Qwilleran said, “I’ve never heard of that company, but I have to admit I don’t know Lockmaster well.”
“I phoned the number on the bill and talked to some fast-talkin’ babe called Bernice but didn’t get anywhere. She was very friendly - friendly like a snake… So now you see why I don’t want those greedy buzzards to dig up the money they paid for the land.”
Suddenly Qwilleran thundered “NO!” in the direction of the desk. The explosive shout sent the cats flying, while assorted desktop items landed on the floor. “Sorry,” he said to his guest. “Koko was licking Culvert’s snapshots. There’s something in the surface of photos that tastes good to cats.” He gathered up the clutter and examined the snapshots. A cat’s saliva always left a rough spot. Only one picture was damaged - a shot of Maude in the barnyard, with her boot on the shoulder of a spade. She was digging a hole, and on the ground beside her was a two-pound coffee can.
It raised the hackles on Qwilleran’ s neck. He said, “Here’s a coincidence, Rollo. Can you identify the wall in this picture?” It was a whitewashed plank wall.
“It’s the outhouse!” the farmer roared. “The back of the outhouse! Let’s go and dig it up!” He was out of his chair and halfway to the door.
“Not so fast!” Qwilleran said. “We’d better clear it with the attorney.”
“Anyway, let’s go down and have a look at it. Then I’ve got to go home and do chores.”
Qwilleran said, “I’ll ride with you, pick up my mail, and walk back.” Then, on the way down the lane, he asked, “I wonder what happened to Mrs. Coggin’s dogs. She let them live in the shed.”
“Believe it or not,” said Rollo, “when I started up here this afternoon, I saw this parade of broken-down mutts comin’ down the highway, headed for our farm. The black one with the bad limp was in the lead, with the others hobblin’ after him. I hollered to Culvert to come and take ‘em in.” There were two vehicles at the site of the fire: a sheriff s car and the pickup belonging to the fire department’s watchman. The latter said to Rollo, “I’m reporting it’s safe to leave now.”
“How long will the yellow tape remain?” Qwilleran asked.
“Till the owners clean it up,” said the deputy. “Till then, it’s a danger spot. Kids could come pokin’ around in the muck, lookin’ for loot.”
“More than that, it’s a health hazard,” Rollo said. “When the outhouse burned down, it left an open latrine. It’s gotta be treated with lime and filled up, or you’ll wind up with a godawful swarm of flies, and the folks across the road’ll have somethin’ worse than mud to write to the paper about.”
The deputy said he’d report it to the board of health.
“Naw, they’ll take a coon’s age to fix it,” said the farmer. “I got some lime in my barn. When I’ve done my chores, I’ll run up here with a shovel and close it up.
Best thing to do. Don’t want to start an epidemic.”
-7-
Early Wednesday morning, when only farmers and Benjamin Franklin’s disciples were abroad, Qwilleran received a phone call from Rollo McBee. “Are you up?” he asked. “Got somethin’ to show you.”
“I’m never up at this ungodly hour. What have you got?”
“A two-pound coffee can. Found it accidentally when I was fillin’ in the latrine.”
“I’m up!”
In less than ten minutes, the farmer’s pickup came slowly up the lane. Qwilleran went out to meet him and was handed a plastic sack from Toodle’s Market.
“Are you coming in?” he asked.
“No. Got chores to do. Thought your lawyer could put this in his safe, or somewhere.”
“How do you want me to explain it?”
“Well, I was treatin’ the open latrine with lime and diggin’ around to fill up the hole, and my shovel hit metal, and there was this coffee can. Didn’t think I should leave it there for some looter to steal.”
“Well stated!” Qwilleran said. “Did you look at the contents?”
“No. It’s sealed with friction tape. Let the lawyer open it.”
“Suppose it’s filled with rusty nails.”
“Shake it. Doesn’t sound like nails.”
When Qwilleran carried the sack indoors and put the can on the snackbar, the Siamese had to investigate. They sensed it had been underground for a few weeks. As for Qwilleran, he was in no mood to go back to bed, and he astounded them by feeding them three hours ahead of schedule, although they made no objection.
With his coffee and a thawed Danish at the snackbar, he reread the newspaper account of the Coggin fire. Culvert had a twenty-four-point credit line for three photos, the largest of which showed Maude grinning at the wheel of her old truck. Did she imagine that she still drove it? The tires were rotting, and, according to Rollo, her license had been revoked five
years before.
A sidebar to the story itself quoted the fire chief, Roy Gumboldt: “Following a thorough investigation, it’s evident that the fire was caused by an overheated kerosene stove in a room that was littered with flammable objects. The victim apparently fell asleep in her chair and was asphyxiated by smoke before the room burst into flames.” There followed the usual cautions about the prudent use of kerosene stoves and heaters - not that it would do any good. The volunteers were called to fight that kind of fire at least once a week, somewhere in the county.
As soon as the downtown offices opened, Qwilleran drove to Hasselrich Bennett & Barter to deliver the coffee can. In the municipal parking lot he was hailed by Wetherby Goode, who had been his neighbor in Indian Village the previous winter. The WPKX meteorologist was a husky, hearty glad-hander who entertained listeners with quips and quotes as well as weather predictions.
“What kind of weather are you giving
us for the funeral tomorrow?” Qwilleran asked.
“The heavens smile! Did you know it’s getting TV coverage? The network picked up the story from your paper and called us to confirm the time and check the weather. They’re flying a crew up from the state capital.”
Qwilleran said, “Another local-yokel story, I suppose, to entertain big-city viewers. How’s everything in the Village?”
“Nothing new. Long time since we had dinner. How about Friday night?”
“How about Chet’s palace of gastronomy in Kennebeck?”
“I thought you didn’t like barbecue, Qwill.”
“I don’t, but I feel the need to further my education.”
“Okay. Meet me there at seven-thirty? I’ll have to go home and change. In the afternoon I’m speaking to a ladies’ garden club, and that means a suit and tie. At Chet’s anything dressier than a tank top looks pretentious. And be sure to wear a baseball cap. It’s a hats-on dive.”
In the law office the coffee can was stripped of the black tape, and inside were five bundles of bills totaling a hundred thousand.
Qwilleran said, “It should be four hundred thousand. They took advantage of a ninety-three-year-old woman.”
“How did you get involved?” Barter asked.
“She reminded me of the grandmother I never knew, and she was an interesting character. There aren’t many Maude Coggins left, Bart. In fact, I’d like to stir up some well-deserved recognition. Okay if I use your phone to make a few calls?”
Given a phone and a cup of coffee, Qwilleran proceeded to call the offices of the mayor, city council, and county board of commissioners, leaking the news that the Coggin funeral was getting TV coverage and the Something was assigning a battery of reporters and photographers. He hinted that it might be a good idea to send flowers. Local reporters always looked at the name tags on such memorial tokens.