Next he called the Pickax police chief and said, “Andy, do you realize there’ll be a massive traffic snarl at the funeral tomorrow, unless you assign a special detail?”
The chief grunted. “Dingleberry didn’t apply for a permit.”
“That’s because there’s no church service and no procession. The obsequies
will be at the graveside, and parking at the cemetery will be chaotic! Hundreds of mourners are expected, including the mayor and other officials.”
“How come it’s so big?”
“The story in the Something touched a lot of hearts and even attracted the attention of the TV network. It would be appropriate if we had a piper.”
Andrew Brodie was a big Scot who looked ferocious in uniform but had a benign majesty when he wore his kilt and feather bonnet and played the bagpipe at funerals.
He was just waiting to be asked. “I could play Loch Lomond, slow tempo, before the service,” he said, “and Amazing Grace after.”
So far so good. Qwilleran knew he was gambling, but it seemed to be working. He called the newspaper and spoke with Junior Goodwinter. “What kind of coverage are you giving the funeral?”
“We’ll send someone to get a shot for the picture page, that’s all. We’ve already done a banner-story.”
“Better think twice about that, Junior. I hear the mayor and all kinds of city and county officials are turning out, and Andy’s assigning a special traffic detail. The network thinks it’s important enough to send a TV crew up here.”
Testily the managing editor said, “Why didn’t we know about this?”
“Apparently it was a spontaneous reaction to your great story on page one. I just happened to hear about it.”
On the way back to his car, Qwilleran passed the florist shop and went in to check up on their funerary business. Besides, he always enjoyed talking with Claudine. She had long silky hair and a dreamy expression in her large blue eyes. Renoir would have painted her. The country music corning from her radio should have been Chopin.
“Getting many orders for the Coggin funeral?” he asked.
“Scads! I had to call for extra help,” she said. “All kinds of important people have ordered. She must’ve been quite a lady!”
“I’d like to order another-a good-sized basket. I’ll write the card.” He wrote: From Maude Coggin’s best friends-Blackie, Spot, Dolly, Mabel, and Li’l Yaller. To Claudine he explained, “They’re the homeless old dogs she rescued.”
“Oh, Mr. Q! You’re making me cry!” she whimpered as tears flooded her eyes.
It was still too early for lunch, so Qwilleran drove out to Sandpit Road to order a tombstone. Next to the extensive H&H Sand and Gravel operation was a small fenced yard with polished granite slabs and tall Celtic crosses - the H&H Monument Works. As he walked toward the building in the rear, a strikingly white-haired man with gold-rimmed glasses came forward to greet him. He was the volunteer who had been on the stepladder at the Art Center, adjusting tracklights.
“You’re Mr. Q,” he said, eyeing the moustache. “We almost met - but not quite - at the Art Center. I’m Thornton Haggis.”
” Qwilleran concealed his surprise; the name was not an alias after all. There really was a Thornton Haggis. He said, “You won Duff Campbell’s watercolor! A nice piece of luck! … Are you the first H or the second H in the H&H enterprises?”
“I’m only the ampersand. My two sons own the business now. Come in and have a cup of coffee.” The office furniture in the anteroom of the shop was gray with age or granite dust. “I’m more or less retired after joining the Zipper Club, although I feel great!”
“You, too? My friend Polly Duncan had bypass surgery, and she’s like a new woman. With a name like Haggis, you must be Scottish.”
“That’s a family joke. My great-grandfather, Eero Haakon, came from Finland to work in the quarries, but he was put on the payroll as Earl Haggis, and we’ve been Haggis for five generations, always in the tombstone business.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Qwilleran said, “to order a stone for the woman who lost her life in yesterday’s fire.”
“Yes… yes… a real tragedy. It’s a miracle that the Art Center didn’t ignite. Beverly Forfar, instead of being thankful, feels guilty because she hated that farmhouse so much. She’s very high-strung, Beverly is.”
“What is your function at the Art Center, Mr. Haggis?”
“Call me Thornton. I’m a volunteer handyman and signwriter.” He kept running his hands through his white hair. “I need a haircut, but my wife likes me to look like a floormop.”
Qwilleran said, “If Beverly wants to ease her conscience, she could help to raise money for the tombstone. I happen to know the inscription Maude Coggin wanted.” He handed Thornton a card: “Maude Coggin. Worked Hard. Loved Animals. Mound Her Own Business.”
“Mound?” the stonecutter questioned.
“That’s it, verbatim. She spoke the Old Moose dialect, and you have to admit that ‘mound’ makes sense as the past tense of ‘mind.’ You don’t say, ‘I finded my watch and winded it,’ do you?”
Thornton laughed. “You should write a column on that subject, Qwill. Mind if I call you Qwill? In fact, you should write one about old tombstones and how the old cemeteries reflect changes in our culture. History was my major in college Down Below, and I enjoy poking among old tombstones.”
“What do you find - besides poison ivy?”
“A lot of interesting things.”
“Okay if I tape this?”
“Sure. It started in pioneer days, when we had mostly hell-raising miners and lumberjacks. When one of them was killed in a brawl, his drinking buddies
chipped in to buy him a tombstone. My great-grandfather recognized a business opportunity. For two bits a word he’d chisel anything they wanted on a thin slab of stone. There’s one that says: STONE PAID FOR BY HIS PALS AT JEB’S SALOON. I have a photograph of it if you don’t believe me.
It’s at Bloody Creek.”
“Where’s that? I’ve never seen it on the map,” Qwilleran said.
“It was a thriving community in the old days. Now all that’s left is a bridge and the burial ground-stones toppled over-some half-buried in sand… Then my grandfather went into the business. He chiseled his own tombstone. Stonecutters had a grim sense of humor, and his epitaph was: A CHISELER ALL HIS LIFE.”
Qwilleran said, “It’s a gag now, but was it funny in those days?”
“Absolutely! ‘Chiseling’ was slang for ‘cheating’ as far back as 1800. I looked it up. I found another kind of humor on an old stone near Dimsdale: HERE LIES A HAPPY MAN. NEVER MARRIED. Want to hear more? I’ve got a million of ‘em. It’s a hobby of mine, and when I get started. .
.”
“Don’t stop. I’d like to visit some of these graveyards.”
“I can tell you exactly where they are-and even go with you if you want a tour director. There’s a curious; one near Trawto that says: HE WAS A FAITHFUL HUSBAND. ONLY ONE I EVER HAD. Make your own interpretation.”
Qwilleran said abruptly, “Let’s drive to the Black Bear Café for a burger. My treat.”
They drove in his van, taking the backroads, while Thornton pointed out abandoned churchyards. He said, “There was a period when inscriptions included the cause of death. I’ve seen DIED OF THE POX AND HIS KIDNEYS DONE HIM IN. My favorite is ET BAD FISH. When prosperity
came, affluent families ordered huge monuments with as many as a hundred words inscribed, listing the names of wives, kids, doctors, horses, and dogs - plus business successes.”
They were driving to the lakeside town of Brrr, so named because it was the coldest spot in the county. On the outskirts they stopped at a weed-choked plot to see what Thornton called the ultimate in his and hers. There were two stones. One said: SHOT BY HER DEAR HUSBAND.