The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts by Lilian Jackson Braun Read Free Book Online

telephone rang. He turned down the volume and went to the phone in the bedroom.
    "Qwill, this is Larry," said the energetic voice. "I've just talked to Dennis Hough on the phone. Thanks for getting him installed at the hotel. He says his accommodations are very good."
    "I hope they didn't give him the bridal suite with the round bed and satin sheets," Qwilleran said moodily, resenting the interruption.
    "He's in the presidential suite—the only one with a telephone and color TV. Everything's set for tomorrow. Susan will take him to lunch; Carol and I will take both of them to dinner. Is everything okay at the museum? Are you comfortable there?"
    "I expect to have nightmares from sleeping in that monster of a bed."
    In a tone of mock rebuke Larry said, "That monster, Qwill, is a priceless General Grant bed that was made a century ago for a World's Fair! Look at the quality of the rosewood! Look at the workmanship! Look at the patina!"
    “Be that as it may, Larry, the headboard looks like the door to a mausoleum, and I'm not ready to be interred. Otherwise, all is well."
    "I'll say good night, then. It's been a hectic day, and neither of us had much sleep last night, did we? I finally lined up the other pallbearers, so now I'm going to have a much deserved nightcap and turn in."
    "One question, Larry. Did you see Iris during museum visiting hours this past week?"
    "I didn't, but Carol did. She said Iris looked tired and worried—the result of her medical report, no doubt, and maybe the stress of opening the new shop. Carol told her to go and lie down."
    Qwilleran went back to his opera, but he had missed the love duet. He turned off the machine peevishly, checked the cats' whereabouts, doused the lights, and sprawled in the blue wing chair with his feet on the footstool. Then he waited in the dark—waiting and listening for the knocking, moaning, rattling, and screaming.
    Four hours later he opened his eyes suddenly. He had a kink in his neck and two Siamese on his lap, their combined weight having caused one foot to be totally numb. Asleep they weighed twice what they weighed on the veterinarian's scale. Qwilleran limped about the room, grumbling and stamping his deadened foot. If there had been noises in the walls, he had slept through them in a blissful stupor. Larry's phone call was the last thing he remembered.
    In retrospect there was something about the call that bothered him. Larry had mentioned pallbearers. He said he had lined up "the other pallbearers." What, Qwilleran wondered, did he mean by "other"?
    He waited fretfully for seven o'clock, at which time he telephoned the Lanspeak country house. Without preamble he said, "Larry, may I ask a question?"
    "Sure, what's on your mind?"
    "Who are the pallbearers?"
    "The three male members of the museum board and Mitch Ogilvie—in addition to you and me. Why do you ask?"
    "Just for the record," Qwilleran said, "no one up to this minute has even hinted that I might be a pallbearer—not that I have any objection, you understand—but I'm glad I happened to find out."
    "Didn't Susan talk to you?"
    "She talked to me at considerable length about a pink suede suit and a casket with pink lining and pink flowers being flown in from Minneapolis, but not a word about pal1bearing.”
    "I'm sorry, Qwill. Does it create a problem?"
    "No. No problem. I merely wanted to be sure."
    The truth was that it created a definite problem. It called for a dark suit—something Qwilleran had not owned for twenty-five years. Neither in his lean years nor in his newly acquired affluence had he found an extensive wardrobe important to his lifestyle. In Moose County he could get by with sweaters, windbreakers, a tweed sports coat with leather patches, and a navy blue blazer. At the moment he owned one suit, a light gray, purchased when he was best man at Iris Cobb's marriage to Hackpole. It had not been off the hanger since that memorable occasion.
    At nine o'clock sharp he telephoned Scottie's