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Finding the kitchen telephone, he punched the police emergency number and reported the incident without emotion, stating all the necessary details. The phone stood on a relic from an old schoolhouse: a cast-iron base supporting a wooden seat and a boxlike desk with lift-up top. The writing surface was grooved for pens and pencils and inkwell, and it was carved with generations of initials. Also on the desk was an alphabetized notebook containing phone numbers; it was open to E. Qwilleran called Susan Exbridge in Indian Village, and she answered on the first ring.

"Susan, this is Qwill," he said somberly. "Did Iris call you a short time ago?"

"Yes, the poor thing was frightened out of her wits for some reason or other. She was almost incoherent, but I gathered that you're bringing her over here to spend the night. I've just put pink sheets on the guestbed."

"That was the plan. I'm at the farmhouse now. She won't be able to make it."

"Why? What happened, Qwill?"

"I found her on the kitchen floor. Not breathing. No pulse. I've called the police."

Susan wailed into the phone. "How terrible! How perfectly awful! What will we do without her? I'm devastated!"

She had a tendency to be dramatic and a personal reason to feel bereft. The two women were partners in a new enterprise in downtown Pickax, and the gold lettering had just been painted on the shop window: Exbridge & Cobb, Fine Antiques. The formal opening was scheduled for Saturday.

Qwilleran said, "We'll talk tomorrow, Susan. The sheriff will be here momentarily."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Get some rest and prepare for a busy day tomorrow. I'm calling Larry, and I'm sure he'll need your help with arrangements."

Larry Lanspeak was president of the Historical Society and chairperson of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum as well as owner of the local department store. As merchant, civic leader, and talented actor in the Pickax Theatre Club he brought boundless energy to everything he undertook. Qwilleran put in a call to the Lanspeak country house in fashionable West Middle Hummock, and, although it was almost two o'clock, Larry answered the phone as briskly as he would in midday.

"Larry, this is Qwill. Sorry to disturb you. We have trouble. I'm calling from the museum. Iris called me in hysterics not long ago, and I rushed out here. You know about her heart condition, don't you? I was too late. I found her dead on the kitchen floor. I've called the police."

There was a prolonged silence at the other end of the line.

"Larry... ?"

In a hollow voice Larry said, "It can't be! We need her! And she was too young to go!"

"She was our age." Qwilleran's tone was understandably morose.

"I'll throw on some clothes and get there as soon as possible. God! This is terrible news. Carol will be floored!" Qwilleran turned on the yardlights and turned off his headlights just as the sheriff's car came down the lane.

A young officer in a wide-brimmed hat stepped out. , 'Somebody report a dead body?"

"It's Mrs. Cobb, manager of the museum. She called me in a panic, and I came out to see if I could help. I'm Jim Qwilleran from Pickax."

The deputy nodded. Everyone knew the outsize moustache that belonged to the richest man in the county.

They went indoors, and Qwilleran pointed the way to the kitchen.

"Emergency's on the way," said the deputy. "They'll take the body to Pickax Hospital. The medical examiner will have to sign the death certificate."

"He might want to check with Doctor Halifax. She was being treated for a heart condition."

The deputy nodded, writing up his report.

Qwilleran explained, "Mrs. Cobb called me because she was hearing strange noises and was afraid to stay here."

"She put in a call a couple of nights ago. I checked it out, but I couldn't find anything irregular. No evidence of prowlers on the grounds. Are you next of kin?"

"No. She has a son in St. Louis. He'll have to decide where we go from here. I'd better call him and break the news."

At that moment the emergency vehicle arrived, and silent attendants removed the pink-clad remains of one who had captivated the community with her generosity, her cheerful personality, and her encyclopedic knowledge of antiques. And her baking, Qwilleran thought. Whenever there was a charity bazaar or civic reception, Mrs. Cobb stayed up all night baking cookies - not just chocolate chip but an array of lemon-coconut squares, butterscotch pecan meringues, apricot-almond crescents, and more. Ironically, there were Moose County citizens who would remember Iris Cobb chiefly for her cookies.

Qwilleran leafed through the notebook on the school desk in search of her son's phone number. Unfortunately he was unable to remember the young man's name. He had a vague recollection that it was Dennis. The last name was not Cobb but something like Gough, pronounced Goff... or Lough, pronounced Luff... or Keough, pronounced Kyow. Under H he found a listing with a St. Louis area code, and he punched the number. A man's sleepy voice answered.

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