It was a dark paneled room with a stone floor and several tavern tables and crude wooden chairs. The bar was ponderous, and there was a backbar elaborately carved and set with leaded glass. Koko nosed about behind the bar, then struck a rigid pose. In slow motion he approached a cabinet under the bar. He waited, staring at the bottom of the cabinet door. Qwilleran put his finger to his lips. Neither he nor Rosemary dared to move or even breathe. Then Koko sprang. There were tiny squeaks of terror, and Koko pranced back and forth in frustration.
"A mouse," Qwilleran mouthed in Rosemary's direc tion. He tiptoed behind the bar and opened the cabinet door. A tiny gray thing flew out, and Koko took off in pursuit.
"Let him go," Qwilleran said. "This is it!" Inside the cabinet was an old black-and-gold safe with a combination lock. "Only one problem. How do we open it?" "Call Nick." "Nick and Lori are coming into town for the service tomorrow. The safe can wait until then. Let's go home and eat that turkey." They bought a copy of the Pickax Picayune and found that Fanny's obituary filled the front page. Even the classified ads that usually occupied column one of page one were omitted. The text of the obituary was set in large type in a black-bordered box in the center of the page, surrounded by white space and then another wide black border. In fine print at the bottom on the page it was mentioned that the obituary was suitable for framing.
Rosemary read it aloud on the way back to Mooseville, and Qwilleran called it a masterpiece of evasion and flowery excess. "They wrote obituaries like that in the nineteenth century. Wait till I see the editor! It's not easy to write a full-page story without saying anything." "But there are no pictures." "The Picayune has never acknowledged the invention of the camera. Read it to me again, Rosemary. I can't believe it." The headline was simple: Great Lady Called Home; Rosemary read:
Elevated to the rewards of a well-spent life, without enduring the pangs of decay or the sorrow of parting or pain of sickness, and happy in her consciousness of having completed to the best of her ability her work for mankind, Fanny Klingenschoen at the advanced age of eighty-nine, slipped suddenly into the sleep from which there is no waking, during the midnight hours of Wednesday at her palatial residence in downtown Pickax. In the few brief moments when The Reaper called her home, she passed from the scene of her joy and happiness, closed her eyes to the world, and smiled as the flickering candle of life went out, casting a gloom over the county such as rarely, if ever, has been felt on a similar occasion.
No pen can describe the irreparable loss to the community when the cold slender fingers of death gripped the heart strings that inspired so many of her fellow creatures — inspired them for so many years — inspired them with an amplitude of leadership, poise, refined taste, cultivated mind, forthrightness, strength of character and generous nature.
Born to Septimus and Ada Klingenschoen almost nine decades ago, she was the granddaughter of Gustave and Minnie Klingenschoen, who braved the trackless wilderness to bring social betterment to the rugged lives of the early pioneers.
Although her spirit has taken flight, her forceful presence will be felt Saturday morning at eleven o'clock when a large number of county residents representing every station of life will assemble at Pickax High School to do honor to a woman of sterling qualities and unassuming dignity.
Business in Pickax will be suspended for two hours.
Rosemary said: "I don't know what you object to, Qwill. I think it's beautifully written — very sincere and rather touching." "I think it's nonsense," Qwilleran said. "It would make Fanny throw up." "YOW!" said Koko from the back seat.
"See? He agrees with me, Rosemary." She sniffed. "How do you know if that's a yes or a no?" They arrived at the cabin in time to hear the telephone struggling for attention inside a kitchen cupboard.
"Hello, there," said a voice that Qwilleran despised. "Have you got my girl up there? This is your old pal, Max Sorrel." Qwilleran bristled. "I have several girls here. Which one is yours?" After Rosemary had talked with Max she was moody and aloof. Finally she said: "I've got to start driving home tomorrow right after the memorial service." "YOW!" Koko said with more energy than usual, and it sounded so much like a cheer that both Qwilleran and Rosemary looked at him in dismay. The cat was sitting on the mantel, perilously close to the Staffordshire pitcher. One flick of the tail would…
"Let's move your pitcher to a safe place," Qwilleran suggested. Then: "Did Max say something to upset you, Rosemary?" "He's decided to buy me out and go through with the restaurant deal, and I'm nervous." "You don't like him much, do you?" "Not as much as he thinks I do. That's what makes me nervous. I'd like to go for a walk on the beach and do some thinking." With some concern Qwilleran watched her go. Reluctantly he admitted he was not entirely sorry to see her move to Toronto. He had been a bachelor for too long.. At his age he could not adjust to a supervised diet and Staffordshire knickknacks. He had given up his pipe at Rosemary's urging, and he often longed for some Groat and Boddle, despite his attempts to rationalize. Although she was attractive — and companionable when he was tired or lonely — he had other moods when he found younger women more stimulating. In their company he felt more alive and wittier. Rosemary was not tuned in to his sense of humor, and she was certainly not tuned in to Koko. She treated him like an ordinary cat.
The cooling of the relationship was only one development in a vacation that had hardly been a success. It had been two weeks of discomfort, mystification, and frustration — not to mention guilt; he had not written a word of his projected novel. He had not enjoyed evenings of music or walked for miles on the beach or lolled on the sand with a good spy story or paid enough attention to the sunsets. And now it was coming to an end. Even if the executors of the estate did not evict him, he was going to leave. Someone had been desperate enough to break into the cabin. Someone had been barbarous enough to club a man to death. A rabbit-hunter could come out of the woods with a rifle at any moment.
The cabin was quiet, and Qwilleran heard the scurrying of little feet. Koko was playing with his catnip toy, dredged up from some remote corner. He batted it and sent it skidding across the floor, pounced on it, clutched it in his front paws and kicked it with his powerful hind legs, then tossed it into the air and scampered after it.
Qwilleran watched the game. "Koko bats to rightfield… he's under it… he's got it… throws wild to second… makes a flying catch… he's down, but he's got the ball… here comes a fast hook over the plate… ~ foul to left." The catnip ball had disappeared beneath the sofa. Koko looked questioningly at the precise spot where it had skidded under the pleated skirt of the slipcover. The sofa was built low; only Yum Yum was small enough to struggle under it.
"Game's over," Qwilleran said. "You've lost by default." Koko flattened himself on the floor and extended one long brown leg to grope under the sofa. He twisted, squirmed, stretched. It was useless. He jumped to the back of the sofa and scolded.