"Say goodbye to Mrs. Cobb, Baby," said the mother's soft voice.
"Bye-bye," said Baby, curling her fingers in a childish gesture.
"Iris looks so... pretty? Doesn't she, Baby?"
"Why is she in a box?" For a child of her age she was remarkably articulate, Qwilleran thought.
The father set her down and turned to see Qwilleran watching them. "They've got a good turnout here tonight. Parking lot was all parked up," he said in a voice that could be heard throughout the Slumber Room and adjoining areas. "Biggest visitation I ever went to! Will you take a look at those flowers! She was one popular lady! She didn't act like she had much on the ball, but people liked her. You can tell by the big crowd."
Mrs. Boswell, who was clasping her daughter's hand, said, "Baby, this is the nice man who's living at... the museum? Say hi to Mr. Qwilleran."
"Hi!" said Baby
Qwilleran looked down at the creature four feet below his eye level, pathetically puny in her short blue velvet coat and hat and wrinkled white tights. The outfit had obviously been homemade in a hurry. Before he could reply with a stiff "How do you do," the parents had spotted the Lanspeaks and descended on them, leaving him with Baby.
She looked up in wonder at his moustache and said in her clear, precise speech, "What's that thing on your face?"
"That's my nose," said Qwilleran. "Doesn't your father have a nose?"
"Yes, he has a nose."
"How about your mother? Does she have a nose?"
"Everybody has a nose," said Baby with disdain, as if dealing with a dolt.
"Then you should recognize a nose when you see one." Baby was not fazed by his evasive logic. "Where do you work?" she asked.
"I don't work. Where do you work?"
"I'm too little. My daddy works."
"Where does he work?"
"In the barn."
"What does he do in the barn?"
Baby scuffed the toe of her doll-size shoe. "I don't know. I don't go to the barn."
"Why not?"
"I'll get dirty."
"A likely story," said Qwilleran, glancing around and hoping to be rescued soon.
"They have kitties in the barn," Baby volunteered.
"If you don't go to the barn, how do you know they have kitties?"
This animated dialogue had attracted the rapt attention of surrounding groups, and Mrs. Boswell swooped in and snatched her daughter away. "Don't pester Mr. Qwilleran," she scolded softly.
It was a relief for him to circulate among the adults. The guest register was a who's who of Pickax: civic leaders, wealthy antique collectors, politicians running for office, and members of the Historical and Genealogical societies - the two most important organizations in a county that took pride in its heritage. The Old-Timers Club, which admitted only lifelong residents of advanced age, was represented by numerous white-haired members, many of them dependent upon canes, walkers, and wheelchairs. Qwilleran thought it commendable that Mitch Ogilvie, the young desk clerk from the hotel, paid lavish attention to these oldsters, listening to their stories and encouraging them to talk.
Arch Riker was there, clutching the arm of the unsteady Amanda. Polly Duncan, in the company of library boardmembers, exchanged glances with Qwilleran across the crowded room; they were always discreet in public. The lively Homer Tibbitt, age ninety-four, was accompanied by an elderly woman with well-coifed hair of a surprisingly youthful brown.
Riker said to Qwilleran, "Who's that old fellow who walks like a robot?"
"When you're his age, you won't be able to get out of bed without a derrick," said Qwilleran. "That's Homer Tibbitt, retired school principal, ninety-four and still doing volunteer work for the museum."
Amanda said, "That eighty-five-year-old woman with the thirty-year-old hair is Rhoda Finney. She's been chasing him for years, even before his wife died. She's one of the Lockmaster Finneys, and we all know about them!" Amanda's pronouncements always blended rumor, imagination, and truth in no known proportion. "The old fellow that Homer's talking to is Adam Dingleberry, oldest mortician in three counties." She referred to a frail, stooped figure dependent upon a walker. "He's buried more secrets than a dog buries bones. I'll bet some of them come back to haunt him. Look at the two old fogeys with their heads together, snickering like fools! You can bet Adam's telling dirty stories and Homer made his girl friend turn off her hearing aid."
Riker tugged at her arm. "Come on, Amanda; it's time to go."
Qwilleran maneuvered about the room until he caught Polly's eye, then tilted his head three degrees toward the front door. She said good night to her boardmembers and then followed him.
In the lobby Riker said, "Shall we go to the Old Stone Mill? They stay open later than Stephanie's."
"We'll meet you there," said Qwilleran. Then he and Polly walked to their separate cars.
At the picturesque mill the party of four asked for a quiet table and were conducted to a secluded comer overlooking the waterwheel. They were a motley foursome: the Klingenschoen heir with the overgrown moustache; Arch Riker with the equanimity, thinning hair, and paunchy figure of a lifelong newspaper deskman; Polly Duncan, the pleasant-faced, soft-voiced, well-informed administrator of the Pickax public library; Amanda Goodwinter of the Drinking Goodwinters, as her branch of the prominent clan was known. Polly had a matronly figure, a penchant for plain gray suits, and graying hair that was noticeably unstyled, but she was a paragon of fashion compared to Amanda, on whom every new garment looked secondband and every hair looked purposely out of place. Nevertheless, Riker enjoyed her crotchety company for perverse reasons that Qwilleran could not fathom.
Amanda had her usual bourbon; Polly asked for dry sherry; Riker wanted Scotch; and Qwilleran ordered pumpkin pie and coffee.
Polly said, "Qwill, that was a beautiful obituary you wrote for Iris. In everyday life she was so self-effacing that one tended to forget all her skills and knowledge and admirable qualities."
Amanda raised her glass in a toast. "Here's a wet one to Saint Iris of the Hummocks!" Then she winced and scowled at Riker, who had kicked her under the table.
Polly raised her glass and quoted from Hamlet: "And I flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
The two men nodded and sipped in silence. Riker asked, "How was your summer in England, Polly? Did you floor them with your knowledge of Shakespeare?"
She smiled pleasantly. "I had no chance to show off, Arch. I was too busy answering their questions about American movies."
"At least," Qwilleran said, "the English know that the Bard of Avon is an Elizabethan playwright and not a cosmetics distributor."
"Here come the big guns," Amanda muttered as another foursome arrived.
On the way to their table the Lanspeaks, Dennis Hough, and Susan Exbridge stopped to speak to Qwilleran's group, and Polly said to them, "That was a remarkable display at Dingleberry's. All color-coordinated! Even to the pink nail polish!"
"Give Susan the credit for that," Carol Lanspeak said. "I might have guessed!" said Polly sweetly in what passed as a compliment to Susan's exquisite taste, except that she raised her eyebrows slightly. Qwilleran and Riker exchanged knowing glances. Polly's dim regard for Susan was no secret.
As the new arrivals went on to their table Riker asked, "Is it true that Dingleberry will bury you free if you're a hundred or older?"
"They can afford to," Amanda grumbled. "They're making money hand over fist, but I've had a helluva tough time collecting my decorating fee."
"They expect.to take it out in trade," Qwilleran said.
"The Dingleberry enterprise," said Polly, "involves five generations. Adam Dingleberry's grandfather was a coffin maker. The next generation combined a furniture store with an undertaking parlor, as it used to be known. The present operation is run by Adam and his sons and grandsons."
Amanda said, "Who was that cretin with a jack-hammer voice that came in and disturbed the peace?"