Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"Do you ever find any loose shutters banging in the wind? Any loose shingles on the side of the house?"

"Nothing's been reported, and if it's not broken, we don't fix it."

"Did you know the plaster is cracked in the basement under the west wing?"

Homer dismissed the matter with an angular wave of the hand. "You mean the magpie nest? That's a repository for junk donated to the museum: broken furniture, rusty tools, moldy books, cracked crockery, stained slop jars and potties. "

"The poppies were beautiful this year," Rhoda interrupted. "Too bad they don't have a longer blooming season."

"I said potties - not poppies!" Homer shouted in his reedy treble. "Chamber pots! Thunder mugs! The things they put under beds!"

Rhoda turned to Qwilleran and explained sweetly, "The garden club maintains our flower beds. Don't you think the rust and gold mums are lovely? We haven't had any frost yet."

"I give up!" said Homer, throwing up his bony hands. "She's a sweet woman, but she'll be the death of me!" With disjointed movements of arms and legs he stomped from the room.

Rhoda asked with a radiant smile, "Was he giving his lecture on old barns again?"

"No, he was giving his lecture on ghosts!" Qwilleran replied loudly.

"Oh... yes," she said as she hung the feather duster on a hook behind the door. "They have quite a few at the Fugtree farm, you know."

Qwilleran bowed out quickly, shouting that the phone was ringing in the west wing.

It was Roger MacGillivray, reporter for the Moose County Something, who was calling. "Qwill, I got the info on Iris Cobb's will," he said, "but there's one thing that isn't clear. What is this cookbook she left you?"

Qwilleran, who was adept at extemporaneous prevarication, said, "That is her personal collection of recipes that she wished to have published posthumously." He spoke with the deliberation of one who is authorized to make a statement for publication. "The Klingenschoen Fund will underwrite the printing costs, and proceeds will go to the Iris Cobb Memorial Scholarship. For home economics studies," he added as an afterthought.

"Great!" said Roger. "That wraps it up. Thanks a lot."

Qwilleran dashed off his column for Friday's paper and phoned it in to the copydesk. It was late, therefore, when he started thinking about dinner, but he found one of his favorite dishes in the freezer - lamb shank cooked with lentils - and he thawed a hearty portion in the microwave. It was a large piece of meat, and before sitting down to eat, he sliced off a generous chunk for the Siamese, dicing it and putting it on their plate under the telephone table. Yum Yum attacked it with enthusiasm, but Koko was virtually glued to the kitchen windowsill, staring at the darkness outside.

"We've had enough of this ridiculous performance, young man!" Qwilleran said. "We'll find out what's bugging you!" With flashlight in hand he stormed out of the building, beaming the light around the exterior, in shadowy places not illuminated by the yardlights. He saw nothing unusual, nothing moving. A slight tremor on his upper lip made him wonder, What are cats seeing when they're gazing into space? Koko had left the windowsill, and Qwilleran was ready to give up the search when the flashlight beam picked out some depressions in the ground under the kitchen window. They looked like footprints. That rules out disembodied spirits, he told himself. It could have been some kid from Chipmunk... a juvenile Peeping Tom... a window washer from the county jail.

He hurried indoors and looked up Homer Tibbitt's phone number. He wanted to know when the windows had last been washed.

The maintenance chairman lived at October House, a residence for seniors, and the operator said, "I'm sorry, but I can't ring Mr. Tibbitt at this hour. He retires at seven-thirty. Do you wish to leave a message?"

"Just tell him Jim Qwilleran called. I'll try again tomorrow morning."

Both cats seemed to have enjoyed their portion of lamb; they were washing their masks, whiskers, and ears with satisfaction. Qwilleran popped his own dinner plate into the microwave for another shot of heat and immediately pulled it out again, staring at it in disbelief. All that remained on his plate was a mess of lentils and a shank bone, gnawed clean.

-8-

AS QWILLERAN PREPARED breakfast for the Siamese on Friday morning his mind was still on the footprints outside the kitchen window. If the window washers had been there since last weekend, the footprints could be theirs. If not, the tell-tale depressions had doubtlessly been left in the soft soil Sunday night, when Iris Cobb was making her last phone call. It had rained earlier that evening; since then the weather had been dry.

He placed the plate of tenderloin tips on the floor under the telephone table and once again called October House.

"Mr. Tibbitt," said the operator, "is not available. Would you care to leave a message?"

"This is Jim Qwilleran."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Qwilleran. You called last night."

"Will Mr. Tibbitt return soon?"