Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

Qwilleran labored wearily up the steep narrow stairs to his rooms over the Klingenschoen garage. Waiting for him at the top of the flight were two disgruntled Siamese- Yum Yum giving him her reproachful look and Koko giving him a piece of his mind. With glaring eyes, switching tail and stiff-legged stance he delivered a single high-intensity syllable, "YOW!" that said it all: Where have you been? The lights were on all night! Nobody fed us! You left the window open!

"Quiet!" Qwilleran protested. "You sound like Vince Boswell. And don't weary me with petty complaints. I have news that will turn your ears inside out. We've lost Mrs. Cobb! No more homemade meatloaf for you two reprobates!"

He shooed them into their own apartment - a room with soft carpet, cushions, baskets, and TV - and then fell into bed. He slept through the seven o'clock wailing of the siren, and he slept through the first blast of the pneumatic drill on Main Street, where the city was digging up the pavement again.

At eight o'clock he was jerked back to consciousness by a phone call from Arch Riker, his lifelong friend, now publisher of the local newspaper.

Without greeting or apology Riker blurted, "Did you hear the newscast, Qwill? Iris Cobb was found dead at her apartment last night!"

"I know," Qwilleran replied, grumpy and hoarse. "I was the one who found the body, called the police, notified next of kin, planned the funeral, phoned the news to the radio station and your news desk, 1!nd got home at five o'clock this morning. Got any more hot breaking news?"

"Go back to sleep, you old grouch," said Riker.

At eight-thirty Polly Duncan called. "Qwill, are you up? Did you hear the distressing news about Iris Cobb?"

Qwilleran controlled his umbrage and gave her a gentler version of his tirade to Arch Riker. Then in the next half hour he was called by Fran Brodie, his former interior designer; Mr. O'Dell, his janitor; and Eddington Smith, who sold secondhand books, all of them taking seriously their commitment to the Pickax grapevine.

In exasperation he rolled out of bed, pressed the button on his computerized coffeemaker, and opened a can of red salmon for the Siamese. As he gulped the first welcome swallows of the hot beverage he watched them eat - bodies close to the floor, tails horizontal, heads snapping sideways.

After that, they performed a primitive ritual with wide-open jaws and long pink tongues, followed by a laving of mask and ears with moistened paws, all painstakingly choreographed. And this mundane chore was done with elegance and grace by a pair of fawn-furred, brown-pointed, blue-eyed objects of living art. Qwilleran had discovered that watching the Siamese was therapeutic, relieving fatigue, frustration, irritability, and restlessness - a prescription less drug with no adverse side effects.

"Okay, you guys," he said, "I have more news for you. We're moving to the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum." It was his policy to communicate with them in straightforward terms. As if they understood what he said, they both scooted from the room; they abhorred a change of address.

Qwilleran loaded his car with writing materials, an unabridged dictionary, two suitcases of clothing for the nippy weather ahead, his portable stereo, a few cassettes including Otello, and the turkey roaster that served as the cats' commode. Then he produced the wicker hamper in which they were accustomed to travel.

"Let's go!" he called out. "Where are you rascals?" Eighteen pounds of solid cat-flesh had suddenly evaporated. "Come on! Let's not play games!" Eventually, crawling on hands and knees, he found Yum Yum under the bed and Koko in the farthest comer of the clothes closet, hiding behind a pair of running shoes.

Limp and silent they allowed him to drop them into the hamper, but they were hatching a countertactic. As soon as he headed the car for North Middle Hummock they began their program of organized squabbling and hissing. Their lunges at each other rocked the hamper, and their snarls suggested bloody mayhem.

"If you heathens will shut up," Qwilleran yelled, "I'll give you a running commentary on this trip. We are now headed north on Pickax Road and approaching the defunct Goodwinter Mine. As you may recall, it was the scene of a disastrous explosion in 1904."

There was a momentary lull in the backseat racket. The cats liked the sound of his voice. It had a resonance that soothed the savage breasts under that pale silky fur.

He continued in the style of a tour director. "Coming up on the right is the Dimsdale Diner, famous for bad food and worse coffee. Windows haven't been cleaned since the Hoover administration. Here is where we turn onto lttibittiwassee Road."

His passengers were quietly contented now. The sun was shining; the sky was an October blue with billowing white clouds tinged with silver; the woods were aflame with autumn color. The journey was far different from the game of blind-man's buff that Qwilleran had played the night before.