my feet on my desk, " said Riker, who claimed to do his best thinking with his feet elevated.
"Those underpinnings look like used tombstones."
"I wouldn't be surprised if they were. Amanda has all the instincts of a grave robber... Say, that was a decent obit you wrote for Iris Cobb. I hope you write one that's half that good when it's my turn to go. What's the story behind the story?"
"Meaning what?"
"Don't play dumb, Qwill. You know you always suspect that a car accident is a suicide, and a suicide is a murder. What really happened Sunday night? You look preoccupied."
Qwilleran touched his moustache in a guilty gesture but said glibly, "If I look preoccupied, Arch, it's because I've bought a dark suit for the funeral—I'm one of the pallbearers—and it's a question whether Scottie will have it ready on time. Are you going to Dingleberry's tonight?"
"That's my intention. I'm taking the lovely Amanda to dinner, and we'll stop at the funeral home afterward, if she can still stand up and walk straight."
"Tell the bartender to water her bourbon," Qwilleran suggested. "We don't want your inamorata to disgrace herself at Dingleberry's."
As lifelong comrades the two men had sniggered about their boyhood crushes, gloated over their youthful affairs, confided about their marriage problems, and shared the pain of the subsequent divorces. Currently they indulged in private banter about Riker's cranky, outspoken, bibulous friend Amanda. There were many complimentary adjectives that could apply to this successful businesswoman and aggressive member of the city council, but "lovely" was not one of them.
Riker asked, "Will you and Polly be there?" "She has a dinner meeting with the library board, but she'll drop in later."
"Perhaps we could go somewhere afterward—the four of us," Riker proposed. "I always need some liquid regalement after paying my respects to the deceased."
Qwilleran stood up to leave. "Sounds good. See you at Dingleberry's."
"Not so fast! How long are you going to be downtown? Can you hang around until lunchtime?"
"Not today. I have to go home and unpack my clothes, and find out where they store the spare lightbulbs, and take inventory of the freezer. Iris always cooked as if she expected forty unexpected guests for dinner."
"Home! You've been there half a day, and you call it home. You have a faculty for quick adjustment."
"I'm a gypsy at heart," Qwilleran said. "Home is where I hang my toothbrush and where the cats have their commode. See you tonight."
Driving to North Middle Hummock he noticed that the wind had risen and the leaves were beginning to fall. On Fugtree Road the pavement was carpeted with yellow leaves from the aspens. It would be a pleasant day to take a walk, he thought. His bicycle was in Pickax, and he missed his daily exercise. He was feeling relaxed and in a good humor; a little banter with his colleagues at the Something always put him in an amiable mood. A moment later, his equanimity was shattered.
As he turned the comer into Black Creek Lane he jammed on the brakes. A small child was standing in the middle of the lane, holding a toy of some kind.
At the urgent sound of tires crunching on gravel Mrs. Boswell ran out of the house, crying helplessly, "Baby! I told you to stay in the yard!" She picked up the tiny tot under one arm and took the toy away from her. "This is Daddy's. You're not supposed to touch it."
Qwilleran rolled down the car window. "That was a narrow escape," he said. "Better put her on a leash."
“I'm so... sorry, Mr. Qwilleran.
He continued slowly down the lane, experiencing a delayed chill at the recollection of the near-accident, then thinking about Verona's ingratiating drawl, then realizing that the "toy" was a walkie-talkie. As he parked in the farmyard the Boswell van was pulling away from the old barn; the driver leaned out of the window.
"What time is the funeral tomorrow?" trumpeted the irritating voice, resounding across the
"Those underpinnings look like used tombstones."
"I wouldn't be surprised if they were. Amanda has all the instincts of a grave robber... Say, that was a decent obit you wrote for Iris Cobb. I hope you write one that's half that good when it's my turn to go. What's the story behind the story?"
"Meaning what?"
"Don't play dumb, Qwill. You know you always suspect that a car accident is a suicide, and a suicide is a murder. What really happened Sunday night? You look preoccupied."
Qwilleran touched his moustache in a guilty gesture but said glibly, "If I look preoccupied, Arch, it's because I've bought a dark suit for the funeral—I'm one of the pallbearers—and it's a question whether Scottie will have it ready on time. Are you going to Dingleberry's tonight?"
"That's my intention. I'm taking the lovely Amanda to dinner, and we'll stop at the funeral home afterward, if she can still stand up and walk straight."
"Tell the bartender to water her bourbon," Qwilleran suggested. "We don't want your inamorata to disgrace herself at Dingleberry's."
As lifelong comrades the two men had sniggered about their boyhood crushes, gloated over their youthful affairs, confided about their marriage problems, and shared the pain of the subsequent divorces. Currently they indulged in private banter about Riker's cranky, outspoken, bibulous friend Amanda. There were many complimentary adjectives that could apply to this successful businesswoman and aggressive member of the city council, but "lovely" was not one of them.
Riker asked, "Will you and Polly be there?" "She has a dinner meeting with the library board, but she'll drop in later."
"Perhaps we could go somewhere afterward—the four of us," Riker proposed. "I always need some liquid regalement after paying my respects to the deceased."
Qwilleran stood up to leave. "Sounds good. See you at Dingleberry's."
"Not so fast! How long are you going to be downtown? Can you hang around until lunchtime?"
"Not today. I have to go home and unpack my clothes, and find out where they store the spare lightbulbs, and take inventory of the freezer. Iris always cooked as if she expected forty unexpected guests for dinner."
"Home! You've been there half a day, and you call it home. You have a faculty for quick adjustment."
"I'm a gypsy at heart," Qwilleran said. "Home is where I hang my toothbrush and where the cats have their commode. See you tonight."
Driving to North Middle Hummock he noticed that the wind had risen and the leaves were beginning to fall. On Fugtree Road the pavement was carpeted with yellow leaves from the aspens. It would be a pleasant day to take a walk, he thought. His bicycle was in Pickax, and he missed his daily exercise. He was feeling relaxed and in a good humor; a little banter with his colleagues at the Something always put him in an amiable mood. A moment later, his equanimity was shattered.
As he turned the comer into Black Creek Lane he jammed on the brakes. A small child was standing in the middle of the lane, holding a toy of some kind.
At the urgent sound of tires crunching on gravel Mrs. Boswell ran out of the house, crying helplessly, "Baby! I told you to stay in the yard!" She picked up the tiny tot under one arm and took the toy away from her. "This is Daddy's. You're not supposed to touch it."
Qwilleran rolled down the car window. "That was a narrow escape," he said. "Better put her on a leash."
“I'm so... sorry, Mr. Qwilleran.
He continued slowly down the lane, experiencing a delayed chill at the recollection of the near-accident, then thinking about Verona's ingratiating drawl, then realizing that the "toy" was a walkie-talkie. As he parked in the farmyard the Boswell van was pulling away from the old barn; the driver leaned out of the window.
"What time is the funeral tomorrow?" trumpeted the irritating voice, resounding across the
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