Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"Speaking of ghosts," Qwilleran said, "has there ever been a rumor that the Goodwinter farmhouse is haunted?"

Belligerently Amanda said, "If it isn't, it should be! Three generations died violent deaths, starting with that old tightwad Ephraim, and they all deserved it!"

Her escort rebuked her with quiet amusement. "You're speaking of your blood relatives, Amanda."

"That's not my branch of the family tree. We're crazy but Ephraim's branch has always been rich and mean."

"Quiet, Amanda. People are staring at you."

"Let them stare!" She glowered at surrounding tables.

Still protesting, Riker said, "Our managing editor is a direct descendent of Ephraim, and he's neither rich nor mean. Junior is poor and likable."

"He's only a kid," Amanda growled. "Give him time! He'll turn out rotten like all the rest."

Winking at Qwilleran and gently changing the subject, Riker asked, "Does anyone at this table believe in ghosts?"

"They're hallucinations caused by drugs, delirium, and other physical and mental disorders," Qwilleran said.

"But they've been around for thousands of years," said Polly. "Read the Bible, Cicero, Plutarch, Dickens, Poe!"

Riker said, "When our kids were young we took a vacation in a rented cabin in the mountains. Our dog went with us, of course. He was a big fearless boxer, but every night that animal would grovel on the cabin floor, whining and cringing like a coward. I never saw anything like it! Later we found out that a former tenant had been murdered by a tramp."

"I have a tale to relate, too," said Polly. "I was traveling in Europe when my mother died. I didn't even know she was ill, but one night I woke up and saw her standing by my bed as clear as could be in her gray coat with two silver buttons."

"Did she speak?" Riker asked.

"No, but I sat up in bed and said, 'Mother! What are you doing here?' Immediately she vanished. The next morning I learned she had died several hours before I saw her image."

Qwilleran said, "That's known as a delayed crisis apparition, a kind of telepathy caused by intense emotional concentration."

"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 "… bient“t."

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 an- other 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.