While the Siamese inspected the premises, Qwilleran brought in the luggage. The writing materials he piled on the dining table in the kitchen. The stereo equipment he placed on an Austrian dower chest in the parlor. His clothing was a problem, however, since the bedroom was filled with Mrs. Cobb's personal belongings. Worse still, in his opinion, was the bedroom furniture: chests and tables with cold marble tops, a platform rocker too dainty in scale, and an enormous headboard of dark wood, intricately designed and reaching almost to the ceiling. It looked as if it might weigh a ton, and he had visions of the thing toppling on I him as he lay in bed.
"Tonight will be the test," he said to the prowling Siamese. "Either this old house emits weird noises after dark, or they were all in the poor woman's head. But I doubt whether we'll ever solve the mystery of the darkened house and yard. How many lights were on before she collapsed? There would be light in the kitchen where she was warming milk, perhaps in the bedroom where she was packing a bag, certainly in the yard because she was expecting me. And obviously the microwave had been in use."
Koko said "ik ik ik" and scratched his ear. Qwilleran locked both cats out of the kitchen while he sat at the dining table and typed Mrs. Cobb's obituary on her own typewriter. He needed no notes. He was well aware of her credentials as an antique dealer and licensed appraiser, of her accomplishments in cataloguing the vast Klingenschoen collection, of her generous gift to the Historical Society and her tireless efforts in restoring it as a living museum, wheedling cash donations and treasured heirlooms from tight-fisted Moose County families. She had staged programs for schoolchildren, infecting them with a germ of interest in their heritage. And Qwilleran could not end his paean without lauding the cornucopia of cookie delights that poured from her kitchen.
He omitted the fact that all three of her husbands had died unnatural deaths: Hough from food poisoning, Cobb from a murderous accident, and Hackpole... Qwilleran preferred not to think about Hackpole.
The obituary finished, he telephoned it to the copydesk of the Moose County Something for Tuesday's edition. Admittedly this was an unusual name for a newspaper, but Moose County took pride in being different.
The work had given Qwilleran an appetite, and he foraged in the freezer, putting together a lunch of beef-barley soup and homemade cheese bread.
Before he could finish his repast, the banging of the brass knocker summoned him to the front door. The caller proved to be a scrawny man of middle age, sharp-eyed and sharp-nosed.
"I saw your car in the yard," said a loud twangy voice. "Is there anything I can do for you? I'm Vince Boswell. I've been working on the printing presses in the barn."
It was the voice he had heard on the telephone, the kind that punctures the eardrums like a knife. Qwilleran winced. He said coolly, "How do you do. I've just moved in and I'll be living here for a few weeks."
"That's just fine! Then I don't need to worry about the place. I sort of kept an eye on the museum when Iris was away. You must be Jim Qwilleran that writes for the Something. I see your picture in the paper all the time. Will you be spending much time here?"
"I'll be coming and going."
"Then I'll watch the place when you're away. I'm a writer, too-technical stuff, you know. I'm writing a book on the history of the printing press and cataloguing the antique equipment in the barn. Big job!" Boswell looked past Qwilleran and down at the floor. "I see you've got a kitty."
"I have two," Qwilleran said.
"My little girl loves kitties. Maybe my wife could bring Baby over to meet them some day."
Qwilleran cleared his throat. "These are not your usual cats, Mr. Boswell. They're Siamese watch-cats, highly temperamental, and not accustomed to children. I wouldn't want... your child to be accidentally scratched." He was aware that Moose County courtesy required him to invite the caller in for a beer or a cup of coffee, but Boswell's clarion voice annoyed him. He said, "I'd ask you in for a cup of coffee, but I'm leaving for the airport, Someone is coming into town for the funeral,"
Boswell shook his head sadly. "My wife and me, we felt bad about that. Iris was a nice lady. When is the funeral? Will there be a visitation at the mortuary?"
"I believe the information will be in tomorrow's paper." Qwilleran glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse me, Mr, Boswell. I want to be there when the plane lands."
"Call me Vince. And let me know if there's anything I can do, you hear?" He left with a wave of the hand that included the cat, "Goodbye, kitty. Nice to meet you, Mr. Qwilleran."
Qwilleran closed the door and turned to Koko. "How did you react to that noisy oaf?"
Koko laid his ears back. Qwilleran thought, No one has ever called him "kitty." A more appropriate form of address would be "Your Excellency" or "Your Eminence."
Before leaving for the airport he telephoned Susan Exbridge at her apartment in Indian Village. He said, "Just want you to know I've moved into Iris's quarters, in case you need me for anything. How's it going?"
The vice president of the Historical Society had energy and enthusiasm to match that of the president. She said, "I'm beat! I rushed out to the museum early this morning and selected some clothes for Iris to be buried in. I decided on that pink suede suit she wore for her wedding last year. Then I chose the casket at Dingleberry's. Iris would love it!
It has a pink shirred lining, very feminine. Then I discussed the music with the church organist and lined up hosts for tomorrow night at the funeral home and hired the marching band. I also talked the florists into flying in special pink flowers from Minneapolis. Moose County goes in for rust and gold mums, which would be ghastly with the pink casket lining, don't you think?"
"That sounds like a full day's work, Susan." "It was! And all so emotional! I haven't had time to cry yet, but now I'm going to drink two martinis and have a good wet weep for poor Iris... What did you do today, Qwill?"
"I wrote her obit and phoned it in, and now I'm leaving for the airport to pick up her son," Qwilleran said. "I'll take him to dinner and drop him off at the hotel. His name is Dennis H-o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff. Will you and Larry do the honors tomorrow?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"You might see that he's taken to lunch and dinner and escorted to Dingleberry's at the proper time."
"Is he attractive?" asked Susan without missing a beat. Recently divorced, she was constantly alert to possibilities.
"It depends upon your taste," Qwilleran said. "He's five feet tall, weighs three hundred pounds, and he has a glass eye and dandruff."
"Just my type," she said airily. Qwilleran changed his clothes, found cold roast beef in the refrigerator, which he warmed for the Siamese, and then drove to the airport.
Two years before, the Moose County airport had been little more than a cow pasture and a shack with a windsock, but a grant from the Klingenschoen Fund had upgraded the airstrip and terminal, built hangars and paved a parking lot, while the local garden clubs had landscaped the entrance and planted rust and gold mums.
In the terminal, copies of the Monday Something displayed this news on the front page, within a black border:
BULLETIN
Iris Cobb Hackpole was found dead at her apartment in North Middle Hummock early this morning, following an apparent heart attack. She was resident manager of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum and partner in a new antique shop opening in Pickax. She had been in ill health. Funeral arrangements to be announced.