The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts Read Online Free PDF Page B

depends upon your taste," Qwilleran said. "He's five feet tall, weighs three hundred pounds, and he has a glass eye and dandruff."
    "Just my type," she said airily. Qwilleran changed his clothes, found cold roast beef in the refrigerator, which he warmed for the Siamese, and then drove to the airport.
    Two years before, the Moose County airport had been little more than a cow pasture and a shack with a windsock, but a grant from the Klingenschoen Fund had upgraded the airstrip and terminal, built hangars and paved a parking lot, while the local garden clubs had landscaped the entrance and planted rust and gold mums.
    In the terminal, copies of the Monday Something displayed this news on the front page, within a black border:
    BULLETIN
    Iris Cobb Hackpole was found dead at her apartment in North Middle Hummock early this morning, following an apparent heart attack. She was resident manager of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum and partner in a new antique shop opening in Pickax. She had been in ill health. Funeral arrangements to be announced.
    As the two-engine turboprop landed and taxied toward the terminal, Qwilleran wondered if he would recognize Dennis from their previous meeting Down Below. He remembered him as a clean-cut, lean-jawed young man just out of college, who worked for an architectural firm. Since then Dennis had married, fathered a child, and started his own business as a building contractor—developments that had brought joy to his mother's heart.
    The young man who now walked toward the terminal showed the evidence of a few added years and responsibilities, and his gaunt face showed the evidence of grief and weariness.
    Qwilleran gave him a sincere handshake. "It's good to see you again, Dennis. Sorry it has to be under these circumstances."
    The son said, "That's the hell of it! My mother kept inviting Cheryl and me up here for a visit, but we were always too busy. I could kick myself now. She never even saw her grandson."
    As they started the drive to Pickax Qwilleran asked him, "Did Iris tell you anything about Moose County? About the abandoned mines and all that?"
    "Yes, she was a good letter writer. I've saved most of her letters. Our son can read them some day."
    Qwilleran glanced at his passenger and compared his lean and melancholy face with Mrs. Cobb's plump and cheery countenance. "You don't resemble your mother."
    "I guess I resemble my father, although I never knew him or even saw his picture," Dennis said. "He died when I was three years old-from food poisoning. All I know is that he had a lousy disposition and was cruel to my mother, and when he died there was a snotty rumor that she poisoned him. You know how it is in small towns; they don't have anything else to do but peddle dirt. So we moved to the city, and she brought me up alone."
    "I have profound sympathy for single parents," Qwilleran said. "My mother faced the same challenge, and I'll be the first to admit it wasn't easy for her. How did Iris get into the antique business?"
    "She worked as a cook in private homes, and one family had a lot of antiques. Right away she was hooked. We used to study together at the kitchen table—me doing my math and her studying about drawer construction in eighteenth-century highboys or whatever. Then she met C. C. Cobb, and they opened the Junkery on Zwinger Street where you lived. I guess you know the rest."
    "Cobb was a rough character."
    "So was Hackpole, from what I hear."
    "The less said about that zero, the better," said Qwilleran with a frown. "Are you hungry? We could stop at a restaurant. Pickax has a couple of good ones."
    "I had some chili in Minneapolis while I was waiting for the shuttle, but I could stand a burger and a beer."
    They went to the Old Stone Mill, a century-old grist mill converted into a restaurant, with the waterwheel still turning and creaking. Dennis had his beer, and Qwilleran ordered Squunk water with a twist.
    "It's better than it sounds," he explained. "It's a local