Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

Amanda said, "That eighty-five-year-old woman with the thirty-year-old hair is Rhoda Finney. She's been chasing him for years, even before his wife died. She's one of the Lockmaster Finneys, and we all know about them!" Amanda's pronouncements always blended rumor, imagination, and truth in no known proportion. "The old fellow that Homer's talking to is Adam Dingleberry, oldest mortician in three counties." She referred to a frail, stooped figure dependent upon a walker. "He's buried more secrets than a dog buries bones. I'll bet some of them come back to haunt him. Look at the two old fogeys with their heads together, snickering like fools! You can bet Adam's telling dirty stories and Homer made his girl friend turn off her hearing aid."

Riker tugged at her arm. "Come on, Amanda; it's time to go."

Qwilleran maneuvered about the room until he caught Polly's eye, then tilted his head three degrees toward the front door. She said good night to her boardmembers and then followed him.

In the lobby Riker said, "Shall we go to the Old Stone Mill? They stay open later than Stephanie's."

"We'll meet you there," said Qwilleran. Then he and Polly walked to their separate cars.

At the picturesque mill the party of four asked for a quiet table and were conducted to a secluded comer overlooking the waterwheel. They were a motley foursome: the Klingenschoen heir with the overgrown moustache; Arch Riker with the equanimity, thinning hair, and paunchy figure of a lifelong newspaper deskman; Polly Duncan, the pleasant-faced, soft-voiced, well-informed administrator of the Pickax public library; Amanda Goodwinter of the Drinking Goodwinters, as her branch of the prominent clan was known. Polly had a matronly figure, a penchant for plain gray suits, and graying hair that was noticeably unstyled, but she was a paragon of fashion compared to Amanda, on whom every new garment looked secondband and every hair looked purposely out of place. Nevertheless, Riker enjoyed her crotchety company for perverse reasons that Qwilleran could not fathom.

Amanda had her usual bourbon; Polly asked for dry sherry; Riker wanted Scotch; and Qwilleran ordered pumpkin pie and coffee.

Polly said, "Qwill, that was a beautiful obituary you wrote for Iris. In everyday life she was so self-effacing that one tended to forget all her skills and knowledge and admirable qualities."

Amanda raised her glass in a toast. "Here's a wet one to Saint Iris of the Hummocks!" Then she winced and scowled at Riker, who had kicked her under the table.

Polly raised her glass and quoted from Hamlet: "And I flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

The two men nodded and sipped in silence. Riker asked, "How was your summer in England, Polly? Did you floor them with your knowledge of Shakespeare?"

She smiled pleasantly. "I had no chance to show off, Arch. I was too busy answering their questions about American movies."

"At least," Qwilleran said, "the English know that the Bard of Avon is an Elizabethan playwright and not a cosmetics distributor."

"Here come the big guns," Amanda muttered as another foursome arrived.

On the way to their table the Lanspeaks, Dennis Hough, and Susan Exbridge stopped to speak to Qwilleran's group, and Polly said to them, "That was a remarkable display at Dingleberry's. All color-coordinated! Even to the pink nail polish!"

"Give Susan the credit for that," Carol Lanspeak said. "I might have guessed!" said Polly sweetly in what passed as a compliment to Susan's exquisite taste, except that she raised her eyebrows slightly. Qwilleran and Riker exchanged knowing glances. Polly's dim regard for Susan was no secret.

As the new arrivals went on to their table Riker asked, "Is it true that Dingleberry will bury you free if you're a hundred or older?"

"They can afford to," Amanda grumbled. "They're making money hand over fist, but I've had a helluva tough time collecting my decorating fee."

"They expect.to take it out in trade," Qwilleran said.

"The Dingleberry enterprise," said Polly, "involves five generations. Adam Dingleberry's grandfather was a coffin maker. The next generation combined a furniture store with an undertaking parlor, as it used to be known. The present operation is run by Adam and his sons and grandsons."

Amanda said, "Who was that cretin with a jack-hammer voice that came in and disturbed the peace?"

"You made a hit with his kid, Qwill," said Riker. "Who are they?"

"My neighbors at the museum. He's cataloguing the printing presses for the Historical Society... Incidentally, Arch, the obituary I submitted referred to visiting hours at the funeral home. Someone changed it to 'visitation' hours. I know it's considered genteel in certain circles, but it's a ridiculous euphemism that doesn't belong in a newspaper with any class. A visitation' is a divine manifestation."

"Or a spirit communication," added Polly. "Shakespeare refers to the visitation of Hamlet's father's ghost."