"I'm going for a walk, so you can return to whatever shady pastime has been giving you that guilty look."
Leisurely, after changing into a warm-up suit, he walked up the lane, enjoying the glorious October foliage and the vibrant blue of the sky and the yellow blanket of leaves underfoot. When he reached the hired man's cottage he hurried past, lest the Boswells should rush out and engage him in neighborly conversation. At the comer he turned east to explore a stretch of Fugtree Road he had never traveled. It was paved but there were no farmhouses - only rocky pastureland, patches of woodland, and squirrels busy in the oak trees. He walked for about a mile, seeing nothing of interest except a bridge over a narrow stream, evidently Black Creek. Then he retraced his steps, hurrying past the Boswell cottage and slowing down in front of the Fugtree farm.
The Fugtree name was famous in Moose County. The farmhouse had been built by a lumber baron in the nineteenth century, and it was a perfect example of Affluent Victorian - three stories high, with a tower and a wealth of architectural detail. The complex of barns, sheds, and coops indicated it had also been a working farm for a country gentleman with plenty of money. Now the outbuildings were shabby, the house needed a coat of paint, and the grounds were overgrown with weeds. The present occupants were not taking care of the Fugtree property in the manner to which it had been accustomed.
As Qwilleran speculated on its faded grandeur, someone in the side yard looked in his direction with hands on hips. He turned away and walked briskly back to Black Creek Lane. Passing the hired man's cottage he was careful to keep his gaze straight ahead. Even so he was aware of the tot running across the front lawn.
"Hi!" she called out.
He ignored the salutation and walked faster.
"Hi!" she said again as he came abreast of her. He kept on walking. As a youngster in Chicago he had been cautioned never to speak to strange adults, and as an adult in a changing society he considered it prudent never to speak to strange children.
"Hi!" she called after him as he marched resolutely down the lane, scattering leaves underfoot. She was probably a lonely child, he guessed, but he banished the thought and finished his walk at a jog-trot.
Arriving at the apartment he flipped the hall light switch out of sheer curiosity. Three candles responded. First it had been four, then three, then two. Now it was three again. Growling under his breath he strode to the kitchen, where Koko was sitting on the windowsill gazing intently at the barnyard. Yum Yum was watching Koko.
Qwilleran said in a louder voice than usual, "Since you two loafers spend so much time in the kitchen staring into space, perhaps you can tell me where to find the spare lightbulbs. Come on, Koko. Let's have a little input."
With seeming difficulty Koko wrenched his attention away from the outdoor scene and executed a broad jump from the windowsill to the large freezer chest that Mrs. Cobb had left well stocked with food.
"I said lightbulbs, not meatballs," said Qwilleran. He opened and closed the pine cabinets until he found what he needed - a flame-shaped lightbulb intended for use in candle-style fixtures. He carried this and a kitchen chair to the front hall, the Siamese romping alongside to watch the show. Any action out of the ordinary attracted their attention, and a man climbing on a kitchen chair rated as a spectacle.
After Qwilleran had climbed on the chair, he forgot which light needed replacing. He stepped down and flicked the switch. All four candles responded.
"Spooks!" he muttered as he returned the chair to the kitchen and put the lightbulb back into the broom closet.
-5-
THE DINGLEBERRY FUNERAL home occupied an old stone mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard, one that had been built by a mining tycoon during Moose County's boom years. Though the exterior was forbidding, the interior had been styled by Amanda's Design Studio. Plush carpet, grasscloth walls, and raw silk draperies were in pale seafoam green, accented with eighteenth-century mahogany furniture and benign oil paintings in expensive frames. The decor was so widely admired that most of the fashionable residences in Pickax were decorated in Dingleberry green.
When Qwilleran arrived on Tuesday evening the large parking lot in the rear was filled and all the legal parking spaces on the boulevard were taken, as well as some of the illegal ones. Entering the establishment he heard a respectful babble of voices in the adjoining rooms. Susan Exbridge, handsomely dressed as usual, quickly approached him in the foyer.
"Dennis is darling!" she said in a subdued voice, restraining her usual dramatics of speech and gesture. "I feel so sorry for him. He thinks Iris would still be alive if he had arrived a day earlier, but I did my best to ease his mind. I took him to lunch at Tipsy's and then drove him around the county. He was quite impressed! When he saw the Fitch estate - it's for sale, you know - he said the big house could be converted into condos, and he'd like to live in the other house himself. I didn't mention it to him, but if he inherits Iris's money he could afford to buy the Fitch property and we could get him into the Theatre Club. He's interested in acting, and we could use a handsome man for leading roles - of his age, I mean. I told him Moose County is a good place to raise a family. Of course, I can't imagine why anyone would want to live in St. Louis anyway, can you?"
"You should be selling real estate," Qwilleran said. "I may do that if the antique shop isn't a big success. How will I ever be able to swing it without Iris? I had the connections, but she had the know-how. Exbridge and Cobb! It sounded so right! Like Crosse and Blackwell or Bausch and Lomb. Would you like to see her? She looks lovely."
Susan accompanied Qwilleran into the Slumber Room, where visitors were gathered in small groups, speaking in low but animated voices. One entire wall was banked with pink flowers, plus a few red and white blossoms for accent, and Iris Cobb in her pink suede suit lay at peace in a pink-lined casket with her rhinestone-studded eyeglasses folded in one hand as if she had just removed them before taking a nap.
Qwilleran said, "Was the pink nail polish your idea, Susan? I never saw her wear nail polish."
"She said she couldn't because she had her hands in water so much, but she won't have to cook any more, so I thought the polish was a nice touch."
"Don't kid yourself. At this moment she's happily concocting some ethereal delicacy for the angels."
"Have the attorneys called you?" she asked.
"No. Why should they?"
"Thursday morning is the reading of the will. They've asked Larry and me to attend. I wonder why. I'm getting nervous."
Qwilleran said, "Perhaps Iris left you her General Grant bed."
A new group of visitors arrived, and Susan excused herself to return to her greeting post in the foyer. Qwilleran sought out the chief mourner, who was eager to see him.
"Did you read her letters?" Dennis asked.
Qwilleran nodded dolefully. "Her decline was very rapid. It was a damn shame."
"I asked Doctor Halifax if the noises she heard could be the result of taking medication. He wouldn't say yes and wouldn't say no, but I saw the results of her tests, and she had really let herself get in bad shape. He said she had a 'crippling fear' of surgery. I knew that. She had been resisting eye surgery, although her vision was beginning to impair her driving."
"When would you like to see the farmhouse?"
"How about tomorrow after the funeral? I'm curious about - "
Dennis was interrupted by a loud voice at the entrance, and he looked toward the foyer. Everyone turned toward the foyer. The Boswells had arrived and were headed toward the bier, the man carrying their small child. For the first time Qwilleran noticed that he walked with a pronounced limp.
"Look, Baby," he was saying in the voice of a sideshow barker. "This is the nice lady who used to give you cookies. She's gone to live in heaven, and we came to say goodbye."