"Are you going in the used clothing business next?"
"Not necessarily. It's just information. These are the times for information. The more you got, the better the decisions you can make. If you'd take a ride on the information highway like me, you'd know all about this stuff. Cross the digital divide."
"I get the picture."
"It's like in the case of a death. There's no reason why they couldn't put in the obituary that the deceased was a forty-two long. And maybe a conservative dresser. Makes me traipse all over the place, finding out the guy didn't have any taste."
"Who traipses? I'm the one who chauffeurs you all over Montrose!"
"If you'd let me drive, you could sit around here on your duff instead."
"You don't have a license. You can't drive."
Cynthia just ignored them, instead watching the younger, more civilized occupants of the room play their card game. Finally, Dean had the sense to change the subject.
"Where are your gullible Boston buyers? Did they change their minds?"
"Just delayed en route. They'll be here soon enough."
"Where's Donnie's mother?"
"Still not back."
"What did you find out about Annie Quincy?"
Fred sighed and put down the newspaper. Fred and his juvenile helpers had located a picture of Reverend Martin and his wife in an old museum collection of early Ouray papers and photos. While he feigned nonchalance, it was obvious he was as proud as a kid with a new toy to show them what he'd discovered.
"Miss Worthington let me take it out of the museum so's you could see it," Fred said as he presented a curled, cardboard sepia image.
The small undated photo was quite dark but showed a couple, perhaps in their thirties, standing before a church window. There was a pedestal in front of them and the man, Rev. Martin, had his hand resting on what Dean assumed was a bible. He was tall and thin and wore a mustache. His wife Annie was dour and a bit on the chunky side. Neither was smiling.
"That ought to please your Boston ladies, seeing a picture of their great-aunt and uncle," Cynthia remarked as she examined the picture.
"In spite of looking like they just saw the IRS at their front door," Dean commented.
"People were more serious back in those days," Cynthia said. "Less frivolous than someone I know."
Dean looked over her shoulder. "Looks like Annie had a few good meals since she fit into that white dress, wouldn't you say?" He turned to Fred. "What else did you find?"
Fred ignored Dean's reference to pudginess. "Poor Rev. Martin died in a flu epidemic in '04," Fred said, his voice sounding duly respectful.