Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

It was early afternoon, a suitable time to pay an impromptu visit. He thawed the pecan rolls and drove to the Fugtree farm. Although it was within walking distance, he reasoned that dropping in on foot would suggest back-fence familiarity, and even the obligatory sharing of refreshments. Arriving by car appeared more businesslike, and he could make a quick getaway. He decided to drive.

At close hand the neglected farmhouse was even more dilapidated than it appeared from the highway. Obviously. the front door had not been used for years; even the steps were sprouting weeds. He drove around to the side door, and as he did so a young woman came walking from the nearest barn, wearing grubby coveralls and a feed cap. She had a designer figure, but they were not designer coveralls; rather, they had the air of the Farmers' Discount Store in North Kennebeck.

"You're Mr. Qwilleran," she greeted him. "I recognized you from your picture in the paper. Excuse the way I look; I've been mucking the barn."

Her manner and her speech seemed incompatible with mucking barns, and Qwilleran's curiosity was kindled. Stepping out of the car he handed her the package of pecan rolls. "I came to thank you for telling me about my car lights Tuesday night. This is something from Mrs. Cobb's freezer. I thought your family might enjoy it."

"Thank you, I don't have a family," she said, "but I love Iris's baking. I'm sorry we've lost her. She was such a neat lady."

Qwilleran was puzzled. "When you first called about Iris... you mentioned... that your youngsters were ill," he said hesitantly.

Her face went blank for a moment and then brightened. "I guess I said I was taking care of my sick kids. I meant I... baby goats."

"Pardon my ignorance. I'm a recent refugee from Down Below and I haven't mastered the vocabulary up here."

"Please sit down," she said, waving toward some rusty garden chairs. "Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Thanks, Ms. Waffle, but alcohol isn't on my list of vices."

"Kristi," she said. "Call me Kristi, spelled K-r-i-s-t-i. Then how about some fresh lemonade made with honey from local bees?"

"Now you're speaking my language." He sat down carefully in one of the infirm garden chairs and surveyed the farmyard. It was a scene of unfinished chores, uncut grass, unpainted barns, unmended fences. What was she doing here alone? he wondered. She was young. About thirty, he guessed. But serious in her mien. She was cordial, but only her lips smiled. Her eyes were heavy with sorrow, or regret, or worry. An interesting face!

Along with the lemonade came crackers and a chunk of soft white cheese. "Goat cheese," she explained. "I make it myself. Are you going to be staying at the museum?"

"Only until they find a replacement for Mrs. Cobb." Trying not to stare at the neglected grass and shabby house, I he said, "How long have you had this place?"

"Ever since my mother died, a couple of years ago grew up here, but I've been away for ten years. When I inherited the house, I came back to see if I could make a living with goats. I'm the last of the Fugtrees."

"But your name is Waffle."

"That was my married name. After my divorce I decided to keep it."

Qwilleran thought, Anything is better than Fugtree.

"Anything is better than Fugtree," she said as if reading his mind.

"I'm not familiar with your family history, although I understand Captain Fugtree was a war hero."

Kristi sighed ruefully. "My earlier ancestors made a lot of money in lumbering, and they built this house, but the captain was more interested in being a war hero, which doesn't pay the bills. When my parents inherited the house, they struggled to keep it up, and now that they're gone, I'm trying to make it go. People tell me I should sell the land to a developer for condominiums, like the ones in Indian Village, but it would be a crime to tear down this fabulous house. At least, I want to give farming a try," she said, smiling sadly.

"Why goats?"

"For several reasons." She brightened perceptibly. "They're really sweet animals and not expensive to feed, and there's a growing market for goat products. Did you know that? I raise dairy goats now, but someday I'd like to have some Angoras and spin their hair and weave it. I studied weaving in art school."

"This sounds like material for the 'Qwill Pen' column," said Qwilleran. "May I make an appointment with you and the goats?"

"That would be neat, Mr. Qwilleran!"

"Please call me Qwill," he said. He was feeling comfortable and somewhat captivated. The lemonade was the best he had ever tasted, and the goat cheese was delectable. Kristi's soft, sad eyes were mesmerizing. He had no desire to leave. Looking up at the house, he said, "This is a unique example of nineteenth-century architecture. What was the reason for the tower? Was it simply a conceit?"

"I don't know exactly. My ancestors were gentlemen farmers, and my mother thought they used the tower as a lookout - to spy on the field hands and see if they were loafing."

"And what do you use it for?"