Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"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.