"Say! This is Vince Boswell!" It was a loud piercing voice with a nasal twang. "I called to see about Iris. Something happen to her? The wife and me, we were sort of watching a video, and we saw the ambulance lights."
Qwilleran replied coolly, "I regret to say that Mrs. Cobb I has had a fatal attack."
"No kidding! That's a damn shame!" said the ear-shattering voice, adding with muffled volume as he turned away from the mouthpiece, "Some guy says Iris had a fatal attack, honey!" Then he shouted into the phone, "We liked Iris a helluva lot, my wife and me. Anything we can do?"
Qwilleran was holding the receiver six inches from his ear. "I don't believe so, but thanks for calling."
"We're right close by if you need any help at the museum, understand? Glad to pitch in at a time like this."
"That's kind of you. Good night, Mr. Bosworth."
"Boswell," the man corrected him. "We're staying in the cottage up at the comer, the wife and me. Larry Lanspeak is a friend of ours."
"I see. Well, good night, Mr. Boswell. We appreciate your concern."
Qwilleran hung up and said to Larry, "Who's Boswell?"
"Haven't you met Vince and Verona? She's one of our volunteers, and Vince is cataloguing the antique printing presses in the barn. He's writing a book on the history of printing."
Qwilleran thought, Does the world need another book on the history of printing? "Where did you find this guy, Larry?"
"He came up here from Pittsburgh."
Must have been a coach for the Steelers, Qwilleran thought.
Larry went on, "Vince offered to do the job gratis, so we let him live in the hired man's cottage rent-free. Now that Iris is gone we should have someone living on the premises for security reasons. I'm thinking the Boswells might fill in temporarily."
"I'll be willing to move in until you locate a permanent resident," Qwilleran said.
"That's a kind offer, Qwill, but it would be an imposition."
"Not at all. I've been wanting to spend some time at the museum - especially in the document collection-digging up material for my column."
"If you're serious, Qwill, it would solve our problem, and you wouldn't have to be involved with the museum operation. It's a separate telephone line, and the volunteers come and go with their own key. No one would bother you."
"I'd have the cats with me, of course," Qwilleran pointed out. "Koko is a self-appointed security officer, and Yum Yum once distinguished herself by catching a museum mouse. Iris used to invite them over here once in a while, and they never did any damage."
"I'm not worried about that," Larry said. "I know they're well-behaved, and they could have a ball, socializing with the barncats and stuffing themselves with fieldmice."
"They're indoor cats," Qwilleran quickly corrected him. "I'm very careful not to let them out."
The telephone rang again, and this time it was Dennis. "We've talked it over, Mr. Qwilleran, and Cheryl and I think the funeral and burial should be up there, where Mother had so many friends. I'll fly up today as I originally planned, and in the meantime you can make whatever decisions have to be made. She always wrote about you in her letters. You were very good to her."
"I'm glad you're coming up, Dennis. I'll meet your plane at the airport and make a reservation for you at the Pickax Hotel, but I don't have your last name."
"It's H-o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff."
"Are you catching the five o'clock shuttle out of Minneapolis?"
"That's right... and Mr. Qwilleran, there's something I want to tell you when I arrive, something that was happening to my mother in the last week or so. It had to do with the museum. She was greatly disturbed."
Qwilleran touched his moustache tentatively. "I certainly want to hear about it."
"Thanks for everything, Mr. Q. Isn't that what Mother always called you?"
"Most people call me Qwill. You do the same, Dennis."
As he slowly hung up the phone, questions about Iris Cobb's mental state raced through his mind. It had to be the medication!
"What's the decision?" Larry asked.
"The arrangements are all up to us. Funeral and burial here. Her son will arrive this evening. I'll have the Klingenschoen Fund cover expenses, and I want everything done right."
"I agree. We'll use the Dingleberry funeral home and have the service at the Old Stone Church."
"Would you be good enough to make a couple of phone calls while I rustle up some instant coffee?" Qwilleran asked. "We should line up Dingleberry and inform the hospital. If they need to know the next of kin, it's Dennis H- o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff. Then I'll call WPKX and the night desk at the paper. They can run a bulletin on page one, and I'll write an obituary for Tuesday."
Larry said, "Tell them the museum will be closed for the entire week."
They sat at the dining table in the kitchen, pushing aside the pink candles in milk-glass holders and swigging coffee from majolica mugs as they worked out the details: friends invited to call at Dingleberry's Tuesday evening, final rites to be held at the church on Park Circle Wednesday morning, the Pickax Funeral Band to lead the procession of cars to the cemetery. As past president of the chamber of commerce Larry was sure that all places of business would close on the morning of the funeral. As current president of the board of education he would ask that schools also close for half a day.
"Grades K to twelve have all made field trips to the museum," he said, "and Iris always had cookies and lemonade for the kids."
For a century or more, funerals had been events of moment in Pickax. The townspeople always turned out en masse to pay their respects and count the number of vehicles in the procession. These statistics became a matter of record, to be memorized and quoted: ninety-three cars for Senior Goodwinter's funeral the year before; seventy-five when Captain Fugtree was buried. Most spectacular of all was Ephraim Goodwinter's funeral in 1904; fifty-two buggies, thirty-seven carriages, more than a hundred mourners on foot, and seventeen on bicycles. "Everything but camels and elephants," one irreverent bystander was heard to remark on that occasion. Ephraim, owner of the Goodwinter Mine, was intensely disliked, and his funeral procession resembled a march of triumph, but that was a long story, veiled in hearsay and prejudice - one that Qwilleran hoped eventually to research.
Next came the question of flowers or no flowers. "I'm sure Iris would like flowers," he said. "There's a certain sentimentality in floral tributes, and our friend was a sentimental soul."
"And how about eulogies? Iris was modest to a fault."
"Yes, but she craved approval. When she first came to Pickax I introduced her at a city council meeting, and the audience applauded as a matter of courtesy. Iris was so touched by the applause that she went home and cried. So I vote for eulogies."
"Good! We'll line up the mayor and the president of the county commissioners. Or should we have a woman give one of the eulogies? Susan, perhaps. Or Carol."
"Knowing Iris, I'd say the eulogies should be given by men."
"Maybe you're right. We'll ask Susan to pick out the casket and something for Iris to wear." Larry leaned back in his chair. "Well, I believe that's all we can do tonight. I have Columbus Day specials at the store tomorrow - I mean, today - and if I rush home now I can snatch about three hours of sleep."
Qwilleran said, "I'd like to mention one thing: Iris complained of hearing peculiar noises after dark. Did you ever hear anything unusual?"
"Can't say that I did. I've been here many times at a late hour when we were setting up exhibits, and all I ever heard was crickets and frogs and maybe a loon."
"When I arrived tonight, Larry, the whole place was in darkness. I thought it was a power failure, but when I tried the wall switches, everything worked. How do you explain that?"
"I don't know," said Larry, obviously tired and impatient to leave. "When we found out her eyesight was getting bad, we told Iris not to try to conserve electricity, but she had thrifty habits. I'll get you some keys from the office."