Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"I'm learning to live with pink sheets and pink towels, but there is one problem. The closets and dressers are filled with Iris's clothing. With my shirts and pants and sweaters draped over chairs and doorknobs, I wake up at night and think I'm surrounded by spectres."

"Just move her things out of your way, Qwill," said Larry. "You'll find some empty cartons in the basement. Our donation committee will take it from there."

"Another thing, Larry. Either we have gremlins or we have faulty wiring in the hall light fixture. It should be investigated by an electrician."

"I'll alert Homer. He'll get a repairman out there right away." Larry went to the attorney's desk and used the phone. Quick decisions and immediate action were his trademark.

Qwilleran had a second cup of coffee, congratulated the heir, and offered him a ride to the airport.

"Thanks, Qwill, but I've decided to stay over until Sunday," said Dennis. "The formal opening of Exbridge and Cobb was scheduled for Saturday, and Susan is going ahead as planned."

Susan said, "The invitations went into the mail last week, Qwill, and I know Iris wouldn't want us to cancel. She'll be with us in spirit, but I feel it's appropriate to have Dennis represent her in the flesh."

Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought. "People may think the shop is going to limp along on one leg without Iris," she went on, speaking with animation, "but Dennis's presence will give the venture some stability, don't you think? It's terribly kind of him to offer to stay a few more days."

Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought. She was looking unusually happy; her dramatic gestures were more expansive than ever, and Dennis glanced at her too often.

Before leaving, Qwilleran asked Hasselrich if he proposed to notify the newspaper about the terms of the will.

"It has never been our policy to do so," said the attorney.

"In this case you should reconsider. The Hackpole money is news, and Iris was a V.I.P.," Qwilleran argued. "If you don't make an official statement, the Pickax grapevine will start distorting the facts."

"I'll have to cogitate about that," said Hasselrich. Qwilleran left him cogitating and drove to the office of the Moose County Something, where he found the publisher in his richly decorated office.

"Arch, I never noticed this before," said Qwilleran, "but your walls are Dingleberry green."

"That's where I'll end up - at Dingleberry's - so I'm getting used to it a little at a time. What's on your mind? You look purposeful."

"The Cobb-Hackpole bequests have been announced. You ought to send Roger to the attorney's office to get the story."

"Who are the beneficiaries?"

"Her family, her business partner, the Historical Society, and - to a lesser extent - myself."

"You? What do you need? You own half the county already."

"She left me the seven-foot wardrobe that I gave her for a wedding present. Koko always enjoyed sitting on top of it."

"Let Koko sit on a stepladder. That's a Pennsylvania German Schrank and worth a small fortune," said Riker, who knew something about antiques. He touched the intercom button and barked, "Iris Cobb's will has been read. Qwill tipped us off. Get someone over to HB and B."

Qwilleran said, "She also left me a looseleaf notebook containing all her personal recipes, but you don't need to mention that in the story."

"I thought you were opposed to censorship," said Riker. "I see it as a provocative headline: MILLIONAIRE WIDOW BEQUEATHS COOKBOOK TO BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR. That has all kinds of interesting implications."

The intercom buzzer sounded, and a voice squawked, "Is Qwill there? Ask if he has any copy for us. We've used up his backlog."

"Did you hear that?" Riker asked. "Has the Qwill Pen run dry?"

"Straight from the Qwill Pen" was the name of the column that Qwilleran had agreed to write for the Something. "It's like this," he explained to Riker. "I planned some interviews, but Iris's death has kept me off the beat for a few days."

"That's okay. Just give us a quick think-piece for tomorrow," Riker said. "Remember Mrs. Fisheye."

Driving back to North Middle Hummock Qwilleran did his quick thinking. Both he and Riker remembered their high school English teacher who regularly assigned the class to write a thousand words on such subjects as the weather, or breakfast, or the color green. Fisheye was not her name, but it was her misfortune to have large, round, pale, watery eyes. As a student Qwilleran had done his share of groaning and protesting, but now he could write a thousand words on any subject at a moment's notice.