Qwilleran touched his moustache gingerly, undecided how much he should confide in Roger. He said, "You know I don't buy the idea of ghosts and demons and poltergeists, but... Iris was hearing unearthly noises in the Goodwinter house before she died."
"Like what?"
"Like knocking and moaning and screaming." "No kidding!"
"And Koko's behavior has been abnormal since we moved in. He's always talking to himself and staring into space."
"He's talking to ghosts," Roger said with a straight face. Qwilleran could never be sure whether the young reporter was serious or not. He said, "Iris had a theory that a house exudes good or evil, depending on its previous occupants."
"My mother-in-law preaches the same thing," said Roger.
"How is Mildred, by the way? I haven't seen her lately."
"She's up to her eyebrows in good causes, as usual. Still trying to lose weight. Still carrying the torch for that husband of hers. I think she should get a lawyer and untie the knot."
"And how's Sharon and... the baby?" "Sharon's gone back to teaching. And that kid! I never knew a baby could be so much fun!... Well, I can't stay for dessert. I've got to get home so Sharon can go to her club meeting. Thanks, Qwill. Best meal I've had in a month!"
Qwilleran remained and ordered Tipsy's old-fashioned bread pudding with a pitcher of thick cream for pouring, followed by two cups of coffee powerful enough to exorcise demons and domesticate poltergeists. Then he drove back to North Middle Hummock to cram for his interview with the goatherd.
After skimming through chapters on breeding, feeding, milking, de-homing, castrating, hoof trimming, barn cleaning and manure management, he made a decision: It would be better to walk the plank than to raise goats. Furthermore, there was the danger of such diseases as coccidiosis, demodectic mange, bloat, and foot rot, not to mention birth defects such as sprung pasterns, pendulous udder, blind teat, leaking orifice, and hermaphroditism. It was no wonder the goat-girl looked worried.
After this briefing he knew, however, what questions to ask, and he felt a growing admiration for Kristi and her choice of career. Perhaps, as Roger said, she was flighty in high school, but who isn't at that age? He was looking forward to the interview. When Polly Duncan called to ask if he planned to attend the reception at Exbridge & Cobb, Qwilleran was glad he had an honest excuse. He said, "I'm interviewing a farmer at two o'clock."
Kristi greeted him on Saturday afternoon in white coveralls. She had been assisting at a kidding, she said. "Buttercup had trouble, and I had to help. Geranium is ready, too, and I have to check her every half hour. You can hear her bleating, poor thing."
"Do you name all your goats?"
"Of course. They all have their own personalities."
As they walked toward the goat barns Qwilleran asked, how many kids Buttercup had produced.
"Two. I'm building up my own herd instead of buying animals. It takes time, but it costs less."
"How much does a kid weigh at birth?"
"About six pounds. For a while I'll feed them from a bottle three to five times a day."
Qwilleran said, "There's one gnawing question on my mind. How or why did you get involved with goats?"
Kristi said gravely, "Well, I met a goat named Petunia, and it was love at first sight, so I took a correspondence course and then got a job at a goat farm. We were living in New England then."
"What was your husband doing all this time?"
"Not much of anything. That was the problem," she said with a bitter grimace.
They were approaching an area of small barns, sheds and wire-fenced yards in which were small shade trees with protected trunks. A barncat was squirming to get under the fence. In the nearest yard a dozen goats of different colors were nuzzling each other's heads, lounging on the ground, or standing motionless with passive expressions. They turned sad, gentle eyes to the two visitors, and Qwilleran glanced quickly at Kristi's eyes, which were also sad and gentle.
"I like that big black one with a striped face," he said. "What kind is he?"
"She," Kristi reminded him. "These are all does. That one is a Nubian, and I call her Black Tulip. Notice her Roman nose and elegantly long ears. She's from very good stock. The white one is Gardenia. She's a Saanen. I really love her; she's so feminine. The fawn-colored one with two stripes on the face is Honeysuckle."
"What's that structure in the middle of the yard?"
"A feeder. They get nutritional feed, but they also graze in the pasture. The farmer who leases the Fugtree acreage manages my pastureland. Students come in after school to clean the milking parlor and the feeders and things like that. And then I have a friend who comes out from Pickax on weekends to help."
There was a commotion in the farthest field. Two goats were butting heads, and a third was butting a barrel. "They're bucks," Kristi explained. "We keep them away from the milking area because of the odor."
"Then 'smelling like a billy goat' is not just a figure of speech?" Kristi was forced to agree. "Would you like to pet the does?" she asked. "They like attention. Don't make any sudden moves. Let them smell your hand first."
The does came to the fence and rubbed against the wire, then turned drowsy eyes toward Qwilleran, purring in a gentle moan, but their coats felt rough to a hand accustomed to stroking cats.
Next Kristi showed him the milking parlor. "I have the milk commercially pasteurized," she explained. "Then it's sold to people who are allergic to cow's milk or find it hard to digest. Would you like a cup of tea and some cheese?"
They went into the house and sat at the table in the kitchen, the only room in the house that appeared habitable. Even so, the table was cluttered with collectibles, including a large leather-bound family bible. Kristi said her mother had bought it at an auction, and the museum might like to have it.
Qwilleran said, "You didn't tell me why your great-grandfather rebuilt the staircase."
"There was scandal involved." "All the better!"
"You won't put this in your column, will you?"
"Not if you object."
"Well," she began, "it happened early in this century. My great-grandfather had a beautiful daughter named Emmaline, and she fell in love with one of the Goodwinter boys, Ephraim's second son. His name was Samson. But her father disapproved, and Emmaline was forbidden to see her lover. Being a spunky girl she used to climb the spiral staircase to the tower and flash a light, which could be seen from the Goodwinter house, and Samson would meet her on the bank of the Black Creek under the willows. Then tragedy struck! Samson was thrown from his horse and killed. A few months later, Emmaline gave birth to a child, a horrible disgrace in those days. Her family despised her, and her friends deserted her. Then, one night during a thunderstorm, she climbed the spiral staircase and threw herself from the tower."
"A tragic story," Qwilleran said. "Is that why her father remodeled the stairs?"
"Yes, he ripped out the lovely spiral staircase and substituted the angular one we have now. When I was growing up, the door to the tower was always locked."
"How do you know the spiral staircase was lovely. Do you have a photograph?"
"No... I just know," she answered mysteriously. "What happened to Emmaline's child?"
"Captain Fugtree brought him up as his own son. He was my father."
"Then Emmaline was your grandmother!"
"Oh, she was so beautiful, Qwill! I wish I had her looks."
"I'd like to see a picture of her."
"Her photos were all destroyed after she killed herself. Her family pretended she had never existed."
"Then how do you know she was beautiful?"
Kristi cast her sad eyes down and was slow in answering. When she looked up, her face was radiant. "I don't know whether I should tell you this... I see her whenever there's a thunderstorm." She waited to see Qwilleran's reaction, and when he looked sympathetic she went on. "She walks upstairs in a flowing white robe, very slowly, up into the tower - and then disappears... She walks up the spiral staircase that's not there!"