Qwilleran said, "I'm sorry about this for your sake, Dwight. Let's hope it's a false alarm."
"Yeah... well... it was a kick in the head for me, after I'd tried so hard to create a favorable image for Floyd and Lumbertown and Sawdust City."
"One question: Was Floyd a passenger on the six o'clock train?"
"No, he had to go home and take care of his wife - he said! I went on both runs, and I've had enough accordion music to last my lifetime!"
"Arch has the staff digging for facts, so it'll be in the first edition if anything develops. If you hear any rumors, feel free to bounce them off a sympathetic ear. And good luck, whatever the outcome, Dwight."
"Thanks for calling, Qwill. How about lunch later in the week when I've finished licking my wounds?"
When the Moose County Something appeared, the front page was not what Qwilleran had been led to expect. The Party Train had the banner headline:
JOY IN MUDVILLE OLD No.9 ROLLS AGAIN!
The Lumbertown crisis was played down with only a stickful of type in a lower corner of the page: Sawdust C.V. Closed for Audit. Either there was no alarming development, or the editor had chosen not to throw the depositors into panic. That was small-town newspaper policy. Riker, with his background on large metropolitan dailies, preferred the eye-grabbing, heartstopping, hair-raising headline; Junior Goodwinter, born and bred 400 miles north of everywhere, had other ideas, rooted in local custom. He always said, "Don't try to make bad news worse."
Qwilleran was pondering this viewpoint over a ham sandwich at Lois's Luncheonette when Roger MacGillivray blustered into the restaurant and flung himself into the booth where Qwilleran was reading the paper. "I suppose you're wondering why we didn't play it up," the young reporter said.
"You're right. I did... Why?"
"Because there was nothing to report! Junior was stonewalled when he called the commission, and no one in Mudville would talk to me. Two state vehicles were parked behind the Lumbertown building, and there was a notice plastered on the front door with some legal gobbledy-gook, but the doors were locked front and back, and the dirty dogs completely ignored my knocking. Also they refused to answer when I called from a phone booth. Before I left, I got a shot of the building exterior with some old geezers standing on the sidewalk in a huddle. I also got a close-up of the official notice on the door, and another one of the license plate on a state car.... How's that for brilliant photojournalism?" he finished with a bitter laugh.
"They didn't use any photos," Qwilleran said, tapping his newspaper."
"I know, but you have to hand in something, just so they know you've been there."
"Could you see through the window?"
"I could see auditors at work stations, that's all. But then I talked to the old geezers and got some man-on- the-street stuff, which I phoned in, and which they didn't print."
"Maybe later," Qwilleran said encouragingly. "What did the old geezers say?"
"Well! It was an eye-opener, I thought. First of all, they like Floyd. He's the local boy who was captain of the high school football team, started to work as a carpenter, and made millions! They like the interest he pays. They like the electric trains in the lobby. They think this underhanded action on the part of vipers in the state capitol is unfair and probably in violation of the Constitution. They don't trust government agencies."
"Did you try to reach Floyd's secretary?"
"Yeah, but no luck. When I asked the old geezers about her, they sniggered like schoolkids. Anyway, they told me she lives in Indian Village, so I phoned out there. No answer. I went to Floyd's house. He wasn't there, and no one would talk or even open the door more than an inch. It's been a frustrating day so far, Qwill. On days like this I'd like to be back in the school system, teaching history to kids who couldn't care less."
After his conversation with Roger, Qwilleran did a few errands before returning home. Whenever he walked about downtown, he was stopped by strangers who read the "Qwill Pen" or recognized him from the photo at the top of his column. They always complimented him on his
writing and his moustache, not necessarily in that order. In the beginning he had welcomed reader comments, hoping to learn something of value, but his expectations were crushed by the nature of their remarks:
"I loved your column yesterday, Mr. Q. I forget what it was about, but it was very good."
"How do you think all that stuff up?"
"My cousin in Delaware writes for a paper. Would you like me to send you some of her clippings?"
"Why do you spell your name like that?"
Now, whenever he was complimented, he would express his thanks without making eye contact; it was eye contact that led to monologues about out-of-state relatives. Instead, he would say a pleased thank-you and turn his head aside as if modestly savoring the compliment. He had become a master at the gracious turnoff. Fifty percent of the time it worked.
On this day the situation was quite different. While he was waiting in line to cash a check at the Pickax People's Bank, a security guard hailed him. "Hi, Mr. Q."
Immediately the young woman ahead of him in the line turned and said, "You're Mr. Qwilleran! Reading your column is like listening to music! Whatever the subject, your style of writing makes me feel good." There was not a word about his moustache.
Surprised and pleased, he made eye contact with a plain young woman of serious mien, probably in her early twenties. "Thank you," he said graciously without turning away. "I write my column for readers like you. Apparently you know something about the craft. Are you a teacher?"
"No, just a constant reader. I have one of your columns pasted on my mirror. You gave three rules for would-be writers: write, write, and write. I'm a would-be, and I'm following your advice." There was not a word about sending him a manuscript for evaluation and advice.
"Have you thought of enrolling at the new college?" he asked. "They're offering some writing courses... and there are scholarships available," he added, with a glance at her plain and well-worn shirt, her lack of makeup, her limp canvas shoulder bag.
"I'd like to do that, but I'm rather tied down right now."
"Then I wish you well, Ms.... what is your name?"
Her hesitant reply was mumbled. It sounded like Letitia Pen.
"P-e-n-n, as in Pennsylvania?" he asked and I added with humorous emphasis, "Is that a pen name?"
"It's my own name, unfortunately," she said with a grimace. "I hate 'Letitia.' "
"I know what you mean. My parents named me Merlin, and my best friend was Archibald. As Merlin and Archibald we suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous first-graders."
"It's not as terrible as Letitia and Lionella, though. That's the name of my best friend."
"At least you could do a nightclub act. Can you sing? Dance? Tell jokes?"
Letitia giggled. The two of them were the only ones in the bank line who were enjoying the wait. The man behind Qwilleran cleared his throat loudly. The bank teller rapped on the counter to get Letitia's attention and said, "Next!"
Ms. Penn turned and stepped quickly to the window, saying a soft "I'm sorry."
Qwilleran advanced a few steps also, shortening the long line behind them; the bank was always rushed on Mondays and Fridays. Ahead of him his constant reader seemed to be withdrawing a substantial sum. He could see over her shoulder. The teller counted the bills twice.
"Fifty, a hundred, hundred-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty..."
"I'd like an envelope for that," said Ms. Penn.
"There you are," said the teller. "Have a nice day, Ms. Trevelyan." "Constant reader" stuffed the money into her shoulder bag and left the bank hurriedly.
That, Qwilleran observed, was a curious development. Why would she choose not to give her right name? Before leaving the bank, he consulted the local telephone directory and found seventy- five Trevelyans but no Letitia. There were no Penns at all - not that it mattered; it was one of the pointless things he did to satisfy his idle curiosity. After that, he walked home with a lighter step, buoyed by the knowledge that his twice-weekly words were not totally forgotten and might even be doing some good. He walked via the back road to pick up his mail and check Polly's building site.