The meeting was held in the conference room. Its plain wood-paneled walls were decorated with framed tear sheets of memorable front pages in the history of American journalism: Titanic Meets a Mightier... War in Europe... Kennedy Assassinated. Staffers sat around the large teakwood conference table, drinking coffee from mugs imprinted with newspaper wit: "If you can't eat it, don't print it"... "Deadlines are made to be missed"... "A little malice aforethought is fun."
"Come on in, Qwill," the managing editor said. "Dwight isn't here yet. Since we hate to waste time, we're inventing rumors about the mystery woman."
There were six staffers around the table:
Arch Riker, the paunchy publisher and editor in chief, had been Qwilleran's lifelong friend and fellow journalist Down Below. Now he was realizing his dream of running a small-town newspaper.
Junior Goodwinter's boyish countenance and slight build belied his importance; he was not only the managing editor but a direct descendent of the founders of Pickax City. In a community 400 miles north of everywhere, that mattered a great deal.
Hixie Rice, in charge of advertising and promotion, was another refugee from Down Below, and after several years in the outback she still had a certain urbane verve and chic.
Mildred Hanstable Riker, food writer and wife of the publisher, was a plump, good-hearted native of Moose County, recently retired from teaching fine and domestic arts in the public schools.
Jill Handley, the new feature editor, was pretty and eager but not yet comfortable with her fellow staffers. She came from the Lockmaster Ledger in the neighboring county, where the inhabitants of Moose County were considered barbarians.
Wilfred Sugbury, secretary to the publisher, was a thin, wiry, sober-faced young man, intensely serious about this job. He jumped up and filled a coffee mug for Qwilleran. It was inscribed: "First we kill all the editors."
Also present, watching from the top of a file cabinet, was William Allen, a large white cat formerly associated with the Pickax Picayune.
Qwilleran nodded pleasantly to each one in turn and took a chair next to the newcomer. Jill Handley turned to him adoringly. "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, I love your column! You're a fantastic writer!"
Sternly he replied, "You're not allowed to work for the Something unless you drink coffee, like cats, and call me Qwill."
"You have Siamese, don't you... Qwill?"
"Loosely speaking. It's more accurate to say that they have me. What prompted you to leave civilization for life in the wilderness?"
"Well, my kids wanted to go to Pickax High because you have a larger swimming pool, and my husband found a good business opportunity up here, and I wanted to write for a paper that carries columns like the "Qwill Pen." That's the honest truth!"
"Enough!" said the boss at the head of the table. "Any more of this and he'll be asking for a raise... Let's hear it for our gold-medal winner!"
Everyone applauded, and Wilfred flushed. He had come in first in the seventy-mile Labor Day Bike Race, yet no one at the newspaper knew that he even owned a bike- such was his modesty and concentration on his work.
Qwilleran said, "Congratulations! We're all proud of you. Your pedaling is on a par with your office efficiency."
"Thanks," said Wilfred. "I didn't expect to win. I just signed up for the fun of it, but I decided to give it my best shot, so I trained hard all summer. I was confident I could go the entire route, even if I came in last, but everything turned out right for me, and after the first sixty miles I suddenly thought, Hey, chump, you can win this crazy race! That was between Mudville and Kennebeck, with only a few riders ahead of me, so I gave it an extra push to the finish line. Nine bikers finished, and they all deserve credit for a great try. They were as good as I was, only I had something going for me - luck, I guess. I'm hoping to compete again next year."
This was more than the quiet young man had said in his two years of employment, and all heads turned to listen in astonishment. Only Qwilleran could think of something to say: "We admire your spirit and determination, Wilfred."
Riker cleared his throat. "While we're waiting for the late Mr. Somers, let us resume our deliberations." Then he added in a loud, sharp voice, "Who is the mystery woman and what is she doing here?"
Mildred said, "She always wears black and is inclined to be reclusive. I think she's in mourning, having suffered a great loss. She's come to this quiet town to deal with her grief. We should respect her need for privacy."
Qwilleran stroked his moustache, a sign of purposeful interest. "Does she ever venture out of the hotel?"
"Sure," Junior said. "Our reporters in the field have seen her driving around in a rental car with an airport sticker, a dark blue two-door."
"And," Hixie added, signaling news of importance, "one day when I was getting an ad contract signed at the Black Bear Cafe, I saw her in the hotel lobby with a man! He was wearing a business suit and tie, and he was carrying a briefcase."
"The plot thickens," Riker said. "Was he checking out or checking in?"
Qwilleran said, "I haven't seen her. Is she good-looking? Is she young? Is she glamorous?"
"Why don't you have dinner at the hotel, Qwill, and see for yourself?"
"No thanks. The last time I went there, a chicken breast squirted butter allover my new sports coat. I considered it a hostile attack on the media."
Wilfred said shyly, "Lenny Inchpot told me she looks foreign."
"Very interesting," said Junior. "We have a foreign agent in our midst, a scout for some international cartel planning to come up here and pollute our environment."
"Or she's a government undercover operator, casing the area as a possible site for a toxic waste dump," Riker suggested.
The new woman on the staff listened in bewilderment, uncertain how to react to the straight-faced conjectures.
"Or she's a visitor from outer space," Mildred said merrily. "We had a lot of UFO sightings this summer."
"You're all off-base," Hixie declared. "I say the man with a briefcase is her attorney, and she's Gustav Limburger's secret girl friend, now suing him for patrimony."
Laughter exploded from all except Qwilleran and the new editor. She asked, "What's so funny?"
"Gustav Limburger," Mildred explained, "is a short, bent-over, mean-spirited, eighty-year-old Scrooge, living in seclusion in Black Creek. He owns the New Pickax Hotel."
"Well, what's wrong with my theory?" Hixie demanded. "He's rich. He's got one foot in the grave. He has no family. It wouldn't be the first time a dirty old man made a deal with a young woman."
There was more laughter and then a knock on the door, and Dwight Somers walked into the conference room, saying, "Let me in on the joke." The PR man had looked better before he shaved off his beard, but what he lacked in handsome features he made up in enthusiasm and personality. He nodded to each one at the table and nodded twice to Hixie. "Sorry to be late, gang. The plane lost its left wing somewhere over Lockmaster. Enemy fire is suspected."
"No problem," Riker said, motioning him to a chair. "The K Fund will buy the airline a new wing."
"Welcome to the Moose County Dumbthing!" Junior said, while Wilfred scurried to fill a coffee mug imprinted: "First we kill all the PR people."
The publisher asked, "Was this your first visit to Klingenschoen headquarters, Dwight? I hear it's impressive."
"Man! It's staggering! You're talking about an operation that occupies four floors of an office building in the Loop. They have a think tank of specialists in investments, real estate, economic development, and philanthropy. Their thrust is to make Moose County a great place to live and work without turning it into a megalopolis. They're for saving the beaches and forests, keeping the air and water clean, creating businesses that do more good than harm, and zoning that discourages high-density development."