Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

They sat at the dining table in the kitchen, pushing aside the pink candles in milk-glass holders and swigging coffee from majolica mugs as they worked out the details: friends invited to call at Dingleberry's Tuesday evening, final rites to be held at the church on Park Circle Wednesday morning, the Pickax Funeral Band to lead the procession of cars to the cemetery. As past president of the chamber of commerce Larry was sure that all places of business would close on the morning of the funeral. As current president of the board of education he would ask that schools also close for half a day.

"Grades K to twelve have all made field trips to the museum," he said, "and Iris always had cookies and lemonade for the kids."

For a century or more, funerals had been events of moment in Pickax. The townspeople always turned out en masse to pay their respects and count the number of vehicles in the procession. These statistics became a matter of record, to be memorized and quoted: ninety-three cars for Senior Goodwinter's funeral the year before; seventy-five when Captain Fugtree was buried. Most spectacular of all was Ephraim Goodwinter's funeral in 1904; fifty-two buggies, thirty-seven carriages, more than a hundred mourners on foot, and seventeen on bicycles. "Everything but camels and elephants," one irreverent bystander was heard to remark on that occasion. Ephraim, owner of the Goodwinter Mine, was intensely disliked, and his funeral procession resembled a march of triumph, but that was a long story, veiled in hearsay and prejudice - one that Qwilleran hoped eventually to research.

Next came the question of flowers or no flowers. "I'm sure Iris would like flowers," he said. "There's a certain sentimentality in floral tributes, and our friend was a sentimental soul."

"And how about eulogies? Iris was modest to a fault."

"Yes, but she craved approval. When she first came to Pickax I introduced her at a city council meeting, and the audience applauded as a matter of courtesy. Iris was so touched by the applause that she went home and cried. So I vote for eulogies."

"Good! We'll line up the mayor and the president of the county commissioners. Or should we have a woman give one of the eulogies? Susan, perhaps. Or Carol."

"Knowing Iris, I'd say the eulogies should be given by men."

"Maybe you're right. We'll ask Susan to pick out the casket and something for Iris to wear." Larry leaned back in his chair. "Well, I believe that's all we can do tonight. I have Columbus Day specials at the store tomorrow - I mean, today - and if I rush home now I can snatch about three hours of sleep."

Qwilleran said, "I'd like to mention one thing: Iris complained of hearing peculiar noises after dark. Did you ever hear anything unusual?"

"Can't say that I did. I've been here many times at a late hour when we were setting up exhibits, and all I ever heard was crickets and frogs and maybe a loon."

"When I arrived tonight, Larry, the whole place was in darkness. I thought it was a power failure, but when I tried the wall switches, everything worked. How do you explain that?"

"I don't know," said Larry, obviously tired and impatient to leave. "When we found out her eyesight was getting bad, we told Iris not to try to conserve electricity, but she had thrifty habits. I'll get you some keys from the office."

He went through the doorway to the museum and soon returned, holding up two keys. "This one is for the front door of the apartment, and this one is for the barn. You might want to put your car in the barn in bad weather. There's a good supply of wood for the fireplaces, too."

"Which barn?"

"The new steel barn. The old barn is full of printing presses."

"How about this door to the museum? Does it lock?"

"No, we've never bothered to install a lock, and Iris always left it open except whet) she was cooking."

"I'll keep it closed," Qwilleran said, "because of the cats. I don't want them prowling around the museum."

"Do whatever you wish, Qwill. I don't know how to thank you for coming to our rescue. I hope you'll be comfortable. Let me know how it works out."

The two men walked to their cars and drove up Black Creek Lane, Larry in the long station wagon that signified a moneyed country estate, and Qwilleran in his economy-model compact. He drove back to Pickax at a normal speed, thinking:

Someone turned off the lights - switch by switch, room by room, indoors and out.

Someone turned off the microwave oven. Someone closed the door between the kitchen and the museum.

-3-

IT WAS ALMOST dawn when Qwilleran arrived at his apartment in Pickax. The city was eerily silent. Soon alarm clocks would jolt the populace awake, and the seven o'clock siren on the roof of the city hall would rout late sleepers out of bed. They would turn on their radios and hear about the death of Iris Cobb, whereupon the Pickax grapevine would go into operation, relaying the shocking news via telephone lines, across back fences, and over coffee cups at Lois's Luncheonette near the courthouse.