Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"Well, the family produced a suicide note," Qwilleran said, "so there was no investigation, and no charges were brought. And if the lynching story is true, it's curious that no one ever squealed on the vigilantes and there were no deathbed confessions. Today there's a fraternal order called the Noble Sons of the Noose. They're supposed to be direct descendents of the lynch mob."

"What do they do? Have you ever met one of them?"

"No one knows who belongs to the order; not even their wives know. The mayor of Pickax might be a Noble Son. Or the Dingleberry boys. Or Larry Lanspeak. It's a secret that has been handed down for three or four generations, and - believe me! - it's not easy to keep a secret in Moose County. They have a gossip network that makes satellite communication look like the pony express. Of course, they don't call it gossip. It's shared information."

"Fantastic!" said Dennis with wonder in his face. "This is interesting country!"

When they reached Black Creek Lane Qwilleran drove slowly to let his passenger enjoy the beauty of the foliage and the approach to the quaint farmhouse. A rusty van was leaving the barnyard as they arrived.

"Brace yourself," said Qwilleran. "Here comes the loudmouth who livened things up at the funeral home last night."

The van stopped, and Vince Boswell leaned out. "Sorry I couldn't get to the funeral," he said. "I'm trying to finish work on the presses before snow flies. How many cars went to the cemetery?"

"I didn't count them," Qwilleran snapped, and then - remembering Boswell's assistance in getting his car started - he amended his curt reply in a more cordial tone. "There was a marching band, very impressive. The church was filled."

"Must've been quite a sight. I wish I could've been there to say goodbye to the lady." He peered at Dennis. "I don't believe I've been formally introduced to your friend."

Qwilleran made the introductions briefly.

Boswell said, "Coming to pick up some of your mother's things, I suppose. She had a cookbook that my wife would like to have if you don't want it - just as a remembrance, you know. She's always looking for new things to cook. If you two gentlemen would like to come and have supper with us tonight, you'd be very welcome. It won't be fancy, but it'll be home-cooked."

"That's kind of you," said Qwilleran, "but Mr. Hough's time is limited. He simply wants to see the farmhouse."

"Be glad to show you the printing presses in the barn, sir."

"Not this time, thanks."

"Well, let me know if I can be of any assistance," said Boswell.

As the van drove away, Dennis said, "Do you think he's a Noble Son of the Noose?"

"He's a son of something," said Qwilleran, "but he bailed me out of a tight situation this morning, and I should be grateful. Maybe that's why he was hinting for your mother's cookbook."

"At the funeral home last night he asked Larry for my mother's job as resident manager. Sort of premature, don't you think?"

"Vince Boswell isn't noted for his finesse." First they walked around the grounds, Qwilleran pointing out the features of the house. The original section was built of square logs measuring fourteen by fourteen inches, chinked with mortar made of clay, straw, and hog's blood. The east and west wings were added later, and the whole structure was covered with cedar shingles, now weathered to a silvery gray.

Dennis showed no sentiment when they entered his mother's apartment. He strolled about with his hands in his pockets, commenting on the wide floorboards, the extravagant use of milled woodwork, and the six-over-six windows, many of the panes having the original wavy glass. He said nothing about the General Grant bed or the Pennsylvania Schrank or the pewter collection in the kitchen - all considered rare treasures by Iris Cobb.

When they entered the kitchen, Koko rose from his huddle on the windowsill, stretched his long body in a hairpin curve, and made a flying leap to the top of the freezer-chest, six feet away.

"Too early for dinner," Qwilleran told him.

"Is that Koko?" Dennis asked. "My mother told me about him. She said he's very smart."

Koko was now on the floor, tracing abstract patterns with his nose, moving his head from right to left, covering the entire room systematically.

"This is his bloodhound act," Qwilleran explained. As the cat neared the telephone he became excited, hopped to the seat of the old school desk and sniffed the desktop with moist snorts.

"What's in that desk?" Dennis asked.

Qwilleran lifted the lid. "Papers," he said. There were scribbled notes in Iris Cobb's illegible hand, newspaper clippings, index cards, a magnifying glass, and a battered looseleaf notebook, its black covers now gray with waterspots and flour and hard use.

Dennis said, "That looks like her personal cookbook. She told me it was the only thing she saved from the fire last year. That's because it was in her luggage at the time. She was taking it on her honeymoon, if you can believe that."