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Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun
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pride in its heritage. The Old-Timers Club, which admitted only lifelong residents of advanced age, was represented by numerous white-haired members, many of them dependent upon canes, walkers, and wheelchairs. Qwilleran thought it commendable that Mitch Ogilvie, the young desk clerk from the hotel, paid lavish attention to these oldsters, listening to their stories and encouraging them to talk.
Arch Riker was there, clutching the arm of the unsteady Amanda. Polly Duncan, in the company of library boardmembers, exchanged glances with Qwilleran across the crowded room; they were always discreet in public. The lively Homer Tibbitt, age ninety-four, was accompanied by an elderly woman with well-coifed hair of a surprisingly youthful brown.
Riker said to Qwilleran, "Who's that old fellow who walks like a robot?"
"When you're his age, you won't be able to get out of bed without a derrick," said Qwilleran. "That's Homer Tibbitt, retired school principal, ninety-four and still doing volunteer work for the museum."
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
Arch Riker was there, clutching the arm of the unsteady Amanda. Polly Duncan, in the company of library boardmembers, exchanged glances with Qwilleran across the crowded room; they were always discreet in public. The lively Homer Tibbitt, age ninety-four, was accompanied by an elderly woman with well-coifed hair of a surprisingly youthful brown.
Riker said to Qwilleran, "Who's that old fellow who walks like a robot?"
"When you're his age, you won't be able to get out of bed without a derrick," said Qwilleran. "That's Homer Tibbitt, retired school principal, ninety-four and still doing volunteer work for the museum."
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
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