Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

At that moment a doll-size figure came trudging toward the ramp, wearing doll-size blue jeans and a wisp of a red sweater. She carried a green plastic pail in one hand and a yellow plastic spade in the other. She was followed by an anxious mother, running and calling in a small voice, "Baby! Baby! Come back here!"

Vince looked at them and stiffened. "Can't you control that kid?" he demanded. "Get her out of here. It isn't safe."

Verona scooped the child into her arms, the pail and spade flying in opposite directions.

"My pail! My shovel!" Baby screamed. Qwilleran gathered them up and handed them to her.

"Say thank you," Verona murmured.

"Thank you," said Baby automatically. As they retreated up the lane she looked back toward the barn with longing. There was something disturbingly adult about her, Qwilleran thought, and she was so unhealthily thin.

With a shrug Boswell said, "I'll show you what I've found here, if you're interested." He pointed to a contraption with fancy legs. "That's a Washington toggle press, 1827. I've found old typecases, composing sticks, a primitive cylinder press, woodblocks - all kinds of surprises. I open a crate and never know what I'll find." He picked up a crowbar and wrenched the top off a wooden box. It was packed with straw. "Looks like a hand-operated papercutter."

"I'm vastly impressed," said Qwilleran as he edged toward the door.

"Wait up!" Boswell said in piercing tones. "You haven't seen the half of it yet."

"I must confess," said Qwilleran, "that I'm not greatly interested in mechanical equipment, and some of those presses look diabolical." He nodded toward something that seemed half sewing machine and half guillotine.

"That's a treadle press," said the expert. "And this one's an Albion. And that one's a Columbian. When the counterpoise lever moves, the eagle goes up and down." The Columbian was a cast-iron monster embellished with eagle, serpents, and dolphins.

"Amazing," said Qwilleran in a minor key. "You must tell me more about this fascinating subject some other time." He consulted his watch and headed for the ramp.

"Would you care to have a bowl of soup with the wife and me?"

"Thank you for the invitation, but I'm expecting an important phone call."

Boswell picked up a walkie-talkie from the top of a crate. "Coming home to lunch, Verona," he said. "How about some tomato soup and a hot dog?"

The two of them closed the big doors, latching them with the crude hook and eye, and walked down the grassy ramp. Then Boswell drove away in his rusty van and Qwilleran strolled back to the house, grateful to escape the stilletto-voiced expert with the textbook patter. Why did he need a walkie-talkie? Why didn't he simply stand on the ramp and yell? How could the delicate Verona endure that deafening delivery? It irked him that she and Baby were expendable, that they could be shipped back to Pittsburgh like unwanted merchandise if Vince was named Mrs. Cobb's successor. That he should even presume to follow in her footsteps was obscene, Qwilleran told himself.

As he opened the door to the west wing, a furry blur whizzed past his ankles and flew off the steps. With a roar Qwilleran made a flying tackle, grabbing the cat's slippery body in both hands. They landed in a pile of leaves.

"Oh no, you don't, young man!" Qwilleran scolded as he carried him back into the house. "Where do you think you're going? To the Jellicle Ball with the bamcats? Or are, you interested in printing presses?"

As he spoke the words he dropped the cat on the floor, and Koko made a surprised four-point landing. As for Qwilleran, the idea that flashed across his mind at that moment made his moustache curl.

Exactly what, he asked himself, is in those unpacked crates? Printing presses? Or something else...

-13-

QWILLERAN'S NEW-FOUND suspicions regarding the printing presses were relegated to the back burner as he faced the exigencies of the day. There was a long telephone conversation with the CEO of the K Fund and then a follow-up call to Kristi at the Fugtree farm.

"Nothing to report," she said wearily. "The police keep dropping in. They've put up road blocks around the county, expecting Brent to make a getaway in a stolen car, but no car thefts have been reported. Where's your car? I looked for it with the binoculars, and it wasn't in the yard. I was just going to phone you."

"It's locked up in the steel barn, but I appreciate your concern."

"The board of health is here again, and the men who do dead stock removal. It's too painful to watch. I can't bear to see them hauling away my beautiful Black Tulip and my sweet little Geranium."

"It's a terrible thing," Qwilleran said, "but you must put it behind you and think about your next step."