“Don’t be modest. You saved the day! Everyone who walked into the library today was raving about your speech! You stole the show from the Big One! Do you know the Last Drink flags are going up all over the county? The Village party will be held tonight-at the clubhouse as usual-Open House from five till midnight, with cash bar, snacks, informal entertainment, and card games. It’s very casual. Just drop in.”
Qwilleran said, “We could have dinner at the Nutcracker Inn first. It may close after snow flies. And I want to visit Homer before the Big One.”
He tracked down Rhoda Tibbitt at the Friendship Inn on the medical campus. “How is your indomitable spouse?”
“Just fine, Qwill. He’s in the Joint Replacement Spa
and having the time of his life, telling stories and keeping the other patients in stitches! They’ve given themselves nicknames. One old gentleman said, ‘If you can be Homer, I want to be Chaucer.’ And that started it. One woman wanted to be Emily Dickinson, and so forth.”
“Do they welcome visitors?”
“By all means! Come before snow flies.”
“As longtime residents of Moose County, Rhoda, have you ever known anyone by the name of Helen Omblower? She lived in Chipmunk twenty years ago. That’s all I know.”
There was a thoughtful pause. “It’s ringing a distant bell. I’ll ask Homer.”
“You do that, and I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
eighteen
Tuesday was a sunny day with blue sky and puffy, white clouds, yet it was the official countdown before the Big One, and all Moose County was in a frenzy of stocking up on … everything. Qwilleran had asked the drugstore to save him a Sunday New York Times, which would keep him busy during the three-day blizzard. As he approached the store he recognized two men standing on the sidewalk. Ernie Kemple’s booming voice said, “The shafthouse!” Then Burgess Campbell said something, and they both roared with laughter.
“What’s the dirt, you guys?” Qwilleran asked. “And why isn’t Alexander laughing?”
Campbell’s guide dog had the unflinching stoicism of his profession.
Kemple became suddenly serious. “Remember I wanted to put an antique mall in Otto’s old building, Qwill? I’ve just found out what’s going in there-the ‘recreation center’ that’s been advertised in a teaser campaign. It’s going to be a video palace with gambling machines on the balcony, and they’re calling it The Shafthouse!”
“Because you’ll get the shaft!” Burgess said.
They roared again.
“Why are we laughing?” said Ernie. “It’s bad news!”
“How did you find out about this?” Qwilleran asked. “It’s been the biggest secret since Hannibal crossed the Alps.”
“My next-door neighbor has the trucking firm that delivered the equipment. The gambling machines go on the balcony.”
“Wait a minute. I didn’t know gambling was permitted in this town.”
“Only if you get a special permit from the city council. Previous requests have been denied, but this time somebody had the right connections or greased the right palms.”
Burgess said, “Alexander himself could get a license to sell booze in this town if he knew the right boots to lick.”
When Qwilleran left with his armful of newspaper, he thought, This whole concept, including the name, is too sophisticated for the simple purveyor of “tasty eats.” Is Otto one of the Donex associates? Is the mayor another? Is this one of the schemes that Zoller disapproved of? Is this one of the reasons he left town suddenly? It takes a special kind of courage to expose corruption in a small town.
It’s easier and safer to move away.
The prospect of visiting a hospitalized ninety-eight-year-old is not usually a joyous one, but there was never anything usual about Homer Tibbitt, and Qwilleran looked forward to it. The lobby of Pickax General was aflutter with “canaries,” the helpful volunteers in yellow smocks. One of them conducted Qwilleran to the Joint Replacement Spa on the top floor.
In an atrium under a skylight (not the real thing but psychologically effective) patients were lounging in specially designed furniture and indulging in spurts of laughter. Rhoda made the introductions: Chaucer, Pocahontas, Mark Twain, Paul Revere, Joan of Arc … “And this is our beloved Mr. Q!”
The response was instantaneous: “Love your column!” “How’s Koko?” “My daughter won one of your pencils!” “Got your recumbent bike put away in mothballs?”
He replied, “I’m overwhelmed in the presence of so many world-renowned personages. It could only happen in Pickax. Where’s Emily Dickinson?”
“Went home this morning. When she hears you were here, she’ll be fit to be tied!”
“Who was telling bawdy jokes when I came in?” Qwilleran asked.
“We were playing think-games,” Homer said. “We’re making a collection of nostalgic sounds that you never hear anymore-or hardly ever… . Chaucer, do your impersonation of an old car with a weak battery, trying to start on a cold morning.”
“I remember it well,” the man said. “All over the neighborhood you’d hear rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh and then a pause… . rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh. The temperature was below zero, and the driver was sweating behind the wheel. Again rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh CHUG.! Hopeful silence. Then rrrgh rrrgh rrrgh CHUG CHUG CHUG.’
And the car roared down the street at fifteen miles an hour!”
There were others:
Laundry being scrubbed on a wooden washboard.
An officeful of manual typewriters all clattering at the same time.
A street urchin shouting, “Shoeshines for a nickel!”
The Sunday afternoon sound of cutting grass with a push-and-grunt lawnmower.
A windup gramophone running down in the middle of a record.
Then Rhoda explained that Mr. Q had come to discuss business with Homer, and the three of them retired to the privacy of a hospital room.
Homer said, “We’ve been cudgeling our brains about the Omblower name. Twenty years ago Rhoda was still teaching; I was retired as principal but still poking my nose into everything.”
“Yes, and I remember a Mrs. Omblower,” she said. “It was my year to do parent-liaison, and she was a pathetic little creature-single mother struggling to support herself and her son. She did housecleaning, but it was difficult without a car. And her son got into trouble at school. He was a bright boy-an all-A student-but he had a lawbreaking streak.”
“What laws did he break?” Qwilleran asked. “Thou shalt not do homework for other students… . or sign parents’ names to report cards … or write false absence excuses.”
“Assuming he did it for money,” Qwilleran said, “was he helping out at home?”
“That gives it a hint of nobility,” Homer said, “but he was part of a white-collar crime ring-with two accomplices from affluent families. They were all smart kids who could have used their intelligence for leadership and creative purposes. They were just three bad apples in a barrel of good ones. That happens, you know.”
Qwilleran’s moustache bristled, and he fingered the letter in his pocket. “What measures did the school take?”
“The two students from good families were privately reprimanded and allowed to finish their senior year. Omblower dropped out.”
“It was the kind of thing that the school suppressed,” said Rhoda.
Qwilleran said, “Was his name George? I found a letter he wrote to his mother in Chipmunk twenty years ago. The return address on the envelope looks like that of a state prison.” He read it to them.
Hi, Mom!
Just a note to let you know I’ll be out soon, but if Denise is still around, tell her I’m dead. I’m getting a new identity-new occupation, new lifestyle, new everything!