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Following an unseasonable thaw and disastrous flooding, spring came early to Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. In Pickax City, the county seat, flowerboxes on Main Street were blooming in April, birds were singing in Park Circle, mosquitoes were hatching in the bogs, and strangers were beginning to appear in the campgrounds and on the streets of downtown.
One afternoon in late May, a brown van pulled into a parking lot alongside a small green sedan, and a man wearing a black jersey slipped out of the driver’s seat. He glanced furtively to the left and right, and, leaving the motor running, he opened the tailgate. Then he unlocked the trunk of the sedan and quickly transferred something from his vehicle to the other, after which he lost no time in driving away. An out-of- towner, witnessing the surreptitious maneuver, might have described him as a Caucasian male, middle-aged, about six feet two, with slightly graying hair and an enormous pepper-and-salt moustache. On the other hand, any resident of Pickax (population 3,000) would have recognized him immediately. He was James Mackintosh Qwilleran, columnist for the Moose County Something and-by a fluke of fate-the richest man in northeast central United States. He had reason to be furtive about the parking-lot caper. In Pickax, everyone knew everyone’s business and discussed it freely on the phone, on street corners, and in the coffee shops. Individuals would say:
“It’s nice that Polly Duncan got herself such a rich boyfriend. She’s been a widow for a heck of a long time.”
“That green sedan she drives - he gave it to her for a birthday present. Wonder what she gave him.”
“He does her grocery shopping at Toodle’s Market while she’s at work, and puts the stuff in her car.”
“Makes you wonder why they don’t get married. Then she could quit her job at the library.” The sidewalk gossips knew it all. They knew that Qwilleran had been an important crime reporter Down Below, as they called the mega-cities south of the Forty-Ninth Parallel. They knew that something sinister had wrecked his career. They would say:
“Then he come up here, by golly, and fell kerplunk into all them millions! Talk about luck!”
“More like billions, if you ask me, but he deserves it. Nice fella. Friendly. Nothin’ highfalutin about Mr. Q!”
“You can say that again! Pumps his own gas. Lives in a barn with two cats.”
“And danged if he don’t give most of his dough away!”
The truth was that Qwilleran was bored with high finance, and he had established the Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute his wealth for the betterment of the community. This generosity, plus his genial personality, had made him a local hero. For his part, he was contented with small-town life and his relationship with the director of the library. Still, his brooding gaze carried a burden of sadness that made the good folk of Moose County ask each other questions.
One Thursday in May he went to the newspaper office to hand in copy for his column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen.” Then he stopped at the used bookstore and browsed for a while, buying a 1939 copy of Nathanael West’s book, The Day of the Locust. At Toodle’s Market he asked Grandma Toodle to help him select fruit and vegetables for Polly. These he transferred to her car on the library parking lot, hoping to avoid notice by the ubiquitous busybodies.
That touchy business completed, he was driving home when he heard sirens and saw flashing lights heading south on Main Street. With a journalist’s instinct he followed the emergency vans, at the same time calling the city desk on the car phone.
“Thanks, Qwill,” the city editor said, “but we were tipped off earlier, and Roger’s already on his way there.”
The speeding vehicles, including Roger’s gray van, turned into the street leading to the high school. By the time Qwilleran arrived on the scene, the reporter was snapping newsphotos of a gruesome accident in front of the school.
Scattered about were the remains of two wrecked cars, victims covered with blood, broken glass everywhere. One passenger appeared to be trapped inside the worst wreck. Horrified students crowded the school lawn, restrained by a yellow cordon of police tape. Ambulance crews were in action. A drunk driver was
hustled to a patrol car. Stretcher bearers rushed one serious case to a medical helicopter that had landed on the school parking lot. Meanwhile, groans and cries rose from the shocked onlookers as they recognized their bloodied classmates. Finally the rescue squad’s metal cutters sliced through the car body to reach the trapped victim, who was taken away in a body bag.
At that point the principal’s voice on the public address system ordered all students to return to the building at once and report to the auditorium.
Qwilleran, watching the rescue with mounting wonder, stroked his moustache in perplexity and beckoned to the reporter, who had started packing his photo gear.
Roger looked up. “Hey! I like that
black shirt, Qwill. Where’d you get it?”
“Never mind the shirt! What goes on here?”
“You don’t know?” The reporter glanced around before saying in a confidential tone, “Mock accident. To discourage underage drinking. Tomorrow night’s the Spring Fling.”
“Do you think it will work?”
“It should give them a jolt. Students got a sudden order to leave the building immediately because of contamination in the ventilating system. I got a little queasy myself when I saw all the blood… and I knew it was fake!”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “To tell the truth, Roger, it would have fooled me if your deskman hadn’t said the paper was tipped off earlier. What did he mean by that?”
“We got a release on the story about an hour ago. The whole thing was a fantastic job of planning and secrecy.”
“Got time for a cup of coffee at Lois’s?”
“Sure. There’s another assignment at two-thirty, but it’s only a kids’ art show. I can be late.” Roger headed for his van. “Meet you there.”
Lois’s Luncheonette, just off Main Street, was a shabby eatery that had been feeding downtown workers and shoppers for thirty years. Lois Inchpot - the loud, bossy, hard”working proprietor - served large portions of moderately priced comfort food to loyal customers who considered her a civic treasure. The restaurant was empty when the two newsmen arrived.
“What’ll you guys have?” Lois yelled through the kitchen pass-through. “The lunch specials are off! And we’re low on soup!”
“Just coffee,” Qwilleran called to her, “unless you have any apple pie left.”
“One piece, is all. Flip a coin.”
Roger said, “You take it, Qwill. I’d just as soon have lemon.”
He was a pale young man with a neatly trimmed beard, stark black against his unusually white complexion. A former history teacher, he had switched to journalism when the Moose County Something was launched. He was married to the daughter of the second wife of the publisher. Nepotism in Moose County was not only ethically acceptable but enthusiastically practiced.
“So!” Qwilleran began. “How come I didn’t know about this melodrama at the school?” More than anything else he disliked being uninformed and taken by surprise. “Who dreamed it up, anyway?”
“Probably the insurance companies. What’s so amazing, they were able to keep it under wraps in spite of all the different organizations and personnel involved.”
“And in spite of our three thousand nosey Nellies and congenital gossips,” Qwilleran added. “All of Pickax knows I’ve started doing Polly’s grocery shopping, even though I slink around like a footpad.”
“That’s the price you pay for living in a crime-free, unpolluted paradise,” the younger man said. “What did you think of the kids who did the playacting? They’re all students who’ve been affected in some way by drunk drivers. What did you think of their bloody makeup? It was done by paramedics from EMS.”