"I hope that's Scotch broth you're buying," Roger said.

"Why don't we have dinner some night?" Qwilleran suggested. "Preferably not at the FOO." "How about tonight? My wife's out-of-town." "How about the hotel dining room! Hats-off."

Qwilleran returned to the cabin to shower and shave in preparation for the visit of Aunt Fanny and the remarkable Tom — gardener, chauffeur, handyman, errand boy, and petty thief, perhaps. Shortly before noon a long black limousine inched its way around the curves of the drive and emerged triumphantly in the clearing. The driver, dressed in work clothes and a blue visored cap, jumped out and ran around to open the passenger's door.

Out came Indian moccasins with beadwork, then a fringed suede skirt, then a leather jacket with more fringe and beadwork, then Aunt Fanny's powdered face topped with an Indian red turban. Qwilleran noticed that she had well-shaped legs for an octogenarian soon to be a nonagenarian.

"Francesca! Good to see you again!" he exclaimed. "You're looking very… very…

sexy." "Bless you, my dear," she said in her surprising baritone voice. "Little old ladies are usually called chipper or spry, and I intend to shoot the next fool who does." She reached into her fringed suede handbag and withdrew a small pistol with a gold handle, which she waved with abandon.

"Careful!" Qwilleran gasped.

"Dear me! The storm did a lot of damage. That jack pine is almost bare. We'll have to remove it… Tom, come here to meet the famous Mr. Qwilleran." The man-of-all-work stepped forward obediently, removing the blue cap that advertised a brand of fertilizer. His age was hard to guess. An old twenty or a young forty? His round scrubbed face and pale blue eyes wore an expression of serene wonder.

"This is Tom," Aunt Fanny said. "Tom, it's all right to shake hands with Mr.

Qwilleran; he's a member of the family." Qwilleran gripped a hand that was strong but unaccustomed to social gestures. "How do you do, Tom.

I've heard a lot of good things about you." Thinking of the missing watch and pen he looked inquiringly into the man's eyes, but their open innocent gaze was disarming. "You did a fine job with the porch yesterday, Tom. How did you do so much work in such a short time? Did you have a helper?" "No," Tom said slowly. "No helper. I like to work. I like to work hard." He spoke in a gentle, musical voice.

Aunt Fanny slipped something into his hand. "Go into Mooseville, Tom, and buy yourself a big pasty and a beer, and come back in two hours. Bring the picnic basket from the car before you leave." "Tom, do you know what time it is?" Qwilleran asked. "I've lost my watch." The handyman searched the sky for the sun, hiding in the tall pines. "It's almost twelve o'clock," he said softly.

He drove away in the limousine, and Aunt Fanny said: "I've brought some egg salad sandwiches and a thermos of coffee with that marvelous cream. We'll sit on the porch and enjoy the lake. The temperature is perfect. Now where are those intelligent cats I've heard so much about? And where do you do your writing? I must confess, I'm awed by your talent, dear." As a newsman Qwilleran was expert at interviewing difficult subjects, but he was defeated by Aunt Fanny. She chattered nonstop about shipwrecks on the lake, bears in the woods, dead fish on the beach, caterpillars in the trees. Questions were ignored or evaded. Madame President was in charge of the conversation.

In desperation Qwilleran finally shouted: "Aunt Fanny!" After her startled pause he continued: "What do you know about Tom? Where did you find him? How long has he worked for you? Is he trustworthy? He has access to this cabin when I'm not here. You can't blame me for wanting to know." "You poor dear," she said. "You have always lived in cities. Life is different in the country. We trust each other. Neighbors walk into your house without knocking. If you're not there and they want to borrow an egg, they help themselves. It's a friendly way of living. Don't worry about Tom. He's a fine young man. He does everything I tell him to do and nothing more." A bell rang — the clear golden tone of the ship's bell outside the south porch.

"That's Tom," she said. "He's right on time. Isn't he a marvel? You go and talk to him while I powder my nose. This has been such a pleasant visit, my dear." Qwilleran went into the yard. "Hello, Tom. You're right on time, even without a watch." "Yes, I don't need a watch," he said quietly, his face beaming with pride. He stroked the brass bell. "This is a nice bell. I polished it yesterday. I like to clean things. I keep the truck and the car very clean." Qwilleran was fascinated by the singsong inflection of his voice.

"I saw your truck in Pickax. It's blue, isn't it?" "Yes. I like blue. It's like the sky and the lake. Very pretty. This is a nice cabin.

I'll come and clean it for you." "That's a kind offer, Tom, but don't come unless I call you. I'm writing a book, and I don't like people around when I'm writing." "I wish I could write. I'd like to write a book. That would be nice." "Everyone has his own talents," Qwilleran said, "and you have many skills. You should be proud of yourself." Tom's face glowed with pleasure. "Yes, I can fix anything." Aunt Fanny appeared, good byes were said, and the limousine moved carefully down the drive.

The Siamese, who had been invisible for the last two hours, materialized from nowhere.

"You two weren't very sociable," Qwilleran said. "What did you think of Aunt Fanny?" "YOW!" said Koko, shaking himself vigorously.

Qwilleran remembered offering Aunt Fanny drink before lunch — a whiskey sour, or a gin and tonic, or a Scotch and soda, or dry sherry. She had declined them all.

Now he had four hours to kill before dining with Roger, and he had no incentive to start page one of chapter one of the book he was supposed to be writing. He might watch the bears at the village dump or visit the prison flower gardens or study shipwreck history at the museum, but it was the abandoned cemetery that tugged at his imagination, even though Roger had advised against it — or perhaps because Roger had advised against it.

The Chamber of Commerce brochure gave directions: Go east to Pickax Road and turn south for five miles; enter the cemetery on a dirt road (unmarked) through a cobblestone gate.

The route passed the landscaped grounds that were evidently the prison compound, It passed the turkey farm, and Qwilleran slowed to watch the sea of bronze-feathered backs rippling in the farmyard. Ahead of him a truck was. turning out of a side road and

heading toward him, one of those ubiquitous blue pickups. As it passed he waved to the driver, but the greeting was not returned. When he reached the cobblestone gate he realized the truck had come from the cemetery.

The access to the graveyard was merely a trail, rutted and muddy after the storm. It meandered through the woods with a clearing here and there, just big enough for a car to pull off and park; there was evidence of picnicking and beer-drinking. Eventually the trail branched in several directions through a meadow dotted with gravestones. Qwilleran followed the set of ruts that appeared to have been recently used.

Where the tire marks stopped he got out of the car and explored the burial ground. It was choked with tall grasses and vines, and he had to tear them away to read the inscriptions on the smaller stones: 1877–1879, 1841–1862, 1856–1859. So many infants were buried there! So many women had died in their twenties! The larger family monuments bore names like Schmidt, Campbell, Trevelyan, Watson.

Trampled grasses suggested a slight path leading behind the Campbell stone, and when he followed it he found signs of recent digging. Dried weeds had been thrown across freshly turned soil, barely concealing the brown plastic lid of a garbage pail. The pail itself, about a twelve-gallon size, was buried in the ground. Qwilleran removed the cover cautiously. The pail was empty.