Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

A further check showed that Luther married in 1898. His bride, Lucy, was only seventeen. Six years later she was widowed and left with four small children. What did single parents do in those days? Send their children to an orphanage? Take in washing?

"I think Lucy is the one who kept these records," Qwilleran said to Koko. "Damnit! Why didn't she state exact dates? And how did she get this expensive bible?"

"Yow!" said Koko, ambiguously.

"Okay, let's see if we can figure out what happened to Lucy's four kids." The flyleaf provided the following information: One son died in 1918. "France" was the notation, making him a World War I casualty.

A daughter died in 1919. "Influenza." A cross-reference in the Picayune revealed that seventy-three residents of Moose County died in that post-war epidemic, including two doctors who' 'worked until they dropped."

Two children, Benjamin and Margaret, survived to carry on the family lineage, but only Benjamin could carry on the family name. Qwilleran traced his line first, and what he found had him pounding the table with the excitement of discovery. Benjamin Bosworth had three children. One of them, named Henry, died in 1945. "Navy-drowned at sea" was his grandmother's notation. Henry's widow moved to Pittsburgh in 1956, taking her son. The boy had suffered an accident in 1955, and the Picayune file elucidated in its usual terse style: "A farmhand employed by the Trevelyan Orchard fired a shotgun to deter youths from robbing the apple trees Wednesday night, resulting in three scared boys and one broken leg. Vincent Bosworth fell from a tree and sustained a compound fracture."

In obvious glee Qwilleran pounded the table and said, "Well, Koko, what do you deduce from that?"

The cat shuffled his feet self-consciously and made no comment.

"I'll tell you what I deduce! Vincent Bosworth, still suffering from a badly repaired fracture-not polio!-returns from Pittsburgh after many years with his name changed. Why did he come back? And why did he change his name? And why does he blame his limp on polio? Vince is the great-grandson of Luther and Lucy!"

Qwilleran was so elated that he had to get out of the house and walk. He took two turns around the grounds, taking care not to shuffle his feet through the fallen leaves. The damp earth exuded a heady aroma; the garden club's rust and gold mums were still blooming stubbornly; a barn-cat was sunning on the grassy ramp; there was no sign of Boswell and his van. Altogether it was a pleasant day.

Returning to his genealogical investigation he said to Koko, "This is more fun than panning for gold. Now let's see what happened to Luther's daughter Margaret."

According to the flyleaf, Margaret married one Roscoe DeFord. Lucy's proud comment was "Lawyer!" The Picayune mentioned a reception for two hundred guests at the Pickax Hotel and a honeymoon in Paris - not bad for a miner's daughter, Qwilleran thought, if that's what Luther was. The DeFord name was still evident in Pickax, although not in the practice of law.

Working faster, driven by suspense, he identified the progeny of Roscoe and Margaret DeFord: four children, ten grandchildren. One of the latter was name'd Susan, born 1949.

"Well, I'll be damned!" said Qwilleran. He remembered the gold lettering on the Exbridge & Cobb window. in one comer were the names of the proprietors: Iris Cobb and Susan DeFord Exbridge.

"So Susan Exbridge and Vince Boswell are second cousins!" he said to the faithful Koko. "Who would guess it? She's so suave, and he's such a boor! But blood is thicker than water, as they say, and that's why she's backing him for the museum job. Obviously she doesn't care to have it known that they're related."

This discovery called for a celebration. He prepared coffee and thawed a couple of chocolate brownies from the bountiful freezer, and he gave the Siamese a handful of something crunchy that was said to be nutritious and good for their teeth. He was eager to resume his search now. There was one more clue to pursue: the fate of Luther's widow.

"When we last heard from her," he said, "she was a twenty-three-year-old widow with four young children and an impressive bible. Was she deeply religious? Was she pretty? Too bad we don't have a picture of her."

His enthusiasm was contagious, and both cats were now in attendance, seated on the table in statuesque poses. Yum Yum's notorious paw occasionally disturbed the order of the clippings.

"Ple-e-ease! If you're going to participate, do something constructive... Listen to this! In the same year that Luther died, Lucy went into business - and she wasn't taking in washing!"