Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

I'm having so much fun at the museum. The other day I thought it would be nice if we displayed a long-handled bedwarmer in one of our exhibit bedrooms, and I remembered that someone had donated a bed-warmer in poor condition. I looked it up on the computer. (The Klingenschoen Fund paid to have our catalogue computerized. Isn't that nice?) Sure. enough, it said the brass pan was dented and the handle was loose but it was worthy of restoration. So I went downstairs to look for it.

The basement is a catchall for damaged stuff, and I was poking around, looking for the bedwarmer, when I heard a mysterious (did I spell that right?) knocking sound in the wall. I said to myself - Oh, goody! We've got a ghost! I listened and decided which wall it was coming from, and then I picked up an old wooden potato masher that was lying around and went rat-tat-tat on the wall myself After that there was no more knocking. If it was a ghost, I guess I frightened it away.

I wish you could come for the shop's grand opening. It's going to be very gala. Susan's arranging for champagne punch and flowers and everything.

Love from Mother

Qwilleran thought, Gold and rust mums, no doubt. He turned to the next letter, dated September 30, and discovered a drastic change of mood. Mrs. Cobb wrote:

Dear Dennis and Cheryl,

I'm terribly upset. I just got my report from Dr. Hal and everything is wrong!! Heart, blood, cholesterol, everything! I've been crying too hard to talk, or I would have phoned. If I don't go on a strict diet and do certain exercises and take medication, I'll need surgery!! It was a horrible shock. Never thought this would happen to me. I felt so good! Now I feel positively suicidal. Did I spell it right? Forgive me for unloading my troubles on you. Can't write any more tonight.

Mother

Poor Iris, Qwilleran thought. His mother had experienced the same panic when her doctor handed her a sentence of death. He picked up the next letter, pleased to find her in a better frame of mind. It was written five days later.

Dear Kids,

Your phone call cheered me up no end. I should have gone down there when you first invited me, but now I have to stay here for the grand opening. In the daytime I feel okay, but at night I get very nervous and depressed, mostly because of the wierd (did I spell that right?) noises. I told you about the knocking in the basement. Now I hear it all the time - moaning and rattling too. Sometimes I think it's all in my head, and then I get really worried and that awful tightness in my chest.

I've always said an old house reflects the people who've lived in it, like something gets into the wood and plaster. It sounds crazy, I know, but bad things have always happened to the Goodwinters - suicide, fatal accidents, murder. I can feel it in the atmosphere of the house, and it's making me very uncomfortable. Is it my imagination? Or is it evil spirits?

.I've been so concerned about my own troubles that. I forgot to ask about little Denny. Did you find out what caused his rash?

Love from Mom and Grandmom

The last letter was not dated, but Dennis had received it on Saturday, the day before his mother died.

Dear Dennis,

I don't know how much longer I can stand it - the noises, I mean. The volunteers don't hear anything. I'm the only one that hears it. I told Dr. Hal, and he took me off medication for a few days, but it doesn't make any difference. I still hear the noises, but only when I'm alone. I hate to tell Larry. He'll think I'm crazy. The museum's open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and there'll be people around. I'm going to wait until Monday, and if it isn't any better, I'm going to resign.

Mother

P.S. Now I don't hear it any more.

Dennis, receiving the letter on Saturday, called Dr. Halifax and bought a plane ticket for Monday. On Sunday night she died, her face contorted with pain - or what? She was frightened to death, Qwilleran decided. By what? Or by whom?

After reading the last letter he was in no hurry to go to bed with that monstrous headboard towering over him. He considered sleeping on the sofa, but first he had to conduct an experiment. It was his intention to sit up until midnight with lamps and chandeliers alight in every room and with the stereo blasting at full volume. Then, precisely at midnight, he would turn everything off and sit in the dark, listening.

For Phase One of this strategy he marched through the apartment, flipping on light switches and activating lamps. In the entrance hall only two candles responded. The night before, it had been four. An hour ago it was three. He huffed into his moustache, having little patience with electrical equipment that failed to do its duty, and he was in no mood to go hunting for spare lightbulbs.