"You made a hit with his kid, Qwill," said Riker. "Who are they?"
"My neighbors at the museum. He's cataloguing the printing presses for the Historical Society... Incidentally, Arch, the obituary I submitted referred to visiting hours at the funeral home. Someone changed it to 'visitation' hours. I know it's considered genteel in certain circles, but it's a ridiculous euphemism that doesn't belong in a newspaper with any class. A visitation' is a divine manifestation."
"Or a spirit communication," added Polly. "Shakespeare refers to the visitation of Hamlet's father's ghost."
"Speaking of ghosts," Qwilleran said, "has there ever been a rumor that the Goodwinter farmhouse is haunted?"
Belligerently Amanda said, "If it isn't, it should be! Three generations died violent deaths, starting with that old tightwad Ephraim, and they all deserved it!"
Her escort rebuked her with quiet amusement. "You're speaking of your blood relatives, Amanda."
"That's not my branch of the family tree. We're crazy but Ephraim's branch has always been rich and mean."
"Quiet, Amanda. People are staring at you."
"Let them stare!" She glowered at surrounding tables.
Still protesting, Riker said, "Our managing editor is a direct descendent of Ephraim, and he's neither rich nor mean. Junior is poor and likable."
"He's only a kid," Amanda growled. "Give him time! He'll turn out rotten like all the rest."
Winking at Qwilleran and gently changing the subject, Riker asked, "Does anyone at this table believe in ghosts?"
"They're hallucinations caused by drugs, delirium, and other physical and mental disorders," Qwilleran said.
"But they've been around for thousands of years," said Polly. "Read the Bible, Cicero, Plutarch, Dickens, Poe!"
Riker said, "When our kids were young we took a vacation in a rented cabin in the mountains. Our dog went with us, of course. He was a big fearless boxer, but every night that animal would grovel on the cabin floor, whining and cringing like a coward. I never saw anything like it! Later we found out that a former tenant had been murdered by a tramp."
"I have a tale to relate, too," said Polly. "I was traveling in Europe when my mother died. I didn't even know she was ill, but one night I woke up and saw her standing by my bed as clear as could be in her gray coat with two silver buttons."
"Did she speak?" Riker asked.
"No, but I sat up in bed and said, 'Mother! What are you doing here?' Immediately she vanished. The next morning I learned she had died several hours before I saw her image."
Qwilleran said, "That's known as a delayed crisis apparition, a kind of telepathy caused by intense emotional concentration."
"Hogwash!" said the lovely Amanda.
Qwilleran and Polly murmured a discreet good night in the parking lot of the Old Stone Mill and drove home in separate cars after an affectionate "I'll call you" and "… bient“t."
It was another one of those dark nights when cloud cover hid the moon. Unlike the reckless drive to answer Iris Cobb's cry for help, this journey was taken in a leisurely manner as Qwilleran thought about Polly Duncan and her melodious voice, her literate background, her little jealousies, and her haughty disdain for Susan Exbridge. (Susan had her hair done at Delphine's, spent money on clothes, drove an impressive car, wore real jewelry, lived in Indian Village, served on the library board of directors even though she never read a book - all things of which Polly disapproved.) It surprised him, however, that Polly accepted supernatural manifestations; he thought she had more sense.
He could see a light in the Fugtree farmhouse, and the TV was flickering in the Boswell cottage, but the museum yard was dark. What it needed was a timer to turn on lights automatically at dusk. He parked and reached for the flashlight in the glove compartment, but he had left it in the house. Turning on his headlights he found his way to the entrance, at the same time catching a glimpse of shadowy movement in one of the windows. The cats, he surmised, had been on the windowsill watching for him and had jumped down to meet him. When he opened the door, however, only Yum Yum made an appearance. Koko was elsewhere; he could be heard talking to himself in a musical monologue interspersed with yiks and yowls.
Stealthily Qwilleran stole to the rear of the apartment and observed the cat meandering about the kitchen with his nose to the floor like a bloodhound, sniffing here and there as if detecting spilled food. Mrs. Cobb's cooking habits had been casual. A handful of flung flour often missed the bowl; a vigorously stirred pot splashed; a wooden spoon dripped; a tomato squirted. Yet the floor looked clean and freshly waxed. Koko was following the memory of a scent; he was investigating something known only to himself; and he was giving a running commentary on his discoveries.
Qwilleran changed into night attire before making an- other attempt to hear the recording of Otello. The Siamese joined him in the parlor, but at the first crashing chords they flew out of the room and remained in hiding throughout the storm scene. At one point they thought it safe to come creeping back, but then the trumpets sounded, and they disappeared again.
Just as the triumphant Othello was making his dramatic entrance, the telephone rang. Qwilleran groaned his displeasure, turned down the volume, and took the call in the bedroom.
"Our office has been trying to reach you, Qwill," said the genial attorney who handled legal matters for the Klingenschoen Fund. "As attorneys for Mrs. Cobb we would like to suggest that you attend the reading of her will on Thursday morning."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache with momentary annoyance. "Do you have a good reason for asking me to be there?"
"I'm sure you will find it interesting. Besides the major bequests to her family, she wished to leave certain remembrances to friends. Eleven o'clock Thursday morning in my office."
Qwilleran thanked him with little enthusiasm and went back to Otello. He had been following the libretto in English, and now he had lost his place and lost the drift of the opera. He rewound the tape and punched Play. Again the Siamese staged their absurd pantomime of wild flight and stealthy return; it was becoming a game. This time the tape unreeled as far as the opening scene of Act Two. The villainous Iago was launching into his hate-filled Credo when... the telephone rang again. Qwilleran shuffled into the bedroom once more.
A woman's voice said, "Mr. Qwilleran, your lights are on."
Lost in the mood of the opera, he hesitated. Lights? What lights? Yardlights? "My car lights!" he yelped. "Thanks. Who's calling?"
"Kristi at the Fugtree farm. I can see your place from an upstairs window."
After thanking her again Qwilleran dashed outdoors and turned off his headlights. The beam had faded to a sick yellow, and he knew the battery was down. He was right; the motor refused to turn over. Leaning back in the driver's seat he faced the facts: Country garages close at nine o'clock; It is now past midnight; The funeral is at ten-thirty in the morning; I have to pick up my suit at nine; My battery is dead.
There was only one thing to do. Disagreeable though it might be, it was the only solution to the problem.
-6-
EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING Qwilleran clenched his teeth, bit his lip, swallowed his pride, and telephoned the cottage at the top of Black Creek Lane. It was important, he realized, to strike the right tone - not too suddenly friendly, not too apologetic, yet a few degrees warmer than before, with a note of urgency to mask embarrassment.
"Mr. Boswell," he said, "this is Qwilleran. I have a serious problem."
"How can I be of service? It's a privilege and a pleasure," said the voice that knifed the eardrums.
"I neglected to turn off my headlights last night, and my car won't start. Are you, by any chance, equipped to give my battery a jump?"
"Sure thing. I'll run down there pronto."
"I hate to bother you so early, but I have to be in Pickax at nine o'clock... for funeral preliminaries."