run dry?"

"Straight from the Qwill Pen" was the name of the column that Qwilleran had agreed to write for the Something. "It's like this," he explained to Riker. "I planned some interviews, but Iris's death has kept me off the beat for a few days."

"That's okay. Just give us a quick think-piece for tomorrow," Riker said. "Remember Mrs. Fisheye."

Driving back to North Middle Hummock Qwilleran did his quick thinking. Both he and Riker remembered their high school English teacher who regularly assigned the class to write a thousand words on such subjects as the weather, or breakfast, or the color green. Fisheye was not her name, but it was her misfortune to have large, round, pale, watery eyes. As a student Qwilleran had done his share of groaning and protesting, but now he could write a thousand words on any subject at a moment's notice.

Surveying the landscape as he drove out on Ittibittiwassee Road and through the Hummocks he decided on his topic: fences! Moose County was crisscrossed with picket fences, hand-split snake fences, barbed wire, four-bar corral, even root fences, each delivering its own message ranging from Welcome to Keep Out. In the fashionable Hummocks there were low stone walls by the mile as well as six-foot grapestake stockades around swimming pools. In the blighted town of Chipmunk there was a fence constructed of old bedsprings. Qwilleran was prepared—if those observations added up to fewer than a thousand words—to quote Robert Frost, allude to Cole Porter, and trace "fence" to its Latin root. He might even dedicate the column to Mrs. Fisheye.

As he drove past the Fugtree farm he noticed that their white fence needed a coat of paint, and he regretted that he had not adequately thanked the woman who had notified him about his headlights. He would like to buy her a paint job for the fence, but such largess might give the wrong impression. Perhaps, he decided, he should simply write a note of thanks.

Turning into Black Creek Lane he spotted two vehicles parked in the museum yard. One was a conservative dark blue four-door, about ten years old. The other was a van from Pickax Power Problems, Inc. The electrician was preparing to leave, and Homer Tibbitt was accepting his bill.

"Get the lights fixed?" Qwilleran called out to them.

"Nothin' wrong but loose lightbulbs," said the electrician. "If you get a lotta vibration it can shake the bulbs loose—make 'em flickr on and off—'specially them flame types. Screw 'em in tight—no problem."

"What could cause vibration?" Qwilleran asked.

"Who knows? Furnace, pump, appliances-any blame thing that's off-balance. Well, so long! Call me again when you gotta soft job like this."