Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"There's nothing anyone can do," she sighed. "Just don't run the column. The poisoning will be in the paper tomorrow. One of the reporters called me."

"Phone me, Kristi, if any trouble develops, no matte what it is."

"Thank you, Qwill. Good night."

Qwilleran turned off the stereo. He had heard enough tragedy for one night.

Early Monday morning his telephone began to ring, as the grapevine went into operation. Mildred Hanstable, Polly Duncan, Larry Lanspeak and others called to say, "Did you hear the newscast this morning?... Do you know what happened to your neighbor?... Isn't that the woman you were going to interview?... The board of health has removed all goat products from the market... They think it was poison."

It was a rude start to another busy day. Even before he had prepared his first cup of coffee Qwilleran saw Mr. an Mrs. Tibbitt drive up in their ponderous old car, followed closely by Al's Fix-All truck. That was the accepted system in Moose County; workmen always arrived six hours late or before breakfast. Qwilleran greeted them moodily.

"I'm going to do a little dusting," Rhoda announced.

"I'm going to have a cup of coffee," said Homer.

"Will you join me?" Qwilleran asked, waving a coffee mug.

"No, thanks. I'll mix a cup of my own blend in the office." Homer patted his hip pocket and maneuvered his angular limbs briskly in the direction of the office.

Great guy! Qwilleran thought. He gulped a roll and coffee while the locksmith worked on the door and then joined Tibbitt in the museum office.

"Someone swiped my feather duster," Rhoda complained.

"I did!" said her husband. "I threw it in the trash. You can use a dustrag like everyone else. Spray it with that stuff that's supposed to pick up dust."

"Once a principal, always a principal," she explained to Qwilleran. "He likes to be boss." She took a duster from the cleaning closet and left the office, flicking it temperamentally at chairs and filing cabinets as she passed.

Qwilleran said to Homer, "Someone once told me there's no such thing as a locksmith in Moose County because there are no locks. So who's the guy working on my door?"

"A locksmith would starve to death in these parts," said Homer, "but this fellow fixes refrigerators, phonographs, typewriters - anything. Why do you want a lock between you and the museum? Has old Ephraim been bothering you? A door won't stop him, you know. Not even a stone wall."

"I don't worry about dead prowlers," Qwilleran said. "I worry about the live ones."

"Halloween's coming, and you can expect pranksters. When I was a young lad we used to spook houses around Halloween, especially if it was someone we hated, like a strict teacher or the town skinflint."

"How do you spook a house? That wasn't in our bag of tricks in Chicago, where I grew up."

"As I recall," said the old man, "you stick a big nail or something under a loose board on the outside of a house, with a long string attached. Then you pull the line taut and run a stick over it like bowing a violin. It reverberates all through the house. Screaming in the attic! Moaning in the walls! I doubt whether it would work with the aluminum siding and plywood they use nowadays. They're eliminating all life's little pleasures. Everything's synthetic, even our food."

"One of life's little pleasures, I gather, was carving initials on school desks," said Qwilleran. "Mrs. Cobb's telephone stand is an old desk with the initials H. T. carved on the top. Would you know anything about that?"

"In the lower righthand comer? That's my desk!" Homer exulted. "It came from the old Black Creek School. The teacher gave me what-for with a cane for carving that little masterpiece. If I'd been smart I would have carved someone else's initials. Adam Dingleberry had that desk before I did - he was four years ahead of me - and he carved the initials of the preacher's son. He had a madcap sense of humor. Still does! Got expelled from school for playing practical jokes. No one gave him credit for originality and creativity. Are there any other initials on the desk?"

"Quite a few. I remember B.O. I suppose those letters didn't have any significance in those days."

"That's Mitch's grandfather, Bruce Ogilvie. He came after me. He won all the spelling bees with his eyes closed - couldn't spell with 'em open."

Qwilleran said, "In this north country it seems that lives are interwoven. It gives the community a rich texture. Life in the cities Down Below is a tangle of loose threads."

"You should write a 'Qwill Pen' column about that," Homer suggested.

"I think I shall. Speaking of the 'Qwill Pen,' Rhoda tells me you know something about old barns."

"Yes, indeed! That's another tradition that's disappearing. They build steel things that look like factory warehouses. You can't convince me that the cattle are happy in those contraptions! But there's still a good barn on this property." He crooked an arm toward the north window. "It'll still be standing long after the steel barns have blown away."