Mrs. Huggins joggled her husband’s elbow. “Tell Mr. Q about Grandpa and the loaf of bread.”
“Yes, that’s a good one!” Cecil laughed. “I should write some of these down. You see … Grandma used to bake bread to sell in the store, and Grandpa always lined up the fresh loaves on the counter near the door, where customers could smell “em as soon as they walked in. The bread was right next to the “chawin” terbaccer” and the penny candy. Don’t tell me they didn’t know about merchandising in those days … Well, there was an old geezer who used to come in to swipe crackers out of the barrel-or a dill pickle when he thought no one was looking.”
“He had a pile of money buried in his backyard,” Mrs. Huggins said, “but he hated to spend a penny.”.
“That’s right. Josh Cummins, his name was. And on his way out of the store after a game of checkers with his cronies around the stove, he’d always pick up a loaf of bread-the one nearest the door-and never pay for it. It griped Grandpa more and more every time, but he didn’t want to collar the old guy and accuse him.
You don’t do that in a small town. So he thought of a scheme. He told Grandma to bake a loaf of bread with a dirty sock in it.”
“And I guess socks really got dirty in those days,” put in Mrs. Huggins.
“So Grandma baked the bread, and Grandpa put that loaf nearest the door when Josh was about to leave the store,” Cecil said. “And sure enough, the old guy picked it up and walked out … Never stole another loaf!”
“They never found the money buried in his backyard,” said Mrs. Huggins.
“That’s right,” said her husband, “and they never will. It’s paved over now, for the high school parking Jot. And they never found what old Mr. Hingenschoen buried on his property at the lake. All kinds of valuables, they say-back in the 1920s-just before he died, when he was a little tetched in the head. You ought to start digging, Mr. Q.”
“Sorry, Cecil. I don’t want to pay any more income tax.”
“There goes the dinner bell!” said Mrs. Huggins, as someone tugged at a rope and clanged a large cast-iron farm bell mounted on a high post.
The long tables were loaded with fried chicken, baked beans, and Cornish pasties; ham sandwiches, deviled eggs, potato salad, homemade pickles, and gelatine molds of every color; chocolate cakes, berry pies, and molasses cookies.
When the dinner bell rang a second time, there was a brief business meeting, and prizes were awarded to the oldest person in attendance, the youngest, and the family traveling the farthest distance. Then they all scattered-the elderly back to their chairs under the tree, the young ones to a field for softball, a few men to the front porch for a big league broadcast, and the young mothers to the farmhouse where they bedded down their tots for naps.
Qwilleran sauntered among the crowd, eavesdropping, as they talked about fishing, crops, television, funerals, babies, recipes, accidents, surgery, and the good old days.
Two women were arguing about the right way to make Cornish pasties. “My grandfather,” said one, “went to the Buckshot Mine every day with a pasty in his lunch bucket, and my grandmother made pasties every day of her life. I have her recipe, and I know for a fact that she never used anything but meat and potatoes and a little onion.”
The other said, “Well, in my family a pasty wasn’t a pasty unless it had a little turnip.”
“Never!” said the first. “My grandmother would sooner poison the well!”
Among the elderly men reminiscences were flying like the bees buzzing around the lilacs. A white-haired man wearing a blue ribbon labeled “Oldest” ventured to say, “When I started comin” to these shindigs, there was always a lineup at the outhouse, or the Cousin John as they used to call it. Now they rent a coupla them portable things. Times sure has changed.”
One of his listeners said, “How about banks? Used to be you could go see the banker at home after supper, and he’d walk downtown with you and open up the bank if you was strapped for cash. Didn’t have any of them time locks and alarms and cameras and such.”
Eventually Qwilleran found Maryellen Wimsey among a group of young women.
“Where’s Clem?” he asked.
“He couldn’t be here,” she said simply.
“He’s not ill, I hope. He didn’t report for work yesterday, and he wasn’t in the parade on Friday.”
“He’s out of town,” the girl said, her gaze wavering.
“Will he be back tomorrow? I’m expecting him at the cabin. We’ve got to get the shingles on that roof.”
“I hope so,” she said uncertainly.
Qwilleran glanced at the group under the big tree. “Do you know which one is Emma Wimsey?”
“Yes,” said Maryellen brightly, as if glad to change the subject. “She’s in a wheelchair. She’s the one with a blue sweater.’”
As he approached the congregation of oldsters he was hailed by an exuberant woman wearing a yellow blazer with a “We Care” emblem. “Mr. Qwilleran, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Irma Hasselrich.”
“Of course,” he said. “You’re the attorney’s daughter, and you’re a volunteer at the Senior Care Facility in Pickax.”
Among the casually dressed picnickers she was conspicuous for her well-styled hair, her careful makeup, and the good cut of her clothes. Ms. Hasselrich was not young, but she was strikingly attractive.
“Oh, aren’t you wonderful to remember!” she exclaimed. “You came to the facility last year to interview one of the ladies.”
“A farmwife, as I recall,’Mrs. Woolsmith, I believe her name was. How is she?”
“The dear soul passed on,” said Ms. Hasselrich sweetly. “She was ninety-five and had nearly all her own teeth.”
“And what brings you here today?” Qwilleran asked.
“I chauffeured three of our residents in the lift-van. I brought Abner Huggins, who won the prize for the oldest, and Emma Huggins Wimsey, eighty-nine, and Clara Wimsey Ward, eighty-two.”
“I’d like to meet Emma Wimsey. They say she has an interesting story to tell.
I’d like to get it on tape.”
“She’ll be delighted!” said the volunteer. “She used to teach school, and you’ll find her very articulate. Her heart is weak now, but her memory is good…
Emma! Emma, dear! You have a visitor!”
“Who is it? Who is it?” cried a faltering voice in great expectation.
“A reporter from the newspaper. I think he wants to hear your story about Punkin.”
“Oh, dear! I’ve never been written up in the paper except when I married Horace.
Do I look all right?”
“You look lovely … Emma, this is Mr. Qwilleran.”
Emma Wimsey was a frail woman with thinning white hair, whose cheeks had been lovingly blushed, probably by Ms. Hasselrich. Though she appeared fragile, she was very much alive, and on her sweater was an enamel pin in the shape of a cat with a long curved tail. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.
Qwilleran took her tiny hand warmly. “Mrs. Wimsey, it is my pleasure,” he said.
He had a courtly manner with persons over seventy, and it always pleased them.
Ms. Hasselrich suggested wheeling the chair to a quiet place, and they found a shady spot on the far side of the lilacs. “Are you warm enough, dear?” asked the volunteer.
Qwilleran brought lawn chairs and set up his tape recorder. “Why did you call your cat Punkin, Mrs. Wimsey?” he began.
“She was orange, and she came to me on Halloween. I was six years old. We were such good friends! We had a secret game that we played …” Her voice faded away, wistfully.
“What was your secret game, Mrs. Wimsey?”
“Well, after my mother put me to bed every night and closed the bedroom door, Punkin would come and scratch under the door, as if she was trying to get in.