The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (23 page)

"Shut up, you idiot!"

Qwilleran reached behind his back, first over his shoulders and then around his midriff. The former approach netted him a handful of ears; the latter, only a wisp of a tail. He pulled gently on the tail. "Ow-w-w-w! Damnit!"

Hearing the commotion, the Siamese ventured down from the top of the Schrank and yowled outside the kitchen door. "And you shut up, too!" he bellowed at them.

Stay calm, he told himself and tried sitting quietly on the edge of a chair. It worked, to a degree. Bootsie stopped squealing and gouging but made no attempt to disengage his claws. He was content to spend the night, suspended like a papoose.

After five minutes of inactivity Qwilleran reached the end of his patience. As Lori said, fright causes flight. He jumped to his feet, roaring the useful curse he had learned in North Africa, flapping his arms and galloping about the kitchen like a witch doctor. The curse ended in a prolonged howl of pain as Bigfoot gripped Qwilleran's back for the wild ride.

It was after midnight. In desperation he telephoned the Boswells' number. When he heard Verona's gentle hello, he shouted, "Let me talk to Vince! I'm in bad trouble! This is Qwilleran."

"Oh, dear! Vince hasn't come home," said the soft voice with an overtone of alarm. "Is there any thin' I can do?"

"I've got a cat on my back—with his claws hooked into my sweater! I need someone to pry him loose... Ow-w-w-w!"

"Oh, gracious! I'll come right away." He walked slowly to the front door, trying not to upset Bigfoot, and turned on the yardlights. In a matter of minutes that seemed like hours Verona appeared, running and clutching a flashlight. A heavy jacket was thrown over her shabby bathrobe.

Opening the door in slow motion, he warned her, "Don't make any sudden movement. See if you can grasp him about the middle and raise him gently to unhook the claws. Try releasing one paw at a time."

Verona did as she was told, but when one paw was freed, another clutched with renewed determination.

"I'm afraid it's not workin'. May I make a suggestion?" she asked in her deferential way. "We could take your sweater off over your head? If I roll it up in the back, we should get the kitten and all."

"Okay. Take it easy. Don't alarm him."

"Oh, he's a nice kitty. He's such a nice kitty," Verona cooed as she rolled the sweater over the little animal and then over Qwilleran's head. "Oh, gracious!" she said.

"Your shirt is all bloody?"

He ripped it off.

"And your back is a mess of bloody scratches? Do you have an antiseptic?"

"There's something in the bathroom, I think."

Leaving Bigfoot rolled cozily in the sweater, they trooped to the bathroom and found a liquid which Verona applied liberally to the scratches while Qwilleran winced and grunted.

"Does it smart? We don't want to get an infection, do we? There now, put on somethin' so you don't take a chill?" Her voice was music to his ears.

"I don't know how to thank you, Mrs. Boswell," he said as he put on a fresh shirt. "I was reluctant to bother you at this late hour, but my only other recourse was the volunteer fire department in North Kennebeck."

"No bother. No bother at all. Do you have any more scratches that need antiseptic?"

"Oh... I don't think so," Qwilleran said. "Where's Vince?"

"Stayin' in Lockmaster a bit longer. He didn't finish at the library?"

He looked down at the pathetic little woman with her hair uncombed, her black eye turning yellow, her ridiculous garb—khaki jacket, faded bathrobe, old sneakers. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"I should go home," she said. "I left Baby sleepin' and she might wake up... but... do you have any milk?"

"Milk? I'm afraid not. I'm not a milk drinker. Mrs. Cobb left a carton but it turned sour and I threw it out."

"I've run out of milk for Baby? I thought Vince was comin' home and could do some shoppin'?"

"There's a package of that powdered stuff here. Could you use that?"

"Oh, I'd appreciate it so much?"

"If Vince isn't home tomorrow morning, I'll pick up some groceries for you. Make a list of what you need."

Verona redded with embarrassment. "He didn't leave me any money."

"That's unforgivable! Let's see what we can find here."

Taking a shopping bag from the broom closet he filled it with cheesebread, blueberry muffins, banana-nut bread, vegetable soup, tuna casserole, chili, and – reluctantly—his favorite dish, macaroni and cheese. "I'll drive you home," he said, picking up a jacket and feeling for his keys.

It was a short ride, hardly more than two city blocks.

After a brief silence Verona said, "I saw your big kitties? They're beautiful! I'd love for Baby to see them someday."

"All right," he said. "Bring her over on Thursday afternoon. And thanks again, Mrs. Boswell, for coming to my rescue."

“Call me Verona," she said as she climbed out of the car. He waited until she was in the house and then drove away, asking himself how a nice woman like Verona could get mixed up with a cad like Boswell.

Back at the apartment Bigfoot was still rolled up in the sweater, and when Qwilleran unrolled him the kitten remained in deep slumber with an angelic look on his smudge-nosed face. He was purring in his sleep.

-18-

BIGFOOT AND THE Siamese were socializing politely when Qwilleran rode away on his bicycle Wednesday morning, headed for West Middle Hummock. As he passed the Fugtree farm he wondered when the police would return to question him about his Monday evening visitors.

Brent Waffle was killed before eight o'clock, according to the medical report. Kristi and Mitch arrived via the Willoway promptly at eight. They might have encountered Waffle on the trail, argued violently, bashed him with a flashlight—or two flashlights—and left his body on the bank of the stream. Perhaps they remembered the Buddy Yarrow case on the lttibittiwassee River, when the coroner ruled that Buddy slipped and hit his head on a rock. Then, after midnight, Mitch would drive down one of the access roads to the Willoway and remove the body to the public highway, a site farther removed from the Fugtree property. The rumbling that Qwilleran had heard at a late hour could have been Mitch's truck on the gravel road.

If this scenario were true, he reflected, the amateur murderers had been remarkably cool during the evening. And if it were true, why would the body-left on the Willoway during the torrential rain—be covered with dried blood when found by the road crew? More likely, Waffle had been killed indoors. Perhaps the guy had returned to the scene of his crime and was hiding in one of the vacant goat barns, perhaps eyeing Kristi as his next victim. Perhaps the bucks—Attila, Napoleon and Rasputin—had created a disturbance and alerted her. Then she and Mitch went to investigate, and it was two against one.

Qwilleran hoped his speculations were wrong. They were good kids, with promising lives ahead of them. It was the mesmerizing effect of pedaling his bike that produced such fantasies, he told himself.

At a country store in West Middle Hummock he bought apples, oranges, and milk and dropped them off at the Boswell cottage. Verona, still in a bathrobe, was tearfully grateful.

"Where's Vince?" he asked.

She shrugged and shook her head sadly. "Call me if any problem arises."

Baby, clutching her mother's bathrobe, said, "I'm going to see the kitties tomorrow."

When Qwilleran arrived at the museum the yard was filled with cars: the Tibbitts' old four-door, Larry's long station wagon, and Susan's gas-guzzler (part of her divorce settlement) among others. It appeared that the board of governors was in session, no doubt deciding on a new manager.

Qwilleran changed quickly from his thermal jumpsuit, counted the noses of three sleeping bundles of fur, and joined the group in the museum. The meeting had not yet been called to order. Some of the officers and committee heads were milling about the exhibit area; others were having coffee in the office.

"Join us, Qwill!" Larry called out. "Have a doughnut!"

"First, a word with you, Larry." Qwilleran beckoned him out of the office and conducted him to the apartment."

I want you to see something I've discovered."

"What is it?"

"Something that belonged to your great-grandmother."

"Which one? I had four. So did you, as a matter of fact."

"Mine didn't write family secrets on the flyleaves of their bibles," Qwilleran retorted. "Have a chair."

They sat at the big table, and Qwilleran picked up the large, leather-bound, gold-tooled book. "This rare artifact was sold at a Bid-a-Bit auction to Mrs. Fugtree, whose daughter presented it to the museum. It was identified as the Bosworth Bible, because the first name recorded on the flyleaf was Luther Bosworth, who died in 1904."

"Let me see that!" Larry held out his hand.

"Not so fast! From studying the inscriptions I deduce that Luther's widow, Lucy, kept the family records in the bible. She apparently died around 1958, because there are no entries beyond that date, and Mrs. Fugtree made her purchase in 1959."

"You've been a busy boy," said Larry, "but what's the point?"

"The point is that, according to Lucy, you and Susan and Vince Boswell are second cousins, but of course you know that; everyone in Moose County is a genealogy nut."

"I believe there is some sort of relationship," Larry said evasively. "Ow-w-w-w! What's that?" He was shaking his leg.

"Sorry. That's Bigfoot. I'll lock him up. He's Polly's cat." Qwilleran put Bootsie in the broom closet.

"Okay, Sherlock, what else did you discover?" Larry asked. "You look smug."

"I learned some facts about your store. Your great-grandmother bought the Pickax General Store in 1904, shortly after Luther died. She paid cash for it. Soon after, she married Karl what's-his-name and changed the store name to Lanspeak's Dry Goods. It would make a newsy column for the 'Qwill Pen.' I'm sure you could fill in the details.”

Good actor though he was, Larry could not keep his face from flushing nor his forehead from perspiring. "Let me see that thing!"

Qwilleran clutched the bible possessively. "One more thing, Larry, and then I won't delay you any longer. You and Susan have been pushing Vince Boswell—or Bosworth, as the case may be—for Iris's job, but are you sure he projects the image you want for the museum? Even though he's your relative he lacks a suitable personality and lacks class, to put it bluntly, and there may be other marks against him if my hunches checkout." He smoothed his moustache in a significant gesture. "If the board is meeting today to discuss the matter, it might be wise to postpone your decision.”

"What are you trying to say, Qwill? What's the big mystery?"

"Vince has gone to Lockmaster, leaving Verona without transportation, without money, and even without milk for the child. He left Monday, and there's no telling when he'll return. Does he play the horses? The race season just opened in Lockmaster."

"I don't know about that."

"Obviously the man has little sense of responsibility. Is that the kind of manager you want? By the way, why did he change his name from Bosworth?"

"To tell the truth, I never asked him," said Larry. "Was Luther Bosworth a miner? Was he a victim of the May thirteenth explosion?"

"No, he was sort of a handyman—a caretaker on the Goodwinter farm. All I know is what my great-uncle Benjamin said. Ephraim thought very highly of Luther."

"But you're not descended from Luther; your great-grandfather was Karl."

"Correct."

"Karl was a handsome man."

"How do you know?"

"Read your family bible, and you'll find out." Qwilleran presented it to Larry with a flourish, unaware of some clattering and thumping in the broom closet.

"Now let me ask you a question," Larry said. "According to the paper, the murder victim was Kristi Fugtree's ex-husband. Everyone says he's the one who poisoned her goats. She's now seeing a lot of Mitch Ogilvie. Do you think Mitch had anything to do with it?"

"Not very likely. He and Kristi were here Monday night, drinking cider and discussing the restoration of the Fugtree mansion as a historic place."

"I hope to God he's not involved," said Larry. "Now I've got to go back to the office and start the meeting."

"One more question, if you don't mind, Larry. What do you know about sandboxes for kids?"

“People around here make them with two-by-fours and get free sand on Sandpit Road. Why do you ask?"

"We have a budding archaeologist at the Boswell cottage with no place to dig."

Out came the reliable notebook. "The yard crew can rig something up. There might be some two-by-fours in the steel barn. I'll take care of it."

As he left there was a minor explosion in the broom closet, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. Qwilleran yanked open the door. Bootsie was sitting on the shelf with the light bulbs, purring.

Polly Duncan returned earlier than expected to pick up the kitten. "When the meeting ended, I didn't stay to socialize," she explained. "I was lonesome for my little sweetheart. Was he a good boy?"

"No problem. I have a few scars, and the value of the Cobb glass collection is down a few hundred dollars, and the Siamese will never be the same, but... no problem."

Polly paid no atten.tion. "Where is he? I can hardly wait to see him. Where is he?" Both she and Qwilleran searched the apartment, checking all the warm places and soft places. They found Koko and Yum Yum on the blue velvet wing chair but not a hair of the kitten. Qwilleran could tell by Polly's terrified expression that she thought the Siamese had eaten Bigfoot.

"Here he is!" he called from the bathroom, just in time to save Polly from nervous collapse.

Bootsie was in the turkey roaster that served as a commode for the Siamese, sound asleep in the gravel.

Polly seized him. "Bootsie darling! What are you doing there? Were you lonesome? Did you miss me? Kiss-kiss... Did he use his litterbox, Qwill?"

"He seemed to prefer the turkey roaster."

"I hope he wasn't too frightened to eat."

"No, he ate very well, let me assure you. Did you run into Vince Boswell down there? He's supposed to be doing research at the library."