Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"I know all about that," Qwilleran said. "On Zwinger Street she claimed there was a playful apparition in the house, but I happen to know that C. C. Cobb was playing tricks. Every night he got out of bed without disturbing her and put a saltshaker in her bedroom slippers or hung her underpants from the chandelier. He must have worked hard to think up a new prank every night."

"That's what I call devotion," Dennis said.

"Frankly, I think she knew, but she didn't want C. C. to know that she knew. That's real devotion!"

The hamburgers were served, and the two men ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Qwilleran said, "You mentioned that Iris began to be disillusioned about the museum. I was not aware of that."

Dennis nodded soberly. "She began to think the place was haunted. At first she was amused, but then she got frightened. Cheryl and I tried to get her down to St. Louis for a visit. We thought a change of scene would do her some good, but she wouldn't leave until after the formal opening of the shop. Maybe it was her medication - I don't know - but she kept hearing noises she couldn't explain. That can happen in an old house, you know - creaking timbers, mice, drafts in the chimney..."

"Did she give you any particulars?"

"I brought some of her letters," Dennis said. "They're in my luggage. I thought you could read them and see if anything clicks. It doesn't make sense to me. I want to ask her doctor about it when I see him."

"Doctor Halifax is a wonderful, humane being, willing to listen and explain. You'll like him."

They drove to the New Pickax Hotel, as it was called, Qwilleran warning Dennis not to expect state-of-the-art accommodations. "The hotel was 'new' in the 1930s, but it's convenient, being right downtown and handy to the funeral home. Larry Lanspeak will be in touch with you tomorrow - or even tonight. He's president of the Historical Society and a great guy."

"Yeah, Mom raved about the Lanspeaks."

They parked in front of the hotel, and Qwilleran accompanied Dennis to the front desk, where the presence of the famous moustache assured deluxe service from the hotel staff. The night desk clerk was one of the big good-looking blond men who were in plentiful supply in Moose County.

Qwilleran said to him, "Mitch, I made a reservation for Dennis Hough, spelled H-o-u-g-h. He's here for Mrs. Cobb's funeral. See that he gets the best... Dennis, this is Mitch Ogilvie, a member of the Historical Society. He knew your mother."

"I was sorry to hear the bad news, Mr. Hough," said the clerk. "She was a terrific person, and she loved the museum."

Dennis mumbled his thanks and signed the register. "Good night, Dennis," Qwilleran said. "I'll see you at the funeral home tomorrow evening."

"Thanks for everything, Qwill... Hold it'" He took an envelope from his carry-on duffel and handed it over. "These are photocopies. You don't need to return them. They're some of her recent letters. The last one arrived Saturday. Maybe you can figure out what was going on at the museum... or whether it was..." He tapped his forehead.

-4-

AFTER DROPPING DENNIS Hough at the hotel Qwilleran drove to North Middle Hummock through a cloud of spectral blue vapor-moonlight mixed with wisps of fog settling in the valleys of the Hummocks. When he arrived home and turned off his headlights, the farmyard and the farmhouse were bathed in a mystic blueness.

He let himself in and turned on the four-candle ceiling fixture. Only three candles lighted. At the same time two shadowy forms came slinking from the dark parlor and blinked at him.

"What happened to the lights?" he asked them. "Last night all four were operating."

The Siamese yawned and stretched.

"Have you anything to report? Did you hear any unusual sounds?"

Koko groomed his breast with a long pink tongue, and Yum Yum rubbed against Qwilleran's ankles, suggesting a little something to eat. This was the first time they had been left alone here, and Qwilleran looked for tilted pictures, books on the floor, dislodged lampshades, and shredded bathroom tissue. One could never guess how they might react to abandonment in a new environment. Happily, only a few cat hairs on a blue velvet wing chair and some dried weeds on the parlor floor testified to their feline presence; they had chosen Mrs. Cobb's favorite chair as their own, and one or both of them had leaped to the top of the seven-foot Schrank to examine the dried arrangement that filled a Shaker basket.

Qwilleran made a cup of coffee before sitting down to read Iris Cobb's last letters, thankful that Dennis had given her the typewriter. The first letter was dated September 22 and began with grandmotherly questions about Dennis Junior, comments on the fine weather, raves about the new antique shop scheduled to open October 17, and a lengthy recipe for a new high-calorie dessert she had invented, after which she wrote: