The pastor of the Little Stone Church officiated at the funeral, and Qwilleran said a few words:
“Books were Eddington’s life. Although he was not a reader himself, his mission was to supply books to readers and find readers for books. His building on Book Alley had been his grandfather’s blacksmith shop, and it was a long leap from shoeing horses to binding books, but it was part of Edd’s passion for booksto make an old book new again.
“As a person he was more of a friend than a businessman-always generous, steadfast, and kind. Whenever one of his customers passed on, he would say, There is a better land-far, far away.’ And his seamy face would radiate a moment’s joy as if he heard the song of angels. As we say farewell to Eddington, let us bid him godspeed to a better land-far, far away.”
The few mourners walked quietly down the hill to their cars.
Qwilleran did Polly’s grocery shopping, ensuring himself an invitation to dinner, and then went home to read his newspaper. On the editorial page he found a letter that surprised him:
To the Editor-Compliments to the Shafthouse Preservation Initiative on their success in having the abandoned mines declared historic places. We should all cheer Saturday’s ceremony that dedicated the bronze plaques. Our mining heritage is unique. Let us not forget the miners’ villages that surrounded the mines-the miners lining up at dawn to climb down a ladder into the lower depths-working like dogs for ten hours-climbing back up a thousand feet of ladder with blackened faces and empty stomachs-sometimes perishing in mine explosions that left whole villages fatherless. When we admire the cubistic architecture of the shafthouses, let us not forget the human sacrifice that allowed vast fortunes to be made for a few.
It was the signature that took him by surprise: Don Exbridge of Suffix Township. To dramatize the moment, another pot of geraniums fell from the balcony railing and crashed on the living room floor. He looked up to see a boldly impudent Koko enjoying his mischief.
There was no point in scolding; it had been folly to put the plants there in the first place. It was one of those “decorator touches” that Qwilleran succumbed to once in a while simply because Fran was glib, glamorous, and Brodie’s daughter.
He swept up the debris and returned to his newspaper, only to discover the editorial page torn into shreds. What’s more, Koko was right there, waiting to take credit for his depredations. The cat had oblique ways of communicating, and this could mean one of two things: Either he wanted shredded paper in his commode instead of the expensive dustproof litter that came in large bags… or he was saying that Don Exbridge’s letter was a fake.
Qwilleran agreed with the latter. The sentimentality, the caring about heritage, even the word “cubistic” were all out of character for the bottom-liner who couldn’t care less about history, environment, and the arts. Who was his ghostwriter? And what was it all about?
Qwilleran discussed the matter with Polly when he reported for dinner.
“I’ll read a letter to the editor, and you guess who wrote it.”
She guessed several members of the historical society and the genealogy club.
“Don Exbridge!” he announced.
“What’s happened to him?” Polly gasped.
“Either he’s been hit on the head, or he’s going to be a father for the first time, or he’s hired a spin doctor to give Donex & Associates a new corporate image. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Only leftovers,” she said. “A ragout of last week’s chicken soup and this weekend’s cassoulet, with garlic croutons and a sprinkling of goat cheese. 1 hope you like it.”
“Polly, you could open a restaurant with your leftovers! You could call it Leftovers Inc., or Deja Vu, or Not Again!”
They savored the ragout in silence for a few minutes, and then she said, “Those were beautiful words you spoke at Eddington’s funeral.”
“Glad to see your Dear Ladies attended.” That was their private name for the white-haired, well-bred, conservative, wealthy women who served on the library board of directors.
“Yes, it was sweet of them. Who was the young woman with Mr. Barter?”
“Cynthia, the law clerk who’s feeding Winston in the interim. She asked to attend. The man in a plaid shirt was Albert, the dry cleaner.”
“I thought I recognized him. I was in Book Alley this noon, having my hair done during my lunch hour, and
Brenda told me some wild news: Don Exbridge’s wife has filed for divorce!”
“His second or third?”
“He’s had only two. She’s the mousy one we met last year when they invited us to dinner. She reminded me of my mother-in-law, who squeezed toothpaste onto her husband’s toothbrush every day for forty years. Such wifely devotion!”
“Correction! The elder Mrs. Duncan was a thrifty Scot who didn’t like to see dentifrice wasted.”
“Oh Qwill! You’re so cynical!”
“Notatall. A survey shows that men use toothpaste more lavishly than women do, and budget-conscious wives are on a cost-cutting campaign that alarms marketing specialists and interests psychologists. A fifty percent cut in toothpaste consumption could be a blow to the economy.”
“You’re inventing this, Qwill!” Polly laughed. “You’re plotting another hoax on your readers. You’ll have them measuring the toothpaste on family toothbrushes and sending their reports to the Something on postal cards.”
“You have no faith in me,” he said as he helped himself to seconds. “What’s that on the sideboard? It looks like Maggie’s French martini pitcher.”
“It’s yours now. She brought it to the library today. She wants very much for you to have it.”
Hegasped. “She shouldn’t have! It’s too much! But I accept.”
Qwilleran declined dessert-stewed figs with yogurt-saying he had to take a nap before fire-watching with Wetherby. He left shortly, swinging the pitcher by its sturdy handle. “Wait till Koko and Yum Yum see it! They’ll know it came from a household with five cats.” As it turned out, the Siamese knew not only the provenance of the pitcher, but also the sex of Maggie’s cats-all females. Koko nuzzled it enthusiastically, but Yum Yum backed away and bushed her tail.
Ateleven P.M. Qwilleran gave the cats their bedtime snack, then led the ceremonial march upstairs, with Koko second in line and Yum Yum trailing a lazy third. He ushered them into their room, said goodnight, turned out the light and closed the door. This was the “tucking-in” ritual.
In his boyhood his mother had tucked him in nightly-listening to his prayers, tucking the bedcovers under his chin, giving his forehead a goodnight kiss, wishing him pleasant dreams. He wondered how much of it was motherly affection and how much was a motherly prayer-check. He hated to hurt the feelings of the only parent he had, but on his tenth birthday he ventured that he was too old for tucking-in. She understood.
The Siamese had no such objections, and after they were tucked in, Qwilleran dressed for fire-watching and awaited the signal from his neighbor.
“All set to go, Joe. Would a thermos of hot coffee be appropriate?”
“Brilliant idea!”
They rode in Wetherby’s van, which had a white flag flying from a front fender, affixed by a magnet. “We’ll be cruising at a slower speed than other vehicle traffic.”
“Actually, there won’t be much traffic at this hour-on the secondary roads we’ll be traveling. The flags were borrowed from Dingleberry Funeral Home. City funerals don’t use flags anymore. The procession races to the cemetery at normal speed, with a police escort. Somehow, that doesn’t seem respectful, but I’m just a country boy from Horseradish.”