The melodic voice made the back of Qwilleran's neck tingle. "I've been thinking about you, Polly. I've been thinking about everything."

"It turned out beautifully, Qwill, but I shudder to think I of you in that whiteout."

"I've done a little shuddering myself. When can I see you again?"

"I'd like to drive in for the concert Sunday night."

"Why not pack an overnight bag? If you drive home after the concert, you'll only have to turn around and come back Monday morning. You can have your choice of suites upstairs: English, Empire, or Biedermeier."

"I think I'd like an English suite," Polly said. "I've always wanted to sleep in a four-poster bed with side curtains."

"YOW!" Koko said.

Replacing the receiver gently, Qwilleran said, "And you mind your own business, young man!"

14

Saturday, November twenty-third. "Cloudy skies and another three inches of snow," the weatherman was predicting. Nevertheless, the sun was shining, and Pickax was shimmering under the blanket of white that had descended on Thursday. Snow stayed white in Pickax.

When Qwilleran went to the main house to prepare the cats' breakfast, Mrs. Fulgrove and Mr. O'Dell were on the job. "Nice day for a wedding," he remarked.

"Sure, now, when it comes to marryin', the divil take the weather," said the houseman. "When I wedded herself, the heavens thundered an' the dogs howled an' the birds fell dead in the road, but for forty-five year we lived together with nary an angry word between us. An' when she went, God rest her soul, she went sudden with nary a pain or tear."

Mrs. Cobb was nervous. With no meals to prepare and no rum-raisin squares to bake, she puttered aimlessly about the house, waiting for her hair appointment. The cats were restless, too, sensing an upheaval of some kind. They prowled ceaselessly, and Koko talked to himself with private yows and iks and occasionally shoved a book off the shelf. Qwilleran was glad to escape. At two o'clock he was scheduled to interview Sarah Woolsmith.

The ninety-five-year-old farm woman was a long-term resident at the senior care facility adjoining the Pickax Hospital, two modem buildings that seemed out of place in a city of imitation castles and fortresses.

The matron at the reception desk was expecting Qwilleran. "Mrs. Woolsmith is waiting for you in the reading room," she said. "You'll have the place all to yourselves, but please limit your visit to fifteen minutes; she tires easily. She's looking forward to the interview. Not many people want to listen to elderly folks talk about the old days."

In the reading room he found a frail little woman with nervous hands, sitting in a wheelchair and clutching her shawl. She was accompanied by the volunteer who had wheeled her down from her bedroom.

"Sarah, dear, this is Mr. Qwilleran," the volunteer said slowly and clearly. "He's going to have a nice visit with you." In an aside she whispered, "She's ninety-five and has almost all her own teeth, but her eyesight is not good. She's a dear soul, and we all love her. I'll sit near the door and tell you when the time is up."

"Where are my teeth?" Mrs. Woolsmith demanded in shrill alarm.

"Your partial is in your mouth, dear, and you look lovely in your new shawl." She squeezed the old lady's arm affectionately.

Wasting no time on preliminaries, Qwilleran said, "Would you tell me what it was like to live on a farm when you were young, Mrs. Woolsmith? I'm going to turn on this tape recorder." He held up the machine for her to see, but she looked blankly in several directions.

The following interview was later transcribed:

Question: Were you born in Moose County?

I don't know why you want to talk to me. I never did anything but live on a farm and raise a family. I had my name in the paper once when I had a burglar.

What kind of farming did you do?

It was in the paper — about the burglar — and I tore it out. It's in my purse. Where's my purse? Take it out and read it. You can read it to me. I like to hear it.

Sarah Woolsmith, 65, of Squunk Corners was sitting alone and knitting a sweater in her living room last Thursday at 11:00 p.m., when a man with a handkerchief over his face burst in and said, "Give me all your money. I need it bad." She gave him $18.73 from her purse, and he fled on foot, leaving her unharmed but surprised.

I used to knit in them days. We had seven children, John and me, five of them boys. Two killed in the war. John died in the big storm of '37. Went to bring in the cows and froze to death. Fifteen cows froze and all the chickens. Winters was bad in them days. I have a 'lectric blanket. Do you have a 'lectric blanket? When I was a young girl we slep' under a pile of quilts, my sisters and me. Mornings we looked up to see the frost on the ceiling. It was pretty, all sparkly. There was ice in the pitcher when we washed our face. Sometimes we caught cold. Ma rubbed skunk oil and goose grease on our chests. We didn't like it. (Laughs.) My brother shot wild rabbits, but I could chase 'em and catch 'em. Pa was proud of me. Pa didn't have a horse. He hitched Ma to the plow, and they tilled the land. I didn't go to school. I helped Ma in the kitchen. Once she was sick and I had to feed sixteen men. I was only this big. Harvesttime, it was. They was all neighbors. Neighbors helped neighbors in them days.

Did you ever have time for...

Us womenfolks, we scrubbed clothes in a washtub and made our own soap. I made vinegar and butter. We stuffed pillows with chicken feathers. We had lots of those! (Laughs.) Once a week we took the wagon to town and got the mail and bought a penny stick of horehound candy. I married John and we had a big farm. Cows, horses, pigs, chickens. We hired neighbor boys for huskin' and shellin'. Nickel an hour. The whitetails came and ate our com. Once the grasshoppers came and ate everything. They ate the wash on the line. (Laughs.) The neighbor boys worked twelve hours a day, huskin' and shellin'.

What do you remember about...

Never locked our doors. Neighbor could walk in and borrow a cup of sugar. It was a neighbor boy took my money. I knowed who he was, but I didn't tell the constable. I knowed his voice. Worked on our farm sometimes.

Why didn't you tell the constable?

His name was Basil. I felt sorry for him. His father was in prison. Killed a man.

Was that the Whittlestaff family?

I peeked out the window when he took my money. It was moonlight. I saw him runnin' across our potato field. I knowed where he was headin' for. The freight train stopped at Watertown to take on water. You could hear the whistle two miles away. Boys used to jump the freight trains and run away. One boy fell on the tracks and was killed. I never went on a train.

End of interview.

The volunteer interrupted Mrs. Woolsmith's monologue. "Time's up, dear. Say goodbye now, and we'll go upstairs for our nap."

The old lady put forth a thin trembling hand, and Qwilleran grasped it warmly in both of his, marveling that such fragile hands had once scrubbed clothes, milked cows, and hoed potatoes.

The volunteer followed him into the hallway. "Sarah remembers everything seventy-five years ago," she said, "but she doesn't remember recent events. By the way, I'm Irma Hasselrich."

"Are you related to the attorney for the Klingenschoen Fund?"

"That's my father. He was prosecutor when Zack Whittlestaff was convicted of killing Titus Goodwinter. Zack's boy, who robbed Sarah and ran away, came back years later and repaid the eighteen dollars and seventy-three cents, but she doesn't remember. He sends her chocolates every Christmas, too. He turned out to be quite a successful man. Changed his name, of course. If I had a name like Basil Whittlestaff, I'd change it, too," she laughed. "He sells used cars and runs a garage. He's ornery, but he does good work."