Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"A pity it is, what's happen in , out there," said Mr. O'Dell. "First Mrs. Cobb, a good woman, God rest her soul! And herself barely cold in her grave when the little one, innocent as a lamb, fell. Sure an' it's a black cloud that hangs over the Goodwinter farm, an' I'm givin' you some advice if you've a mind to take it. No good will come of it if you take it into your head to stay there. The divil is up to tricks for eighty or ninety year since, I'm thinkin'."

"I appreciate your advice, Mr. O'Dell," said Qwilleran. "I'll give it some serious thought."

"An' shall I be washin' the windows?"

"Yes, go ahead and wash the windows." Qwilleran was in no hurry to move back to Pickax, devil or no devil, but he knew it would relieve Mr. O'Dell's mind if the windows were clean.

Arch Riker had other ideas. "Why don't you move back to town and stop playing detective?" the publisher said. "Readers are complaining. They expect to see the 'Qwill Pen' on certain days."

"It's been nothing but emergencies, obstacles, and distractions for the last two weeks," Qwilleran said. "I was all set to write a goat column when the herd was poisoned and the front page got the story. I was planning to do a piece on the antique printing presses, but the so-called expert has left town and will wind up in prison."

"Excuses, excuses! Find an old-timer and rip off some memoirs for Monday," Riker suggested. "Do it the easy way until you get back on the track."

Taking the publisher's suggestion and Mitch Ogilvie's tip, Qwilleran called the Senior Care Facility in Pickax and asked to interview Adam Dingleberry. The nurse in charge recommended a late-morning visit, since the old gentleman was always drowsy after lunch, and she specified a time limit of thirty minutes for the nonagenarian, by doctor's orders.

Arriving at the Facility, Qwilleran found the lobby bright with canaries - those yellow-smocked volunteers wearing "We Care" lapel buttons. They were fluttering about, greeting visitors, wheeling patients, tucking in lap blankets, adjusting shawls, smiling sweetly, and showing that they cared, whether the patients were paying guests like Adam Dingleberry or indigent wards of the county. There was no hint that the cheerfully modern building was descended from the County Poor Farm.

One of the canaries ushered Qwilleran into the reading room, a quiet place equipped with large-print books and cleverly adjustable reading lamps. He had been there on previous occasions to conduct interviews and had never seen anyone reading. Patients who were not confined to their beds were in the lounge, watching television.

"He's a little hard of hearing," said the canary who wheeled the elderly mortician into the room, a wizened little man who had once been the tallest boy in school and a holy terror, according to Homer Tibbitt.

The volunteer took a seat apart from them, near the door, and Qwilleran said in a loud, clear voice, "We've never met, Mr. Dingleberry, but I've seen you at meetings of the old-timers, and Homer Tibbitt tells me he went to school with you."

"Homer, eh? He were younger than me in school. Still is. He's only ninety-four. I'm ninety-eight. How old are you?" His voice had the same high pitch as Homer's, and it cracked on every tenth word.

"I'm embarrassed to say," Qwilleran replied, "that I'm only fifty."

"Fifty, eh? You have to walk around on your own legs. When you're my age, you get trundled around everywhere."

"That gives me something to look forward to."

In spite of his shrunken form and leathery wrinkles, Adam Dingleberry had sharp bird-like eyes that darted as fast as his mind. "The city fathers are tryin' to outlaw Halloween," he said, taking the lead in the conversation. "In the old days we used to wax windows and knock over outhouses till hell-won't-have-it. One year we bricked up the schoolhouse door."

Qwilleran said, "May I turn on my machine and tape some of this?" He placed the recorder on the table between them, and the following conversation was preserved for posterity:

The museum has a deskfrom the Black Creek School, carved with initials. Would any of them be yours?

Nope. I always carved somebody else's initials. Never finished the grades. They kicked me out for smearin' the teacher's chair with cow dung. My paw give me a whuppin' but it were worth it.

Is it a fact that the Dingleberry family has been in the funeral business for more than a hundred years?

Yup. My grampaw come from the Old Country to build shafthouses for the mines. Built coffins, too. When some poor soul died, Grampaw stayed up all night whittlin' a coffin-tailor-made to fit. Coffins warn't like we have now. They was wide at the top, narrow at the foot. Makes sense, don't it? It took a heap o' skill to mitre the joints. Grampaw were mighty proud of his work, and my paw learned coffin-buildin' from him, only Paw started buildin' furniture.

What kind of furniture, Mr. Dingleberry?