Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

Many a time Qwilleran had been enlisted to notify a victim's next of kin, and he did it with sensitivity. His voice had a richness of timbre and a sympathetic gentleness that gave the impression of genuine feeling.

"Dennis?" he said in a sober monotone. "Sorry to wake you at this hour. I'm Jim Qwilleran, a friend of your mother, calling from North Middle Hummock."

The young man was immediately alarmed. "What's wrong?" he demanded. His gulp was audible.

"I received a phone call from Iris after midnight. She was afraid to stay at the farm alone, so I offered to drive her to a friend's house..."

"What's happened? Tell me what's happened!"

"I found her on the kitchen floor. No doubt she'd had a heart attack. It pains me to bring you this news, Dennis."

Her son groaned. "Oh, God! I was flying up there to see her tomorrow - I mean, today. Her doctor suggested it."

"Her going is a great loss. She made many friends here and won over the entire community."

"I know. She told me in her letters how happy she was. For the first time in her life she felt as if she really belonged."

"That brings up the matter of funeral arrangements, Dennis. What should we do! It's your decision, although the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund would consider it a privilege to cover all expenses. Had Iris ever expressed her wishes?"

"Gosh, no," said her son. "She was too busy living! I don't know what to say. This is so totally unexpected. I've got to think about it-talk it over with Cheryl."

"Call me back, here at the farmhouse, soon as possible. The hospital is waiting for instructions."

Returning the receiver to the cradle Qwilleran noticed the shelf of paperback cookbooks on the wall - a sad substitute for the three-dozen hardbound cookbooks she had lost in a disastrous fire. Other shelves displayed antique pewter plates, porringers, and tankards; the overhead beams were hung with copper pots and baskets; around the fireplace were wrought-iron utensils used in the days of open-hearth cooking. It was a warm and friendly place. Mrs. Cobb loved her kitchen.

Absently he browsed through her phone book, where the listings were written with bold-tip pen in large block letters, a sign of her failing eyesight. The book contained the numbers of museum volunteers for the most part... also someone named Kristi... and Vince and Verona, whoever they were... and Dr. Halifax. Both his home and office numbers were listed. In Pickax one could call the doctor at home in the middle of the night. HB&B obviously was the law firm of Hasselrich, Bennett and Barter. No doubt they had handled her inheritance and drawn up her will. Mrs. Cobb had realized a sizable estate from her third husband, although she chose not to use his name.

As he waited Qwilleran wandered about the apartment, looking for clues to the final minutes of her life. In the open luggage on her bed were a pink robe and pink slippers. The milk carton was still on the kitchen counter, and he put it in the refrigerator. There was a mug of milk in the microwave; the oven had been turned off, but the milk was warm. He poured it down the drain and rinsed the mug. The door leading from the kitchen into the main part of the museum was unlocked, and he was browsing through the exhibit rooms when the phone rang. He was pleased that Dennis would call back so soon. The voice he heard, however, was that of a woman.

"This is Kristi at the Fugtree farm," she said. "Is Iris all right? I saw a police car and ambulance going down the lane."

"I regret to say," he announced solemnly, "that Mrs. Cobb has had a fatal attack."

"Oh, no! I'm so sorry. I knew she was seeing Doctor Hal, but I didn't know it was so serious. Is this Mr. Lanspeak?"

"No, just a friend from Pickax."

"How did it happen?" She sounded young and breathless.

"The details will be in tomorrow's paper, I believe."

"Oh... Well, I'm very sorry. I really am! I was sitting up with my sick kids and I saw the flashing lights, so I just had to call."

"That's all right."

"Well, thank you. What's your name?"

"Jim Qwilleran," he mumbled.

Most women would have reacted with an excited "Ooooooh," as they realized they were talking to an eligible and very wealthy bachelor, but this young woman merely said, "My name is Kristi Waffle."

"It was good of you to call. Good night."

He heard a car pulling into the farmyard and went to meet Larry Lanspeak. Despite the man's elevated standing in the community he was unprepossessing. Ordinary height, ordinary coloring, and ordinary features gave him an anonymity that enabled him to slip into many different roles for the Theatre Club.

"What a tragedy!" he said, shaking his head and speaking in the well-modulated tones of an actor. He walked into the apartment with the deliberate and elongated stride of a man who wishes he were taller. "No one will ever appreciate how much that woman has done for our community! And she wouldn't take a penny for it! We'll never find another manager to equal - "

He was interrupted by the telephone bell.