The image on the screen faded, and there was a moment of silence followed by appropriate exclamations and some murmured platitudes from Hasselrich.
Susan said to Qwilleran, "I'll make a deal. You give me the cookbook, and you can have Exbridge and Cobb." To Dennis she said, "Now you can move up here and take over the Fitch property."
"I like the idea," he said, and Qwilleran observed a meaningful stare lingering between them.
When a clerk appeared with a silver tray, Hasselrich himself poured coffee and passed the cups, pointing out proudly that they were his maternal grandmother's Wedgwood.
Larry said to Qwilleran, "I didn't know you were a cook."
"I know as much about cooking as I do about black holes in the universe," he replied, "but Iris had a sly sense of humor. The joke is that no one can read her handwriting. As for the Schrank, I'm glad she left me that and not the General Grant bed."
"How's everything at the farmhouse?"
"I'm learning to live with pink sheets and pink towels, but there is one problem. The closets and dressers are filled with Iris's clothing. With my shirts and pants and sweaters draped over chairs and doorknobs, I wake up at night and think I'm surrounded by spectres."
"Just move her things out of your way, Qwill," said Larry. "You'll find some empty cartons in the basement. Our donation committee will take it from there."
"Another thing, Larry. Either we have gremlins or we have faulty wiring in the hall light fixture. It should be investigated by an electrician."
"I'll alert Homer. He'll get a repairman out there right away." Larry went to the attorney's desk and used the phone. Quick decisions and immediate action were his trademark.
Qwilleran had a second cup of coffee, congratulated the heir, and offered him a ride to the airport.
"Thanks, Qwill, but I've decided to stay over until Sunday," said Dennis. "The formal opening of Exbridge and Cobb was scheduled for Saturday, and Susan is going ahead as planned."
Susan said, "The invitations went into the mail last week, Qwill, and I know Iris wouldn't want us to cancel. She'll be with us in spirit, but I feel it's appropriate to have Dennis represent her in the flesh."
Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought. "People may think the shop is going to limp along on one leg without Iris," she went on, speaking with animation, "but Dennis's presence will give the venture some stability, don't you think? It's terribly kind of him to offer to stay a few more days."
Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought. She was looking unusually happy; her dramatic gestures were more expansive than ever, and Dennis glanced at her too often.
Before leaving, Qwilleran asked Hasselrich if he proposed to notify the newspaper about the terms of the will.
"It has never been our policy to do so," said the attorney.
"In this case you should reconsider. The Hackpole money is news, and Iris was a V.I.P.," Qwilleran argued. "If you don't make an official statement, the Pickax grapevine will start distorting the facts."
"I'll have to cogitate about that," said Hasselrich. Qwilleran left him cogitating and drove to the office of the Moose County Something, where he found the publisher in his richly decorated office.
"Arch, I never noticed this before," said Qwilleran, "but your walls are Dingleberry green."
"That's where I'll end up - at Dingleberry's - so I'm getting used to it a little at a time. What's on your mind? You look purposeful."
"The Cobb-Hackpole bequests have been announced. You ought to send Roger to the attorney's office to get the story."
"Who are the beneficiaries?"
"Her family, her business partner, the Historical Society, and - to a lesser extent - myself."
"You? What do you need? You own half the county already."
"She left me the seven-foot wardrobe that I gave her for a wedding present. Koko always enjoyed sitting on top of it."
"Let Koko sit on a stepladder. That's a Pennsylvania German Schrank and worth a small fortune," said Riker, who knew something about antiques. He touched the intercom button and barked, "Iris Cobb's will has been read. Qwill tipped us off. Get someone over to HB and B."
Qwilleran said, "She also left me a looseleaf notebook containing all her personal recipes, but you don't need to mention that in the story."
"I thought you were opposed to censorship," said Riker. "I see it as a provocative headline: MILLIONAIRE WIDOW BEQUEATHS COOKBOOK TO BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR. That has all kinds of interesting implications."
The intercom buzzer sounded, and a voice squawked, "Is Qwill there? Ask if he has any copy for us. We've used up his backlog."
"Did you hear that?" Riker asked. "Has the Qwill Pen run dry?"
"Straight from the Qwill Pen" was the name of the column that Qwilleran had agreed to write for the Something. "It's like this," he explained to Riker. "I planned some interviews, but Iris's death has kept me off the beat for a few days."
"That's okay. Just give us a quick think-piece for tomorrow," Riker said. "Remember Mrs. Fisheye."
Driving back to North Middle Hummock Qwilleran did his quick thinking. Both he and Riker remembered their high school English teacher who regularly assigned the class to write a thousand words on such subjects as the weather, or breakfast, or the color green. Fisheye was not her name, but it was her misfortune to have large, round, pale, watery eyes. As a student Qwilleran had done his share of groaning and protesting, but now he could write a thousand words on any subject at a moment's notice.
Surveying the landscape as he drove out on Ittibittiwassee Road and through the Hummocks he decided on his topic: fences! Moose County was crisscrossed with picket fences, hand-split snake fences, barbed wire, four-bar corral, even root fences, each delivering its own message ranging from Welcome to Keep Out. In the fashionable Hummocks there were low stone walls by the mile as well as six-foot grapestake stockades around swimming pools. In the blighted town of Chipmunk there was a fence constructed of old bedsprings. Qwilleran was prepared - if those observations added up to fewer than a thousand words - to quote Robert Frost, allude to Cole Porter, and trace "fence" to its Latin root. He might even dedicate the column to Mrs. Fisheye.
As he drove past the Fugtree farm he noticed that their white fence needed a coat of paint, and he regretted that he had not adequately thanked the woman who had notified him about his headlights. He would like to buy her a paint job for the fence, but such largess might give the wrong impression. Perhaps, he decided, he should simply write a note of thanks.
Turning into Black Creek Lane he spotted two vehicles parked in the museum yard. One was a conservative dark blue four-door, about ten years old. The other was a van from Pickax Power Problems, Inc. The electrician was preparing to leave, and Homer Tibbitt was accepting his bill.
"Get the lights fixed?" Qwilleran called out to them.
"Nothin' wrong but loose lightbulbs," said the electrician. "If you get a lotta vibration it can shake the bulbs loose -make 'em flickr on and off - 'specially them flame types. Screw 'em in tight - no problem."
"What could cause vibration?" Qwilleran asked.
"Who knows? Furnace, pump, appliances-any blame thing that's off-balance. Well, so long! Call me again when you gotta soft job like this."
Qwilleran frowned. He could imagine what Pickax Power Problems would charge for a run all the way out to North Middle Hummock. When he unlocked his door and the cats came to greet him, he said, "You heavyweights have got to stop stamping your feet!"
The Siamese were unusually alert and active for mid-afternoon, which was their scheduled naptime, but that was understandable. Koko as chief security officer had been keeping a wary eye on the electrician, and Yum Yum had been inspecting his shoelaces. In addition, Homer Tibbitt had accompanied the repairman, and the cats' had never seen a human who walked like a robot. The chairman of maintenance, remarkably agile for his age, walked briskly with angular flailing movements of arms and legs.