"I'll say good night, then. It's been a hectic day, and neither of us had much sleep last night, did we? I finally lined up the other pallbearers, so now I'm going to have a much deserved nightcap and turn in."
"One question, Larry. Did you see Iris during museum visiting hours this past week?"
"I didn't, but Carol did. She said Iris looked tired and worried - the result of her medical report, no doubt, and maybe the stress of opening the new shop. Carol told her to go and lie down."
Qwilleran went back to his opera, but he had missed the love duet. He turned off the machine peevishly, checked the cats' whereabouts, doused the lights, and sprawled in the blue wing chair with his feet on the footstool. Then he waited in the dark - waiting and listening for the knocking, moaning, rattling, and screaming.
Four hours later he opened his eyes suddenly. He had a kink in his neck and two Siamese on his lap, their combined weight having caused one foot to be totally numb. Asleep they weighed twice what they weighed on the veterinarian's scale. Qwilleran limped about the room, grumbling and stamping his deadened foot. If there had been noises in the walls, he had slept through them in a blissful stupor. Larry's phone call was the last thing he remembered.
In retrospect there was something about the call that bothered him. Larry had mentioned pallbearers. He said he had lined up "the other pallbearers." What, Qwilleran wondered, did he mean by "other"?
He waited fretfully for seven o'clock, at which time he telephoned the Lanspeak country house. Without preamble he said, "Larry, may I ask a question?"
"Sure, what's on your mind?"
"Who are the pallbearers?"
"The three male members of the museum board and Mitch Ogilvie - in addition to you and me. Why do you ask?"
"Just for the record," Qwilleran said, "no one up to this minute has even hinted that I might be a pallbearer - not that I have any objection, you understand - but I'm glad I happened to find out."
"Didn't Susan talk to you?"
"She talked to me at considerable length about a pink suede suit and a casket with pink lining and pink flowers being flown in from Minneapolis, but not a word about pal1bearing."
"I'm sorry, Qwill. Does it create a problem?"
"No. No problem. I merely wanted to be sure."
The truth was that it created a definite problem. It called for a dark suit - something Qwilleran had not owned for twenty-five years. Neither in his lean years nor in his newly acquired affluence had he found an extensive wardrobe important to his lifestyle. In Moose County he could get by with sweaters, windbreakers, a tweed sports coat with leather patches, and a navy blue blazer. At the moment he owned one suit, a light gray, purchased when he was best man at Iris Cobb's marriage to Hackpole. It had not been off the hanger since that memorable occasion.
At nine o'clock sharp he telephoned Scottie's Men's Shop in downtown Pickax, saying, "I need a dark suit in a hurry, Scottie."
"How darrrk, laddie, and in how much of a hurrry," said the proprietor. He liked to burr his r's for Qwilleran, who always made it known that his mother's maiden name was Mackintosh.
"Very dark. I'm going to be a pallbearer, and the funeral's at ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Do you have a tailor on tap?"
"Aye, but canna say for how long. He were goin' to the doctor. Get over here in five minutes and he can fit you."
"I'm not in Pickax, Scottie. I'm living at the Goodwinter farmhouse. Can you keep him there for half an hour? Bribe the guy!"
"Weel, he's a stubborrrrn Scot, but I'll do my best." Qwilleran made a dash for his razor, slapped on the lather, and cut himself. Just as he was stanching the blood and muttering under his breath, the brass door knocker clanged.
"Damn that Boswell!" he said aloud. He was sure it was the bothersome Boswell; who else would call at such an hour?
In his short shavecoat and with half a faceful of lather, he strode to the entrance hall and yanked open the door. There on the doorstep stood a startled woman holding a plate of biscuits. She covered her face with one hand in embarrassment. "Oh, you're shavin'! Pardon me, Mr. Qwilleran," she said in a soft southern drawl. Each lilting statement ended with emphasis on the last word and an implied question mark. "I'm your neighbor, Verona Boswell? I brought you some fresh biscuits... for your breakfast? " It was a refreshing sound in Moose County, 400 miles north of North, but Qwilleran had no time for refreshment.
"Thank you. Thank you very much," he said briskly, accepting the plate.
"I just wanted to say... welcome?"
"That's kind of you." He tried not to be curt. On the other hand, the lather was drying on his face and Scottie's tailor was pacing the floor.
"Let us know if there's any thin' we can... do for you?"
"I appreciate your thoughtfulness."
"I hope we can get better acquainted after the... funeral?"
"Indeed, Mrs. Boswell." He had stepped back and was beginning to close the door.
"Oh, please call me... Verona? You'll see us around a lot."
"I'm sure I shall, but I must ask you to excuse me now. I'm leaving for Pickax on urgent business."
"Then I won't hold you up. We'll probably see you tonight at the... visitation?" Reluctantly she backed away, saying, "My little girl would love to meet your kitties."
Qwilleran finished dressing with clenched jaw. He had always lived in cities, where one could ignore neighbors and be completely ignored in return. The smothering neighborliness of the Boswells, he feared, might be a problem - not to mention "Baby" who wanted to meet the "kitties." Was that really her name? Baby Boswell! Qwilleran disliked the child even before setting eyes on her. He was sure she would be one of those insufferable tots - cute, vain, and precocious. Like W. C. Fields he had never developed a liking I for small children.
As for Verona Boswell, she was not unattractive, and her gentle voice was a welcome contrast to her husband's shrillness. Verona was somewhat younger than Vince, but she had lost her freshness - probably, Qwilleran decided, from listening to his whining harangue. Whatever their neighborly virtues, he determined to see as little as possible of the Boswells.
Driving to Pickax in a huff he was stopped for speeding, but the state trooper looked at his driver's license and the distinctive moustache and merely issued a warning. At the men's store Scottie was waiting with a selection of dark blue suits, while a tailor with a tape measure around his neck stood nervously in the background.
"I don't want to pay too much," Qwilleran said, scanning the pricetags.
"Spoken like a true Mackintosh," said the storekeeper, nodding his shaggy gray head. "That clan always had deep pockets and shorrrt arrrms. Perhaps you'd like to rent a suit if it's only for a funeral."
Qwilleran scowled at him. "On the other hand, mon, a darrrk suit is handy to have in the closet in case you suddenly want to get married."
Qwilleran made a selection reluctantly, considering all the suits overpriced.
As the tailor checked the fit, hoisting here and tugging there, Scottie said, "So you're stayin' at the Goodwinter farmhouse, are you? Have you seen a dead man sittin' on a keg of gold coins?"
"So far I've been denied that pleasure," Qwilleran replied. "Is he supposed to be a regular visitor?"
"Old Ephraim Goodwinter was a miser, you know, and they say he still comes back to count his money. How do you want to pay for this suit? Cash? Credit card? Ten dollars a week?"
From the men's store Qwilleran drove to the Pickax industrial park, where the Moose County Something occupied a new building. Designed to house editorial and business offices as well as a modem printing plant, the building was a costly project made possible by an interest-free loan from the Klingenschoen Fund. The daily masthead on page four listed the following:
ARCH RIKER, editor and publisher
JUNIOR GOODWINTER, managing editor