legs.
Mr. Tibbitt had returned to the museum, and Qwilleran followed him to apologize. He found the chairman and an elderly brown-haired woman in the exhibit area.
"No need to apologize," said Tibbitt in his high-pitched voice. "It gives me an excuse to come out here and look things over. She drives me," he explained with a nod toward his companion. "They won't renew my license any more. That's the advantage of hooking up with a younger woman. Only trouble with Rhoda is her danged hearing aid. She won't get the blasted thing fixed. Rhoda, this is Mr. Qwilleran. This is Rhoda Finney. She taught English in my school when I was principal."
Qwilleran bowed over Ms. Finney's hand, and she beamed at him with the serenity of one who has not heard a word that has been said.
Tibbitt said, "Let's go into the office and have some coffee. Rhoda, do you want some coffee?"
"Sorry, I don't have any, dear," she said, rummaging in her handbag. "Would you like a throat lozenge?"
"Never mind." He waved her away and led Qwilleran into the bleak office. It was furnished with oak filing cabinets, scarred wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and shelves of reference books. One table was piled with dreary odds and ends under a sign specifying To Be Catalogued. Another table held an array of instant-beverage jars, paper cups, and plastic spoons.
"I'll do a little cleaning," said Ms. Finney, taking a feather duster from a hook and toddling from the room.
The old gentleman heated water in an electric kettle and measured out instant-coffee crystals for Qwilleran and coffee substitute for himself. "This insipid stuff is all Doctor Hal will let me drink since my last birthday," he explained, "but it's greatly improved with a few drops of brandy." He showed Qwilleran a silver hip flask engraved with his initials. "Leftover from Prohibition days," he said. "Comes in handy now and then... What did you think of the funeral? It was a decent send-off, I thought. Even old Dingleberry was impressed. Larry tells me you're living here till they find a manager. Have you noticed anything unusual?"
"Of what nature?" Qwilleran asked, grooming his moustache with a show of nonchalance.
"They say old Ephraim walks around once in a while. Never saw him myself because I've never been here overnight, but he has some kind of secret up his ghostly sleeve. Old Adam Dingleberry knows what it is, but he's not telling. I've twisted Adam's arm five different ways, but he won't budge, for love nor money."
"My cats have been acting strangely since we moved in," Qwilleran said. "I thought they might be searching for Iris Cobb. She invited them here to dinner a couple of times."
"No doubt they're seeing an invisible presence," said Tibbitt in all seriousness.
"Do you know anyone who has actually seen Ephraim's so-called ghost?"
"Senior Goodwinter told me something shortly before his accident. He said the old man came straight through the wall one night, carrying a rope. He was as silent as the grave. That was almost ninety years after Ephraim died, mind you! It gave Senior a suffocating feeling. Then the vision disappeared into the same wall he'd come from, and a few days later, Senior was dead."
"Which wall?" Qwilleran asked as his thoughts went to Iris Cobb and the potato masher. "Do you know which wall?"
"He didn't tell me that." "Did any of the family ever see Ephraim looking in a window at night?"
"No one ever mentioned it, but the Goodwinters were inclined to be hush-hush about the whole matter. I was surprised when Senior confided in me. I'd been his teacher in the early grades, and so I guess he trusted me."
"I get the impression that people up here are strong believers in the spirits of the dead."
"Yes indeed! This is good ghost country—like Scotland, you know. We have a lot of Scots here. Didn't you tell me you're a Scot?"
"My mother was a Mackintosh," Qwilleran informed him with an air of pride, "and she never saw a ghost to my knowledge. Certainly she
Mr. Tibbitt had returned to the museum, and Qwilleran followed him to apologize. He found the chairman and an elderly brown-haired woman in the exhibit area.
"No need to apologize," said Tibbitt in his high-pitched voice. "It gives me an excuse to come out here and look things over. She drives me," he explained with a nod toward his companion. "They won't renew my license any more. That's the advantage of hooking up with a younger woman. Only trouble with Rhoda is her danged hearing aid. She won't get the blasted thing fixed. Rhoda, this is Mr. Qwilleran. This is Rhoda Finney. She taught English in my school when I was principal."
Qwilleran bowed over Ms. Finney's hand, and she beamed at him with the serenity of one who has not heard a word that has been said.
Tibbitt said, "Let's go into the office and have some coffee. Rhoda, do you want some coffee?"
"Sorry, I don't have any, dear," she said, rummaging in her handbag. "Would you like a throat lozenge?"
"Never mind." He waved her away and led Qwilleran into the bleak office. It was furnished with oak filing cabinets, scarred wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and shelves of reference books. One table was piled with dreary odds and ends under a sign specifying To Be Catalogued. Another table held an array of instant-beverage jars, paper cups, and plastic spoons.
"I'll do a little cleaning," said Ms. Finney, taking a feather duster from a hook and toddling from the room.
The old gentleman heated water in an electric kettle and measured out instant-coffee crystals for Qwilleran and coffee substitute for himself. "This insipid stuff is all Doctor Hal will let me drink since my last birthday," he explained, "but it's greatly improved with a few drops of brandy." He showed Qwilleran a silver hip flask engraved with his initials. "Leftover from Prohibition days," he said. "Comes in handy now and then... What did you think of the funeral? It was a decent send-off, I thought. Even old Dingleberry was impressed. Larry tells me you're living here till they find a manager. Have you noticed anything unusual?"
"Of what nature?" Qwilleran asked, grooming his moustache with a show of nonchalance.
"They say old Ephraim walks around once in a while. Never saw him myself because I've never been here overnight, but he has some kind of secret up his ghostly sleeve. Old Adam Dingleberry knows what it is, but he's not telling. I've twisted Adam's arm five different ways, but he won't budge, for love nor money."
"My cats have been acting strangely since we moved in," Qwilleran said. "I thought they might be searching for Iris Cobb. She invited them here to dinner a couple of times."
"No doubt they're seeing an invisible presence," said Tibbitt in all seriousness.
"Do you know anyone who has actually seen Ephraim's so-called ghost?"
"Senior Goodwinter told me something shortly before his accident. He said the old man came straight through the wall one night, carrying a rope. He was as silent as the grave. That was almost ninety years after Ephraim died, mind you! It gave Senior a suffocating feeling. Then the vision disappeared into the same wall he'd come from, and a few days later, Senior was dead."
"Which wall?" Qwilleran asked as his thoughts went to Iris Cobb and the potato masher. "Do you know which wall?"
"He didn't tell me that." "Did any of the family ever see Ephraim looking in a window at night?"
"No one ever mentioned it, but the Goodwinters were inclined to be hush-hush about the whole matter. I was surprised when Senior confided in me. I'd been his teacher in the early grades, and so I guess he trusted me."
"I get the impression that people up here are strong believers in the spirits of the dead."
"Yes indeed! This is good ghost country—like Scotland, you know. We have a lot of Scots here. Didn't you tell me you're a Scot?"
"My mother was a Mackintosh," Qwilleran informed him with an air of pride, "and she never saw a ghost to my knowledge. Certainly she
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