Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"I'm not in Pickax, Scottie. I'm living at the Goodwinter farmhouse. Can you keep him there for half an hour? Bribe the guy!"

"Weel, he's a stubborrrrn Scot, but I'll do my best." Qwilleran made a dash for his razor, slapped on the lather, and cut himself. Just as he was stanching the blood and muttering under his breath, the brass door knocker clanged.

"Damn that Boswell!" he said aloud. He was sure it was the bothersome Boswell; who else would call at such an hour?

In his short shavecoat and with half a faceful of lather, he strode to the entrance hall and yanked open the door. There on the doorstep stood a startled woman holding a plate of biscuits. She covered her face with one hand in embarrassment. "Oh, you're shavin'! Pardon me, Mr. Qwilleran," she said in a soft southern drawl. Each lilting statement ended with emphasis on the last word and an implied question mark. "I'm your neighbor, Verona Boswell? I brought you some fresh biscuits... for your breakfast? " It was a refreshing sound in Moose County, 400 miles north of North, but Qwilleran had no time for refreshment.

"Thank you. Thank you very much," he said briskly, accepting the plate.

"I just wanted to say... welcome?"

"That's kind of you." He tried not to be curt. On the other hand, the lather was drying on his face and Scottie's tailor was pacing the floor.

"Let us know if there's any thin' we can... do for you?"

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"I hope we can get better acquainted after the... funeral?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Boswell." He had stepped back and was beginning to close the door.

"Oh, please call me... Verona? You'll see us around a lot."

"I'm sure I shall, but I must ask you to excuse me now. I'm leaving for Pickax on urgent business."

"Then I won't hold you up. We'll probably see you tonight at the... visitation?" Reluctantly she backed away, saying, "My little girl would love to meet your kitties."

Qwilleran finished dressing with clenched jaw. He had always lived in cities, where one could ignore neighbors and be completely ignored in return. The smothering neighborliness of the Boswells, he feared, might be a problem - not to mention "Baby" who wanted to meet the "kitties." Was that really her name? Baby Boswell! Qwilleran disliked the child even before setting eyes on her. He was sure she would be one of those insufferable tots - cute, vain, and precocious. Like W. C. Fields he had never developed a liking I for small children.

As for Verona Boswell, she was not unattractive, and her gentle voice was a welcome contrast to her husband's shrillness. Verona was somewhat younger than Vince, but she had lost her freshness - probably, Qwilleran decided, from listening to his whining harangue. Whatever their neighborly virtues, he determined to see as little as possible of the Boswells.

Driving to Pickax in a huff he was stopped for speeding, but the state trooper looked at his driver's license and the distinctive moustache and merely issued a warning. At the men's store Scottie was waiting with a selection of dark blue suits, while a tailor with a tape measure around his neck stood nervously in the background.

"I don't want to pay too much," Qwilleran said, scanning the pricetags.

"Spoken like a true Mackintosh," said the storekeeper, nodding his shaggy gray head. "That clan always had deep pockets and shorrrt arrrms. Perhaps you'd like to rent a suit if it's only for a funeral."

Qwilleran scowled at him. "On the other hand, mon, a darrrk suit is handy to have in the closet in case you suddenly want to get married."

Qwilleran made a selection reluctantly, considering all the suits overpriced.

As the tailor checked the fit, hoisting here and tugging there, Scottie said, "So you're stayin' at the Goodwinter farmhouse, are you? Have you seen a dead man sittin' on a keg of gold coins?"

"So far I've been denied that pleasure," Qwilleran replied. "Is he supposed to be a regular visitor?"

"Old Ephraim Goodwinter was a miser, you know, and they say he still comes back to count his money. How do you want to pay for this suit? Cash? Credit card? Ten dollars a week?"

From the men's store Qwilleran drove to the Pickax industrial park, where the Moose County Something occupied a new building. Designed to house editorial and business offices as well as a modem printing plant, the building was a costly project made possible by an interest-free loan from the Klingenschoen Fund. The daily masthead on page four listed the following:

ARCH RIKER, editor and publisher

JUNIOR GOODWINTER, managing editor

WILLIAM ALLEN, general manager

Qwilleran first walked into the managing editor's office, which was dominated by a large, old-fashioned rolltop desk that dwarfed the young man sitting in front of it. The desk had belonged to his great-grandfather, the miserly Ephraim.