The Cat Who Talked To Ghosts by Lillian Jackson Braun

Author:Lillian Jackson Braun
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1990-11-09T05:00:00+00:00

On Sunday morning Qwilleran explored the Willoway, alone—although not so alone as he expected.

The expedition was not premeditated. He had been strolling about the grounds of the museum with his hands in his pockets, inhaling deeply, enjoying the riotous autumn color, when he received the distinct impression that he was being watched. He looked in all directions in a casual way, as if admiring the view.

Had he looked toward the farmhouse he would have discovered two pairs of intensely blue eyes fastened on him, but that did not occur to him. He glanced toward the east and saw farmland; to the north was the barn, minus Boswell’s van; to the west one could see the tower of the Fugtree mansion rising above the treetops. Perhaps, he thought with pleasure, Kristi was watching him through the binoculars. It was amazing, he thought, how one could sense the fact from such a distance. He groomed his moustache and straightened his shoulders and decided to explore the Willoway.

The crisp, bright October day was so clear that one could hear the faint sound of church bells in West Middle Hummock three miles away. First he walked up Black Creek Lane, then east on Fugtree Road to the bridge, where he slid down an embankment to the stream. Although narrow and shallow, the creek rippled and gurgled briskly over the stones under the drooping branches of willows, while the trail—soft with decades of humus and now gaudily patterned with fallen leaves—was shaded by maples and oaks.

He found it an engagingly private place and he wondered if Iris had discovered this tranquil spot. Probably not; she was a confirmed indoorswoman. Ambling along the trail that meandered to follow the stream, he occasionally caught a glimpse of the Fugtree tower, which loomed larger as he drew closer. Here in the Willoway Emmaline and Samson had kept their ill-fated trysts.

Except for the bubbling water it was hauntingly quiet, as an October day can be, the dew-drenched trail muffling his footsteps. Once he paused to marvel at the picturesque scene, wishing he had brought his camera, and as he stood there he heard the crackling of underbrush. It was followed by indistinct voices. The inflections suggested the ritual of greeting, but not a joyous meeting. There were fragments of dialogue that he could not catch.

Qwilleran moved cautiously toward the source. Rounding a bend in the trail he ducked quickly behind a tree and listened. A woman was speaking angrily.

“I don’t have any money!”

“Then get some!” a man said threateningly. “I need a car, too. They’re after me.”

“Why don’t you steal one? You seem to know how.” This was followed by a small cry of pain. “Don’t you touch me, Brent!”

Qwilleran threw a rock into the stream, and the splash halted the hostile interchange for a few seconds.

“What’s that?” the man asked in alarm.

“A fish . . . And you can’t stay at the house, Brent, so get that out of your head.”

There was incoherent whimpering about “no place to go.

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