The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (8 page)

"Hogwash!" said the lovely Amanda.

Qwilleran and Polly murmured a discreet good night in the parking lot of the Old Stone Mill and drove home in separate cars after an affectionate "I'll call you" and "à bientôt."

It was another one of those dark nights when cloud cover hid the moon. Unlike the reckless drive to answer Iris Cobb's cry for help, this journey was taken in a leisurely manner as Qwilleran thought about Polly Duncan and her melodious voice, her literate background, her little jealousies, and her haughty disdain for Susan Exbridge. (Susan had her hair done at Delphine's, spent money on clothes, drove an impressive car, wore real jewelry, lived in Indian Village, served on the library board of directors even though she never read a book—all things of which Polly disapproved.) It surprised him, however, that Polly accepted supernatural manifestations; he thought she had more sense.

He could see a light in the Fugtree farmhouse, and the TV was flickering in the Boswell cottage, but the museum yard was dark. What it needed was a timer to turn on lights automatically at dusk. He parked and reached for the flashlight in the glove compartment, but he had left it in the house. Turning on his headlights he found his way to the entrance, at the same time catching a glimpse of shadowy movement in one of the windows. The cats, he surmised, had been on the windowsill watching for him and had jumped down to meet him. When he opened the door, however, only Yum Yum made an appearance. Koko was elsewhere; he could be heard talking to himself in a musical monologue interspersed with yiks and yowls.

Stealthily Qwilleran stole to the rear of the apartment and observed the cat meandering about the kitchen with his nose to the floor like a bloodhound, sniffing here and there as if detecting spilled food. Mrs. Cobb's cooking habits had been casual. A handful of flung flour often missed the bowl; a vigorously stirred pot splashed; a wooden spoon dripped; a tomato squirted. Yet the floor looked clean and freshly waxed. Koko was following the memory of a scent; he was investigating something known only to himself; and he was giving a running commentary on his discoveries.

Qwilleran changed into night attire before making another attempt to hear the recording of Otello. The Siamese joined him in the parlor, but at the first crashing chords they flew out of the room and remained in hiding throughout the storm scene. At one point they thought it safe to come creeping back, but then the trumpets sounded, and they disappeared again.

Just as the triumphant Othello was making his dramatic entrance, the telephone rang. Qwilleran groaned his displeasure, turned down the volume, and took the call in the bedroom.

"Our office has been trying to reach you, Qwill," said the genial attorney who handled legal matters for the Klingenschoen Fund. "As attorneys for Mrs. Cobb we would like to suggest that you attend the reading of her will on Thursday morning."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache with momentary annoyance. "Do you have a good reason for asking me to be there?"

"I'm sure you will find it interesting. Besides the major bequests to her family, she wished to leave certain remembrances to friends. Eleven o'clock Thursday morning in my office.”

Qwilleran thanked him with little enthusiasm and went back to Otello. He had been following the libretto in English, and now he had lost his place and lost the drift of the opera. He rewound the tape and punched Play. Again the Siamese staged their absurd pantomime of wild flight and stealthy return; it was becoming a game. This time the tape unreeled as far as the opening scene of Act Two. The villainous Iago was launching into his hate-filled Credo when... the telephone rang again. Qwilleran shuffled into the bedroom once more.

A woman's voice said, "Mr. Qwilleran, your lights are on."

Lost in the mood of the opera, he hesitated. Lights? What lights? Yardlights? "My car lights!" he yelped. "Thanks. Who's calling?"

"Kristi at the Fugtree farm. I can see your place from an upstairs window."

After thanking her again Qwilleran dashed outdoors and turned off his headlights. The beam had faded to a sick yellow, and he knew the battery was down. He was right; the motor refused to turn over. Leaning back in the driver's seat he faced the facts: Country garages close at nine o'clock; It is now past midnight; The funeral is at ten-thirty in the morning; I have to pick up my suit at nine; My battery is dead.

There was only one thing to do. Disagreeable though it might be, it was the only solution to the problem.

-6-

EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING Qwilleran clenched his teeth, bit his lip, swallowed his pride, and telephoned the cottage at the top of Black Creek Lane. It was important, he realized, to strike the right tone—not too suddenly friendly, not too apologetic, yet a few degrees warmer than before, with a note of urgency to mask embarrassment.

"Mr. Boswell," he said, "this is Qwilleran. I have a serious problem."

"How can I be of service? It's a privilege and a pleasure," said the voice that knifed the eardrums.

"I neglected to turn off my headlights last night, and my car won't start. Are you, by any chance, equipped to give my battery a jump?"

"Sure thing. I'll run down there pronto."

"I hate to bother you so early, but I have to be in Pickax at nine o'clock... for funeral preliminaries."

"No problem at all."

"I'll reimburse you, of course."

"Wouldn't think of it! That's what neighbors are for-to help each other. Be there in a jiffy."

Qwilleran loathed the man's syrupy sentiments and hoped he would not be expected to repay the favor by baby-sitting some evening while they went to a movie in Pickax.

Painful though he found it, Qwilleran survived the Boswell brand of friendliness and thanked him sincerely, though not effusively. As he started his drive to Pickax it occurred to him that some small token of appreciation would be in order, since Boswell refused remuneration. A bottle of something? A box of chocolates? A potted plant? A stuffed toy for Baby? He vetoed the toy immediately; such an avuncular gesture would be misconstrued, and Baby would start hanging around, asking questions, and expecting to pet the "kitties." She might even start calling him Uncle Qwill.

As he passed the Fugtree farm he remembered he owed Kristi Waffle a debt of gratitude as well. Chocolates? A potted plant? A bottle of something? He had not even met the woman. She sounded young and spirited. Apparently she had children, but of what age? Did she have a husband? If so, why was he not cutting the grass? They were hardly well-off. The inevitable pickup truck in the driveway was ready for the graveyard. By the time he arrived at Scottie's he was still in a quandary. A fruit basket? A frozen turkey? A bottle of something?

Qwilleran picked up his dark blue suit and rushed to his apartment over the garage. Across the Park Circle the mourners were already gathering at the Old Stone Church. Traffic was detoured, the cars of the funeral procession were lining up four abreast, and the park itself was filled with curious bystanders. Dressing hurriedly he found black shoes and a white shirt and dark socks, but all his ties were red stripes or red plaid or simply red, so it was back to Scottie's for a suitable tie.

When he finally arrived at the church, properly cravatted, he observed three generations of Dingleberry morticians in charge: old Adam propped up in the narthex, his sons handling details with inconspicuous efficiency, and his grandsons marshalling the procession. Within the church the organ was groaning sonorous chords, the pews were filled, the pink flowers were banked in front of the altar, and Iris Cobb lay in a pink casket in her pink suede suit. This was what she would have wanted for her farewell to Pickax. Although she had always appeared modest, she gloried in the attention and approval of others. Qwilleran felt a surge of joy for his former landlady, his former housekeeper, his eager-to-please friend-who had achieved such status.

After the interment he attended a small luncheon in a private room at Stephanie's. Conversation was in a minor key as guests endeavored to say the right thing, dropping crumbs of comfort, sweetly sad regrets, and nostalgic reminiscences.

Dennis Hough was the first to break the pattern. He said, "I've met some good people up here. No wonder my mother was so happy! I wouldn't mind relocating in Moose County."

"It would please Iris immensely," said Susan Exbridge. "But I don't know how Cheryl will react to the idea. It's so far away from everything. How's the school system?" Carol Lanspeak spoke up. "Thanks to the K Fund, we've been able to expand our facilities, improve the curriculum, and hire more teachers."

"The K Fund?"

"That's our affectionate nickname for the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund."

Larry Lanspeak said, "The county has several industrial and commercial builders, but we need a good residential builder. I think you should consider it."

After the luncheon, when Qwilleran and Dennis were driving to North Middle Hummock, the younger man asked, "How does the K Fund operate?"

"It manages and invests the Klingenschoen fortune and disburses the income in ways that will benefit the community—grants, scholarships, low-interest business loans, and so forth."

"If I started a business up here, would I stand a chance of getting a loan?"

"I have no doubt, if you applied to the Fund and presented a good case."

"My mother told me the Klingenschoen fortune is all yours."

"I inherited it, but too much money is a burden," Qwilleran explained. "I solved the problem by turning everything over to the Fund. I let them worry about it."

"That's very generous."

"Not generous; just smart. I have all I need. I used to be quite happy living out of two suitcases and renting a furnished room. I still don't require a lot of possessions."

As they passed a hedged field Qwilleran said, "This is where a flock of blackbirds rose out of the bushes and spooked a man's horse. He was thrown and killed. The blackbirds stage guerrilla warfare against the human population at certain times of year."

"Who was the man?"

"Samson Goodwinter. It happened more than seventy-five years ago, but the natives still talk about it as if it were last week."

"My mother's letters said that all the Goodwinters met with violent deaths."

"Let me explain the Goodwinter family," said Qwilleran. "There are forty-nine of them in the latest Pickax phone book, all descended from four brothers. There are the much-admired Goodwinters, like Doctor Halifax, and the eccentric Goodwinters, like Arch Riker's friend Amanda. Another branch of the family specializes in black sheep, or so it would seem. But the unfortunate Goodwinters that your mother mentioned are all the progeny of the eldest brother, Ephraim. He jinxed his whole line of descendents."

"How did he do that?"

"He was greedy. He owned the Goodwinter Mine and the local newspaper and a couple of banks in the county, but he was too stingy to provide safety measures for the mine. The result was an explosion that killed thirty-two miners."

"How long ago did that happen?"

"In 1904. From then on, he was violently hated. To thirty-odd families and their relatives he was the devil incarnate. He tried to make amends by donating a public library, but his victims' families wouldn't forgive. They threw rocks at his house and tried to bum down his barn. His sons and the hired man took turns standing guard with shotguns after dark."

"What did he look like? Do you know?"

"The museum has his portrait—a sour-looking villain with side whiskers and hollow cheeks and a turned-down mouth." They were now driving through the hilly terrain known as the Hummocks. "Around the next bend," Qwilleran pointed out, "you'll see a grotesque tree on a hill. It's called the Hanging Tree. It's where they found Ephraim Goodwinter dangling from a rope on October 30, 1904."

"What happened?"

"His family maintained it was suicide, but the rumor was circulated via the Pickax grapevine that he was lynched."

"Was there ever any proof, one way or the other?"

"Well, the family produced a suicide note," Qwilleran said, "so there was no investigation, and no charges were brought. And if the lynching story is true, it's curious that no one ever squealed on the vigilantes and there were no deathbed confessions. Today there's a fraternal order called the Noble Sons of the Noose. They're supposed to be direct descendents of the lynch mob."

"What do they do? Have you ever met one of them?"

"No one knows who belongs to the order; not even their wives know. The mayor of Pickax might be a Noble Son. Or the Dingleberry boys. Or Larry Lanspeak. It's a secret that has been handed down for three or four generations, and—believe me!—it's not easy to keep a secret in Moose County. They have a gossip network that makes satellite communication look like the pony express. Of course, they don't call it gossip. It's shared information."

"Fantastic!" said Dennis with wonder in his face. "This is interesting country!"

When they reached Black Creek Lane Qwilleran drove slowly to let his passenger enjoy the beauty of the foliage and the approach to the quaint farmhouse. A rusty van was leaving the barnyard as they arrived.

"Brace yourself," said Qwilleran. "Here comes the loudmouth who livened things up at the funeral home last night."

The van stopped, and Vince Boswell leaned out. "Sorry I couldn't get to the funeral," he said. "I'm trying to finish work on the presses before snow flies. How many cars went to the cemetery?"

"I didn't count them," Qwilleran snapped, and then—remembering Boswell's assistance in getting his car started—he amended his curt reply in a more cordial tone. "There was a marching band, very impressive. The church was filled."

"Must've been quite a sight. I wish I could've been there to say goodbye to the lady." He peered at Dennis. "I don't believe I've been formally introduced to your friend."

Qwilleran made the introductions briefly.

Boswell said, "Coming to pick up some of your mother's things, I suppose. She had a cookbook that my wife would like to have if you don't want it—just as a remembrance, you know. She's always looking for new things to cook. If you two gentlemen would like to come and have supper with us tonight, you'd be very welcome. It won't be fancy, but it'll be home-cooked."