One of the canaries ushered Qwilleran into the reading room, a quiet place equipped with large-print books and cleverly adjustable reading lamps. He had been there on previous occasions to conduct interviews and had never seen anyone reading. Patients who were not confined to their beds were in the lounge, watching television.
"He's a little hard of hearing," said the canary who wheeled the elderly mortician into the room, a wizened little man who had once been the tallest boy in school and a holy terror, according to Homer Tibbitt.
The volunteer took a seat apart from them, near the door, and Qwilleran said in a loud, clear voice, "We've never met, Mr. Dingleberry, but I've seen you at meetings of the old-timers, and Homer Tibbitt tells me he went to school with you."
"Homer, eh? He were younger than me in school. Still is. He's only ninety-four. I'm ninety-eight. How old are you?" His voice had the same high pitch as Homer's, and it cracked on every tenth word.
"I'm embarrassed to say," Qwilleran replied, "that I'm only fifty."
"Fifty, eh? You have to walk around on your own legs. When you're my age, you get trundled around everywhere."
"That gives me something to look forward to."
In spite of his shrunken form and leathery wrinkles, Adam Dingleberry had sharp bird-like eyes that darted as fast as his mind. "The city fathers are tryin' to outlaw Halloween," he said, taking the lead in the conversation. "In the old days we used to wax windows and knock over outhouses till hell-won't-have-it. One year we bricked up the schoolhouse door."
Qwilleran said, "May I turn on my machine and tape some of this?" He placed the recorder on the table between them, and the following conversation was preserved for posterity:
The museum has a deskfrom the Black Creek School, carved with initials. Would any of them be yours?
Nope. I always carved somebody else's initials. Never finished the grades. They kicked me out for smearin' the teacher's chair with cow dung. My paw give me a whuppin' but it were worth it.
Is it a fact that the Dingleberry family has been in the funeral business for more than a hundred years?
Yup. My grampaw come from the Old Country to build shafthouses for the mines. Built coffins, too. When some poor soul died, Grampaw stayed up all night whittlin' a coffin-tailor-made to fit. Coffins warn't like we have now. They was wide at the top, narrow at the foot. Makes sense, don't it? It took a heap o' skill to mitre the joints. Grampaw were mighty proud of his work, and my paw learned coffin-buildin' from him, only Paw started buildin' furniture.
What kind of furniture, Mr. Dingleberry?
Wal, now, he used to build a desk with long legs and a cupboard on top. Sold tons of 'em! The Dingleberry desk, it were called. They was all a bit different: doors, no doors, one drawer, two drawers, false bottom, built-in lockbox, pigeonholes, whatever folks wanted.
Did your father sign his work?
Nope. Folks knowed who built their desk. No sense in puttin' a name on it. Like today, they slap names allover. My grandsons have names on the outside of their shirts! Next thing, they'll be puttin' the Dingleberry name inside the casket!
How did your father become a mortician?
Wal, now, his desk-it were such a good seller, he hired fellas to build 'em and tables and beds and coffins-whatall folks wanted. So Paw opened a furniture store. Gave free funerals to folks that bought coffins. He had a fancy black hearse and black horses with black feathers. Funerals were a sight in them days! When me and my brothers come along - they're all dead now - we opened a reg'lar funeral parlor, all proper and dignified but not high-fallutin', see? Got rid o' the horses when automobiles come in. Folks hated to see 'em go. Then my sons took over, and my grandsons. They went away to school. I never finished.
Do you remember the Ephraim Goodwinter funeral?
(Long pause.) Wal, now, I were a young lad, but my folks talked about it.
Was his death a suicide or a lynching?
(Long pause.) All I know, he were strung up.
Do you know who cut down the body?
Yup. My paw and Ephraim's son, Titus. They had a preacher there, too. Forget his name.
Mr. Crawbanks?
That's him!
How do you know all this?
(Long pause.) I warn't supposed to be there. My paw told me to stay to home, but I hid in the wagon. The preacher, he said some prayers, and Paw and Titus took off their hats. I crossed myself. I knew I'd get a whuppin' when we got home.
Did you see the corpse? Were the hands tied or not?
Couldn't see. It were near daybreak - not much light.
Did anyone have a camera?
Yup. Titus, he took a picture. Don't know what for.
How was the corpse dressed?
That were a long time ago, and I were too bug-eyed to pay attention. They throwed a blanket over him.
A suicide would have to stand on a box or something and then kick it away. Do you remember seeing anything like that?
(Long pause.) Musta sat on a horse and give it a kick. Horse went home all by itself. Empty saddle. That's when they come lookin' for the old man. That's what Titus said.
Did you believe that?
I were a young boy then. Didn't stop to figger it out.
Did your father ever talk about it?
(Long pause.) Nope. Not then. (Long pause.) What d'you want to know all this for?
Our readers enjoy the memoirs of old-timers. I've interviewed Euphonia Gage, Emma Huggins Wimsey, Homer Tibbitt...
Homer, eh? I could tell you some things he don't know. But don't put it in the paper.
I'll turn off my tape recorder.
Qwilleran flipped the button on the machine and placed it on the floor.
"I want a drink of water," the old man demanded in his shrill voice. As the canary hurried from the room, he said to Qwilleran. "Don't want her to hear this." With a leer he added, "What d'you think of her?"
"She's an attractive woman."
"Too young for me."
When the canary returned with the glass of water, Qwilleran took her aside and said, "May I have a few minutes alone with Mr. Dingleberry? He has some personal matters to discuss."
"Certainly," she said. "I'll wait outside."
Nervously Adam said, "Where'd she go?"
"Right outside the door. What did you want. to tell me, Mr. Dingleberry?"
"You won't print it in the paper?"
"I won't print it in the paper."
"Never tell a living soul?"
"I promise," said Qwilleran, raising his right hand.
"My paw told me afore he died. Made me promise not to tell. If folks found out, he said, we'd both be strung up. But he's gone now, and I'll be goin' soon. No percentage in takin' it to the grave."
"Shouldn't you be passing this secret along to your sons?"
"Nope. Don't trust them whippersnappers. Too goldurn'ed cocky. You've got an honest face."
Qwilleran groomed his moustache with a show of modesty. Strangers had always been eager to confide in him. Looking intensely interested and sincere, he said, "What did your father reveal to you?"
"Wal, now, it were about Ephraim's funeral," old Adam said in his reedy voice. "Longest funeral procession in the history of Pickax! Six black horses 'stead of four. Two come all the way from Lockmaster. They was followed by a thirty- seven carriages and fifty-two buggies, but... it were all a joke!" He finished with a cackling laugh that turned into a coughing spell, and Qwilleran handed him the glass of water.
"What was the joke?" he asked when the spasm had subsided.
Adam cackled with glee. "Ephraim warn't in the coffin!"
Qwilleran thought, So Mitch's story is true. He's buried under the house! To Adam he said, "You say Ephraim's body wasn't in the coffin. Where was it?"
"Wal, now, the truth were..." Adam took a sip of water, which went down the wrong throat, and the coughing resumed so violently that Qwilleran feared the old man would choke. He called for help, and a nurse and two canaries rushed to his aid.