"Where were you and Bootsie when the lights went out?" he inquired.
"We both retired early and missed it completely," she said with a weariness unusual so early in the morning. "I felt some discomfort after dining with the Hasselriches. It was rather stressful, and my digestion is below par these days."
"I've reiterated, Polly, that you're worrying too much about your house."
"I suppose so, but it's such a tremendous responsibility. I'm working on my color schemes now. One has to bear in mind the exposure of each room, the choice of advancing or receding hues, tints that are flattering to complexions, and so forth."
. "Fran Brodie could do that for you, one-two-three."
"But I want to do it myself, Qwill! I've told you that!" she said curtly. "If I make mistakes, I'm prepared to live with them." Then, with a slight inquiring lift of eyebrows, she asked, "How did Mrs. Robinson enjoy dinner at Tipsy's?"
Ah! The women have been talking, Qwilleran thought: Robinson to Alstock to Duncan. He replied, "She seemed favorably impressed. It would have been more enjoyable if you were there. What did your literary ladies have for dinner? Was it chicken pot pie again?"
"Turkey chow mein," Polly said stiffly.
The mention of food was his cue to invite her to dinner. Instead, he asked where he would find dog books. He said he planned to write a column on chows. Dinner dates with Polly were becoming more of an obligation than a pleasure.
On the way out, Qwilleran stopped to check on Homer Tibbitt's current project.
"Railroads!" the old man said. "The SC&L Line was the lifeblood of the county in mining and lumbering days, and it was all done with steam. I grew up on a farm outside Little Hope and knew the language of the whistles before I knew the alphabet. When I was five years old, my brothers and I would go into town on Saturdays to watch the trains go by. I remember the station platform: wood boards put together with nailheads as big as dimes. Little Hope was only a flagstop, and most trains went straight through. I could hear them coming, getting louder and louder, until the big wheels went roaring past. It was frightening, I tell you! Seventy-five tons of iron, breathing fire!"
"Were there many wrecks?"
"Yes, a lot of blood was spilled, most of it for the sake of being on time. Being on time made money for the SC&L and meant a bonus for the engineer, so he'd go too fast, trying to get his lading to a cargo ship that was ready to sail.... One of these days I'll write a book."
When Qwilleran picked up his mail and daily paper, he usually walked down the trail, but now he drove in order to deliver a cooler of beverages. The morning after the blackout, Eddie's only helper was one of the Herculean young blond men indigenous to Moose County.
"Where's Benno?" Qwilleran asked.
Eddie walked over to him and started sharpening a pencil. "I dunno. Prob'ly hung over."
"Where were you when the lights went out last night?"
"Over at a friend's place. It di'n't last long." Eddie looked red-eyed and minus pep, and Qwilleran was in no mood to linger. He wanted to go home and read what the Something had to say about the murder.
The headline read: BLACKOUT SPAWNS KILLING IN BAR.
When the lights went on again at the Trackside Tavern in Sawdust City, following last night's brief power outage, one customer was found dead, the victim of a knifing. The body of James Henry Ducker, 24, of Chipmunk Township, was slumped in a booth, bleeding profusely from wounds apparently inflicted by a hunting knife or similar weapon. He was pronounced dead at the scene.
The table in the booth had been swept clean of beer bottles and shot glasses in the scuffle that preceded the assault, according to barkeeper Stan Western.
"We always have a noisy demonstration when the lights go out," he said, "but last night was a blinger! Never heard such rowdy carrying-on. Soccer fans, mostly."
The rowdy outburst followed an Inter- county League game between Sawdust City and Lockmaster, which the visiting team won by the close score of 5 to 3.
Police questioned patrons, but no one in the dimly lighted bar had noticed the deceased or his drinking partner in the corner booth.
Western said Ducker was not a regular customer. Barmaid Shirley Dublay had noticed a ponytail on the man who was later killed, but she was unable to describe the second individual in the booth where the crime was committed. "I was too busy," she said. "The other barmaid called in sick, and I was working the floor all alone."
No arrests have been made. Sawdust City police and state troopers are investigating.
The reason for the 15-minute blackout remains a mystery, according to a spokesperson for the Moose County Electric Cooperative.
Also on page one was a sidebar with Roger MacGillivray's by-line, describing the scene of the crime:
On a normal night the Trackside Tavern on East Main Street in Sawdust City is a quiet neighborhood bar, where folks drop in for a nip, a friendly chat, and maybe a game of pool. When the TV set isn't covering sports, the radio is tuned to country western and the new rock station, but there are no video games.
Factory workers, downtown business- men, truckers, railroad personnel, and retirees mingle at the long bar, or in the handful of booths, or at the small scarred tables. It's strictly a male hangout, following an incident ten years ago that made it unpopular with women.
Otherwise, its hundred-year-old history includes some swashbuckling fights when it was Sully's Saloon before Prohibition, a period as a blind pig, and a series of different owners as the Trackside Tavern.
The typical old north-country atmosphere of the tavern has remained unchanged, however: Knotty pine walls hung with mounted deer heads, wide pine floorboards rippled with a century of work boots and scraping chairs, and a wood-burning stove that heats the barnlike interior in winter. On the rare summer occasions when air conditioning is needed, the front and back doors are opened to funnel lake breezes through the barroom.
The mood is easygoing, relaxing - except on Thursday nights if the local soccer team is playing a home game. "Strangers come in and whoop it up," said barkeeper Stan Western. "They're always welcome. Good crowd, mostly. Never had anything like this happen before. I think that fights between fans that started on the field after the game carried over into the bar."
Roger was honing his craft as a newswriter, Qwilleran thought, but he should have explained the incident that kept women away from the Trackside.
As for the soccer-brawl theory as a motive for murder, Qwilleran had a different idea, and he wanted to run it past his friend at the police station. He phoned first, to be sure Brodie was there, then drove downtown in a hurry. The sergeant waved him into the inner office.
"Too late for coffee, if you came for a handout," the chief said.
"That's all right," Qwilleran said lightly. "Your constabulary brew leaves something to be desired. Nothing personal, of course."
Brodie grunted a constabulary reply. "What did you think of the mysterious blackout, Andy?"
"Hard to figure. A woman called the station this morning and wanted us to investigate. She thought it was done purposely by UFOs. We told her it was only a large fish going over the dam near the hydro plant."
"Did she buy that?"
"I don't know. The sergeant hung up."
"Whatever the cause," Qwilleran said, "it was a convenient cover-up for murder. Did you like the coverage in the paper?"
"Not bad. Most of it was accurate. It wasn't a hunting knife, though. That was a reporter's guesswork. It was some other kind, but that's classified. It could affect the investigation."
"Are you in on the case, Andy?"
"We cooperate with the Sawdust PD and the state troopers."
"Do you find it strange that none of the customers noticed the person who was with Ducker?"