The van stopped, and Vince Boswell leaned out. "Sorry I couldn't get to the funeral," he said. "I'm trying to finish work on the presses before snow flies. How many cars went to the cemetery?"
"I didn't count them," Qwilleran snapped, and then - remembering Boswell's assistance in getting his car started - he amended his curt reply in a more cordial tone. "There was a marching band, very impressive. The church was filled."
"Must've been quite a sight. I wish I could've been there to say goodbye to the lady." He peered at Dennis. "I don't believe I've been formally introduced to your friend."
Qwilleran made the introductions briefly.
Boswell said, "Coming to pick up some of your mother's things, I suppose. She had a cookbook that my wife would like to have if you don't want it - just as a remembrance, you know. She's always looking for new things to cook. If you two gentlemen would like to come and have supper with us tonight, you'd be very welcome. It won't be fancy, but it'll be home-cooked."
"That's kind of you," said Qwilleran, "but Mr. Hough's time is limited. He simply wants to see the farmhouse."
"Be glad to show you the printing presses in the barn, sir."
"Not this time, thanks."
"Well, let me know if I can be of any assistance," said Boswell.
As the van drove away, Dennis said, "Do you think he's a Noble Son of the Noose?"
"He's a son of something," said Qwilleran, "but he bailed me out of a tight situation this morning, and I should be grateful. Maybe that's why he was hinting for your mother's cookbook."
"At the funeral home last night he asked Larry for my mother's job as resident manager. Sort of premature, don't you think?"
"Vince Boswell isn't noted for his finesse." First they walked around the grounds, Qwilleran pointing out the features of the house. The original section was built of square logs measuring fourteen by fourteen inches, chinked with mortar made of clay, straw, and hog's blood. The east and west wings were added later, and the whole structure was covered with cedar shingles, now weathered to a silvery gray.
Dennis showed no sentiment when they entered his mother's apartment. He strolled about with his hands in his pockets, commenting on the wide floorboards, the extravagant use of milled woodwork, and the six-over-six windows, many of the panes having the original wavy glass. He said nothing about the General Grant bed or the Pennsylvania Schrank or the pewter collection in the kitchen - all considered rare treasures by Iris Cobb.
When they entered the kitchen, Koko rose from his huddle on the windowsill, stretched his long body in a hairpin curve, and made a flying leap to the top of the freezer-chest, six feet away.
"Too early for dinner," Qwilleran told him.
"Is that Koko?" Dennis asked. "My mother told me about him. She said he's very smart."
Koko was now on the floor, tracing abstract patterns with his nose, moving his head from right to left, covering the entire room systematically.
"This is his bloodhound act," Qwilleran explained. As the cat neared the telephone he became excited, hopped to the seat of the old school desk and sniffed the desktop with moist snorts.
"What's in that desk?" Dennis asked.
Qwilleran lifted the lid. "Papers," he said. There were scribbled notes in Iris Cobb's illegible hand, newspaper clippings, index cards, a magnifying glass, and a battered looseleaf notebook, its black covers now gray with waterspots and flour and hard use.
Dennis said, "That looks like her personal cookbook. She told me it was the only thing she saved from the fire last year. That's because it was in her luggage at the time. She was taking it on her honeymoon, if you can believe that."
"Knowing your mother, I can believe it," said Qwilleran as he returned the book to the desk. "There are women in Moose County who would sell their souls to the devil if they could get their hands on this collection of recipes. Would you like to see the museum now?"
Dennis glanced at his watch. "Sure." The main section of the house was furnished with trestle tables, rope beds, a pie safe, banister-back chairs, iron-strapped chests and other trappings of a pioneer home. The east wing was devoted to collections of textiles, documents, lighting fixtures and the like. Dennis ignored the stenciled walls that had thrilled his mother, and the window curtains that had required so much research, and the heirlooms she had begged from old families in the area.
"It was the basement where she first heard the knocking," he said.
"Okay, let's go downstairs," said Qwilleran. A sign at the top of the basement stairs explained that the "cellar" originally had a dirt floor and was used for storing root vegetables and apples in winter, and possibly milk and cream from the family cow. Later a coal bin had been added, and a fruit closet for home canning. The basement now had a concrete floor and the latest in heating and laundry equipment, but the exposed joists overhead were fourteen-inch logs with the bark still in evidence.
Qwilleran found a door leading to a storeroom under the west wing, where damaged furniture and household cast-offs were piled without plan or purpose, among them a wooden potato masher. The stone walls were a foot thick, one of them roughly covered with cracked plaster. Had Iris cracked it, Qwilleran wondered, when she tapped out an answer to the ghostly visitor?
"Nothing here to explain the knocking," said Dennis. "The house is built like Fort Knox. Let's go back upstairs. Susan is picking me up and taking me to see the Fitch property. The real estate broker is meeting us there."
"Are you serious about moving to Moose County?"
"I won't know until I talk it over with Cheryl, but when I ten her about the Fitch estate she might get excited."
Don't tell her about Susan, Qwilleran thought. There was an obvious rapport developing between Dennis and the vivacious divorcee. He had observed it at Dingleberry's and at the luncheon following the funeral, and he noticed it again when Susan arrived and whisked the young man away to the Fitch estate. He was at least fifteen years her junior but tall like her former husband and with the same rugged good looks.
When he had waved the couple on their way he went indoors, flicking the hall lights out of sheer curiosity. The previous flick had activated four candles. Now it was three again. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache.
He had expected to spend the afternoon with Dennis, examining the museum exhibits and looking at the printing presses in the barn, after which they might have had drinks at the Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville, dinner at the Northern Lights Hotel overlooking the lake, and dessert at the colorful Black Bear Caf‚.
Somewhat disappointed he telephoned Polly at the library. "Would you like to go out tonight? We could have dinner at the Northern Lights and finish up at the Black Bear."
"How would you like to come to my place instead?" she asked.
"You shouldn't have to cook after working all day," he protested.
"Don't worry. I can whip up something very easily." He knew what it would be. They had recently read a play aloud - The Cocktail Party by T. S. Eliot - and since then Polly had been whipping up curried dishes instead of broiling fish or pan-frying chops. He liked Indian fare, but Polly was whipping a good idea to death. Her cottage was beginning to have a permanent aroma of Bombay, as if it had seeped into the carpet and upholstery. "Are you sure you want to take the trouble?" he asked.
"Of course I do! Besides, I have a surprise for you."
"What is it?" Qwilleran hated to be surprised.
"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise, will it? Come at six-thirty. That will give me time to go home and change clothes."
And find the curry powder, he thought. Reluctantly he agreed. He would have preferred broiled whitefish or stuffed porkchops at the Northern Lights.
Now he had time to kill, and it occurred to him that he had never raked leaves. He had interviewed kings; he had been strafed on a Mediterranean beach; and briefly he had been held hostage by a crazed bank robber, but he had never raked leaves. He changed into jeans and a red plaid shirt and went to the steel barn to find a rake.