Monday, November eighteenth. "An unexpected cold snap brought temperatures as low as five degrees in Pickax last night, six below in Brrr, but a warming trend is indicated with a few snow flurries this afternoon."
Qwilleran snapped off his car radio with an impatient gesture. Despite the predictions, Moose County had yet to see even a light dusting of snow. He was driving to the New Pickax Hotel in the limousine that he had inherited from the Klingenschoen estate, the better to impress the visitor from Down Below.
When Noyton saw the long black vehicle, he said, "Jeez! Qwill, you've really got it made! How come? Did you marry oil? No one ever told me why you left the Fluxion. I thought you retired to write a book."
“It’s a long story,” Qwilleran said. “First I want to show you where I live and treat you to one of my housekeeper’s memorable breakfasts.”
“You — with a housekeeper as well as a limo? I remember when you lived in a furnished room and rode the bus.”
“Actually I live over the garage, and I’m turning the house into a museum.”
In a state of wonder Noyton walked into the K mansion and said, “I know kings in Europe that don’t live this good. One thing I want to know: Why am I here? Why don’t you finance this newspaper yourself?”
It was a question that Qwilleran was tired of hearing. He explained his position. “I’m a writer, Harry, not an entrepreneur.” He related the history of the Picayune and reiterated the county’s crying need for a newspaper.
“Who’s going to run it?” was Noyton’s first question.
“Arch Riker has just left the Fluxion. He’s a great editor and knows the business inside out. Junior Goodwinter is the last of a long line of newspaper Goodwinters. He’s a trained journalist. His academic record is tops, and he has boundless energy and enthusiasm.”
“Sounds like my kind of joe. Who’s the widow?”
“Gritty Goodwinter ... “
“I like her already!”
“She wants to sell the newspaper to a close personal friend who’ll only exploit the name of the hundred-year-old publication. Of course, you could forget the Picayune and start something called the Backwoods Gazette or the Moose Call, but the Picayune had a million dollars’ worth of publicity last week and is due for more in a national news magazine.”
“I got the picture,” Noyton said. “We’ll get the paper away from those bastards.”
“Mrs. Goodwinter also has a barnful of antique printing presses. You could start a newspaper museum.”
“I like it!” Noyton exclaimed. “What made you think of me, anyway?”
Qwilleran hesitated. They were eating breakfast, and Koko was under the table hoping someone would drop a strip of bacon. “Well, it’s like this: Your name just popped into my head.” How could he explain to a man like Noyton that the cat had drawn his attention to a certain book? No, it was too farfetched.
After breakfast the two men paid a visit to Scottie’s Men’s Shop. The proprietor burred his r’s and sold Noyton a raccoon car coat, an Aussie hat, and some tooled leather boots. For the rest of the day the big ungainly man with a craggy face was highly visible in Pickax.
He was seen leaving the hotel, entering the city hall, driving around with the mayor, lunching with influential men at the country club, walking out of the law office, walking into the bank, dining with the Goodwinter widow, and eating a twenty-ounce steak with two baked potatoes.
It was rumored that he was a Texan buying oil rights that would make Moose County farmers rich. Or he was a speculator promoting offshore drilling that would ruin the tourist industry. Or he was the advance man for a nuclear power plant that would leak radiation, contaminate the drinking water, and kill the fish. Or he was a Hollywood scout for a major movie to be made in Moose County. The rumors were reported by Mrs. Cobb, who had heard them from Mrs. Fulgrove, who had been told by Mr. O’Dell.
Meanwhile Qwilleran made a morning visit to the hospital to see the young newspaper editor who was known for his boundless energy and enthusiasm. Junior was slumped in a chair with his leg in a cast, his face unshaven, and his expression disgruntled. Jody was flitting about, trying to be cheerful and useful, but Junior was being stubbornly morose.
“You idiot!” Qwilleran greeted the patient. “If you’re going to break a leg, why not pick a more comfortable place?”
Jody said, “He caught a bad cold in the woods, but it didn’t go into pneumonia. He wants to stay in the hospital until his beard grows.”
“Nowhere else to go,” Junior said hopelessly. “The farmhouse is sold. The furniture is being auctioned off Wednesday. I can’t stay with Jody; all she’s got is a studio apartment.”
“We have some spare beds you’re welcome to use,” Qwilleran said.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Well, wipe that bleak look off your face. I have some good news. An acquaintance of mine from Down Below wants to buy a newspaper. He’s prepared to offer your mother three times what XYZ has offered, and he’ll sink a bundle into a new printing plant.”
Junior looked wary. “Is he crazy?”
“Crazy and loaded. He owns office buildings, hotels, ball clubs, a chain of restaurants, and a couple of breweries in the U.S. and abroad, and he likes the idea of owning a newspaper. He might get into magazines later on.”
“I don’t believe it. I’m hallucinating. Or you’re hallucinating.”
Jody cried, “Oh, Juney! Isn’t that fabulous?”
Qwilleran went on. “Noyton is here now. The city fathers are gung ho. The plan is for Arch Riker to be the publisher, and you’ll be managing editor of a real newspaper. I know some young journalists Down Below who are disenchanted with the city, and they’ll find this a good place to raise a family. They won’t earn as much as they did Down Below, but it costs less to live up here. Who knows? We might get Noyton to finance a decent airport and buy an airline. We’ll have to monitor his enthusiasm, though, or he’ll build a fifty-story hotel in the middle of a cornfield.”
Junior was speechless.
“Oh, Jueny,” his little friend kept squealing, “say something.”
“Are you sure it’s going through?”
“Noyton never backs down.”
“But my mother has this ... close connection with Exbridge.”
“Connection! She’s having an affair with Exbridge, and you know it. But if she’s as hungry as it appears, she’ll forget about XYZ and go for the larger fish. Not only will Noyton jingle hard cash in her ears; he’ll turn on the charm. Women like him.”
“Is he married?” asked Jody.
“Not at the moment, but he’s too old for you, Jody.”
She giggled.
“He’s interested in buying the old presses in the barn also, to start a newspaper museum. Your father would be pleased, Junior.”
“Oh, wow!”
“Jody,” said Qwilleran, “would you get us some coffee from the cafeteria? And some of those oatmeal cookies made out of cardboard and sawdust?” He handed her a bill and waited for her to disappear. “Before she returns, Junior, answer a few questions, will you? Do you think your father’s accident might have been suicide?”
Junior stared. “I don’t think — he’d do — anything like that?”
“He had bankrupted the family. Your mother was having an affair. And there might be another reason.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember that stranger in a black raincoat who came up here on the plane? You thought he was a traveling salesman. I think he was an investigator of some kind. If your father was involved in anything shady, he might have known the man was coming ... .”
“My dad wouldn’t do anything illegal,” Junior protested. “He didn’t have that kind of mind.”
“Next question: Could it have been murder?”
“WHAT!” Junior almost jumped out of his cast. “Why would ... who would ... ?”
“Skip that one. What was in the metal box you tried to save after the fire?”
“I don’t know. Dad was very secretive about it, but I knew it was important.”
“How big was it?”
Junior sneezed and reached for a tissue. “About as big as a tissue box.”
“I hear Jody coming. Tell me this: Why was your father making frequent one-day trips to Minneapolis?”
“He never told me.” Junior’s face turned red. “But I know he wasn’t getting along with my mother.”
Jody returned with the coffee. “No oatmeal cookies left, so I brought molasses.”
“They taste like burnt tires,” Junior said after a couple of nibbles. “How was the turnout at the preview, Qwill?”
“Full house! I’ve started interviewing the Old Timers and taping oral histories. Got any suggestions? I’ve got your grandmother and Homer Tibbitt on tape.”
“Mrs. Woolsmith,” Jody said in a small voice. “She’d be a good one.”
Junior scratched his emerging beard. “You should be able to find some who remember the mines and the pioneer farms and the fishing industry before powerboats.”
“Mrs. Woolsmith lived on a farm,” Jody said softly.
“I need a subject with a reliable memory,” Qwilleran said.
“You’ll still have to drag it out of them,” Junior warned him. “The Old Timers like to talk about their blood pressure and their dentures and their great-grandchildren.”
Jody said, “Mrs. Woolsmith has almost all her own teeth.”
“Well, give it some thought,” Qwilleran said to Junior. “There’s no hurry.”
“Wait a minute! I’ve got it! There’s a woman in the senior care facility,” Junior suddenly recalled. “She’s over ninety, but she’s sharp, and she spent all her life on a farm. Her name is Woolsmith. Sarah Woolsmith.”
Jody picked up her coat and shoulder bag and walked quietly from the room.
“Hey, where’s she going?” Junior yelled.
Following his session at the hospital, Qwilleran went to lunch at Stephanie’s, wondering about Senior’s metal box and his frequent trips to Minneapolis. Junior’s red-faced embarrassment meant that he knew or suspected the reason. Young people who are quite casual in their own relationships can be strangely embarrassed by the sexual adventures of their elders. As eh was musing about this curious reaction, he heard a familiar voice at the table behind him.
A man was ordering a roast beef sandwich with mustard and horseradish. “Trim the fat, please. And bring a tossed salad with Roquefort dressing and no cucumber or green pepper.”
The voice had a clipped twang that Qwilleran had heard before. He rose and walked in the direction of the men’s room, glancing at his neighbor as he passed. It was the so-called historian he had confronted in the library. The man had exchanged his buttoned-down image for more casual attire — less conspicuous in Moose County — but there was no doubt about his identity. He was the stranger whose previous visit had coincided with Senior’s fatal accident — or suicide — or murder.
Qwilleran spent the rest of his lunch hour shifting the possibilities. He composed scenarios involving the metal box ... adultery ... gambling ... the drug connection ... espionage. In none of them did the mild-mannered typesetter seem to fit.