buggies. The length of the procession was considered the measure of public respect for the deceased.
Qwilleran told her, “There’ll be no procession tomorrow - just services at the graveside - but there’ll be a traffic jam at the cemetery requiring the help of police and state troopers. It’ll be a memorable event, with lots of flowers and VIPs and a TV crew from the state capital and Brodie in his kilt and bonnet. He’ll play Loch Lomond in slow tempo.”
“That’s a lovely choice,” she said, “although many won’t realize its significance.”
“Of whom you may count me one - if you’ll pardon the tangled syntax. I’ve never understood that song. There are two unidentified individuals; let’s call them A and B. Apparently A takes the high road and B takes the low road, and B reaches Scotland before A, yet B never sees his true love again. How do you explain that?”
“As I understand it, Qwill, there are two Scottish soldiers who have been captured. One is to be shot; the other set free. The doomed man’s song is based on an old belief that a Scot’s soul always returned to Scotland by an underground route - the low road, in other words. The melody is especially poignant when played at a slow tempo.”
Koko was on the desk close to the mouthpiece. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa, ” he bleated.
“What’s that awful noise?” Polly asked.
“Koko is grieving for Maude Coggin.”
-8-
At the comer of Trevelyan and Cemetery roads, four parcels of land met: the cemetery on the northwest corner; catercomered from that, the former Coggin acreage; : on the northeast, Boyd McBee’s farm; on the southwest, a half-square mile of woodland placed in conservancy by the Klingenschoen Foundation - not to retard the growth of the city but to promote ecologically the well-being of the residents. On Thursday morning the intersection was the scene of a well-ordered invasion. Cars, vans, and pickups lined both shoulders of both highways, and crowds streamed on foot toward the last remaining grave, where Maude Coggin would be laid to rest beside her husband. The cemetery, which had served Pickax for a century, was a dense forest of tombstones, all facing west. On a late afternoon it was a striking sight when the sun emblazoned the stones - an army of memories summed up in one breathtaking panorama. The need to extend its boundaries had concerned the city council for several years, the problem being to find land not too wet, not too rocky, not too far from the city limits, and not too expensive. Arguments in the council chamber and editorials in the newspaper had failed to find a solution.
Qwilleran chose to walk from the barn to the site of the funeral. The casket was in place, ready to be lowered, covered with floral sprays and surrounded by wreaths and flower baskets. Standing under a canvas canopy was a solemn man wearing a surplice and holding a prayer book; Qwilleran recognized him as the pastor of the Little Stone Church. Andrew Brodie, in his towering feather bonnet, looked eight feet tall, an impressive figure with his armful of pipes and shoulderful of swathed plaid. The Dingleberry brothers in their black suits were grouping the mourners: Art Center volunteers in their blue smocks; members of the Farmers’ Collective in work denims and feed caps; Home Visitors from the church, each holding a single flower. Places were reserved for civic leaders and the McBee clan. Boyd was there with his wife and three children in Sunday garb, but Rollo and his family were late.
Just as the mayor arrived, chauffeured in the official limousine, a pickup with a camper top came up Trevelyan Road and stole the show from His Honor. The three tardy McBees tumbled out, and Rollo hurried to open the tailgate. Out hobbled a string of lame, battered, arthritic hound dogs, each with a makeshift collar of twisted red bandanna. As gasps, whimpers, and sobs came from the assembled mourners, the dogs, linked by a jute rope, followed Culvert and were glad to sit when tapped on the hindquarters.
Eyes that had remained dry at the advent of the dogs gave way to tears as
the slow strains of Loch Lomond skirled about the cemetery. The service opened with a few words from the pastor concerning Maude Coggin’s lifelong love of the soil and her concern for old, ailing, unwanted animals. She was lauded as the last traditional farm wife in Moose County - working shoulder-to- shoulder with her husband in the field, rearing a family, making garments out of feedbags, raising chickens, tending a kitchen garden, baking and canning, scrubbing clothes, and doing without. Qwilleran surmised that Boyd’s wife had written it; she was a substitute teacher who wrote frequent letters to the editor.
At the end of the burial rites the bagpiper played Amazing Grace, and the Home Visitors dropped their flowers into the grave as the casket was lowered.
The mayor, council members, and commissioners were the first to depart, having spoken a few words into radio and TV mikes thrust in front of them. Other mourners were reluctant to leave, milling about, speaking in muffled voices, preserving the inspired melancholy of the moment. Qwilleran spoke with G. Allen Barter, the McBee families, and staffers from the Something. Then he walked back down Trevelyan Road, telling everyone who offered him a ride that he was walking for his health.
Actually he was walking to organize his thoughts, after the turmoil of the last few days. If rumors were true, the county was in a disrespectful hurry to grab a chunk of the former Coggin land for a county workyard. Would the City of Pickax want another chunk for a cemetery extension? And would XYZ Enterprises make a bid for the riverfront as a site for Indian Village Two? No doubt Northern Land Improvement would be only too happy to sell. Their stated intention of putting the land in “taters and beans” had been a ruse to trick Maude into virtually giving away her cherished farm. And how about their promise that she could continue to live there rent-free? That proved to be a term of short duration.
“Hah!” he said aloud as he walked. “All’s fair in love and war - and business!” Pounding his moustache with his knuckles, he wondered if the fire caused by “an overheated kerosene stove” could indeed have had another cause. There had been no wind to carry sparks from the house to any other building - on either side of the highway - yet each of the farm’s outbuildings had burned to the ground, leaving a precise rectangle of charred rubble.
Then there was Koko’s curious behavior, before and after the fire. Trying to figure that one, Qwilleran decided, could drive one batty.
He had reached the Art Center, now opening for the regular afternoon hours. There were several cars in the parking lot. He recognized the H&H van, Beverly’s small yellow convertible, and the Butterfly Girl’s magenta coupe. Partway up the lane he saw the Doonescape truck; Kevin’s crew were planting things in the meadow.
The foreman explained. “There are shrubs that will attract butterflies. We’re also putting in a puddle. Butterflies like to puddle.”
Qwilleran went on his way, thinking, At least they won’t require feeding… and won’t wake me up at five A.M.… and won’t leave droppings on my car! Perhaps that was why butterflies were so popular. The community college was giving an evening course in lepidopterology, and Phoebe could hardly paint fast enough to meet the demand. The spirit of Mrs. Fish-eye was telling him to jump on the bandwagon and write a thousand words about butterflies.
Arriving at the barn, Qwilleran first phoned the Art Center and made an appointment with Phoebe for an afternoon interview. Then he went to the library on Park Circle and checked out a book on butterflies to mitigate his utter ignorance. By three o’clock he knew the difference between a larva and a pupa, and why butterflies puddle, and how many species there are: seventeen thousand! At four o’clock he walked back down the lane.