The Grub-And-Stakers Quilt a Bee by Charlotte MacLeod, Alisa Craig Page B

the-about Mr. Fairfield?”
    “Oh, that’s all done.” With a sad little sigh, Mrs. Fairfield turned another page, awkwardly because of her cast, and made another note. “That undertaker from Scottsbeck seems efficient enough.
    I’m meeting with Reverend Pennyfeather in a while at the parsonage to plan the funeral service, and I’ve telephoned Mr. Fairfield’s nephew in Duluth. There are so few relatives. My husband was the last of his generation, and I’m an only child, sad to say. You are more fortunate than I in that regard, I’m sure.”
    “Nope,” said Dittany. “I’m an only child, too.”
    Panic seized her, though, as she realized she herself might some day, God forbid, become a widow. She thought of Osbert back home now, with another herd of rustled cattle thundering through his inspired brain, no doubt, and that cowlick behind his left ear swirling so adorably she’d had a hard time tearing herself away from it just now. Maybe she ought to run back this instant and take another good, long look, just in case.
    No, this was no moment to be dithering over Osbert’s cowlick.
    She ought to be saying something consolatory to Mrs. Fairfield.
    Her problem was that Mrs. Fairfield wasn’t actually looking overwhelmingly bereft. On the contrary, to Dittany’s discerning eye she appeared a weentsy bit smug, sitting there in the curator’s chair-albeit the chair was an ugly old wooden thing painted to look like mahogany, with wobbly legs on tiny metal casters that resembled babies’ roller skates-plying the gold-plated fountain pen that had been another farewell gift from her late husband’s erstwhile colleagues.
    “What about the people where he used to work?” she asked.
    “I called my husband’s former secretary as soon as I got here. I didn’t like to keep putting long-distance phone calls on Mrs.
    Oakes’s bill. I don’t suppose any of them will come to the funeral, but I daresay they’ll send a nice floral tribute.”
    She tapped the end of the gold pen against her front teeth, scanning her notes. “Now, Mrs. Monk, if you’re looking for something to do, you might try making those dining room chairs presentable.
    I want that room set up as soon as possible so I can start thinking about the upstairs. Wash them down with mild soap and water, being careful not to soak the wood. You’d better do it outdoors. They must be thoroughly dry before you start rubbing in the lemon oil. By the way, the kitchen sink still isn’t draining properly. Kindly give that plumber a ring right now.”
    Bereavement or no bereavement, this was a bit much. “Can’t,”
    said Dittany. “You accepted that plumber as a donation from Andrew McNaster, remember? Since we didn’t hire him, I don’t see where we have any authority to call him in.”
    “Then how am I to get my sink fixed?”
    “Let’s wait and see. He may be planning to come back later today.”
    Dittany could have thought of other things to say, but she refrained.
    Young as she was, she’d seen enough of death to know it could affect those left behind in strange ways. Maybe all this bustle and bossiness was just Mrs. Fairfield’s way of handling her grief.
    Little did she know there was worse news to come about her husband’s precipitous demise.
    Dittany wasn’t about to be the one to tell. She went and washed the dining room chairs.
    As she was setting them out to dry, on the side porch which was screened by a high hedge, because everybody in town would naturally be assuming the museum was closed today out of respect for its late curator and would be shocked to the marrow did they but know not only a trustee but Mr. Fairfield’s very widow were here working, a van pulled into the driveway and a man got out.
    He wasn’t the plumber; he was the long-lost roofer.
    “Morning, ma’am. Here for my stuff.”
    “You mean those ropes and buckets you left in the stairwell?”
    Dittany replied. “I’m afraid you can’t have them.”
    “Huh? Who says