"Come in! Come in! Sit down!" Breze shouted heartily, dusting off a chair with a rag he kept under his desk. "Glad you called before comin' so I could cancel my other appointments." He spoke in a loud, brisk voice. "Cuppa coffee?"
"No, thanks. I never drink when I'm working."
"What can I do you for?"
"Just answer a few questions, Mr. Breze." Qwilleran placed his tape recorder on the desk. "Why are you running for office?"
"I was born and brought up here. The town's been good to me. I owe it to the people," he answered promptly.
"Do you believe you'll be elected?"
"Absolutely! Everybody knows me and likes me. I went to school with 'em."
"What do you plan to accomplish if elected mayor?"
"I want to help the people with their problems and keep the streets clean. Clean streets are important."
"Would you favor light or heavy industry for economic development in Pickax?"
"Light or heavy, it don't matter. The important thing is to make jobs for the people and keep the streets clean."
"What do you think about the current controversy over sewers?"
"It'll straighten out. It always does," Breze said with a wave of the hand.
"There's talk about township annexation. Where do you stand on that issue?"
"I don't know about that. I don't think it's important. Jobs - that's what matters."
"Do you support the proposal to install parking meters in downtown Pickax?"
"Is that something new? I haven't heard about it. Free parking is best for the people."
"What do you think of the education system in Pickax?"
"Well, I went to school here, and I turned out all right." The candidate laughed lustily.
"Do you think the police department is doing a good job?"
"Absolutely! They're a good bunch of boys."
"In your opinion, what is the most important issue facing the city council?"
"That's hard to say. Myself, I'm gonna fight for clean streets."
Qwilleran thanked Breze for his cogent opinions and delivered the tape to the paper. "Here's my interview with the Great Populist," he told Junior.
"Sorry to brush you off this morning," said the editor. "What did you want to tell me about Celia Robinson?"
"Only that I talked with her for half an hour and didn't get a single clue to your grandmother's motive."
"I know you like to get to the bottom of things, Qwill, but frankly, I've got too many other things on my mind. Jack and Pug are flying in tomorrow. The reading of the will is Wednesday in Wilmot's office. The memorial service is Thursday night. And every time the phone rings, I think it's Jody, ready to go to the hospital."
"Then I won't bother you," Qwilleran said, "but count on dinner Wednesday night, and let me know if there's anything I can do. I could drive Jody to the hospital if you're in a bind."
After stopping for lunch, he went home and parked under the porte cochere. Even before he approached the side door, he could hear the commotion indoors, and he knew he was in trouble. Two indignant Siamese were yowling in unison, pacing the floor and switching their tails in spasms of reproach.
"Oh, no!" he groaned, slapping his forehead in guilt. "I forgot your breakfast! A thousand apologies! Junior threw me a curve." He quickly emptied cans of boned chicken and solid-pack tuna on their plate. "Consider this a brunch. All you can eat!"
That was his second mistake. All the food went down, but half of it came up.
Qwilleran spent the afternoon preparing for his third performance of "The Big Burning," and when he drove to the Hotel Booze at seven o'clock, the parking lot was jammed. The Outdoor Club was in the caf‚, enjoying boozeburgers, when he set up the stage in the meeting room. There were extra chairs, he noted, the front row being a mere six feet from the platform.
"Largest crowd they've ever had!" Hixie Rice exulted as she tested the sound and lights, "and I've got bookings for three more shows!" A rumble of voices in the lobby announced the approaching audience, and Qwilleran ducked through the exit door, while Hixie shook hands with the officers of the club and seated the youngsters in the front rows.
With his ear to the door he heard the first notes of "Anitra's Dance" and counted thirty seconds before making an entrance and mounting the stage. "We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin on the forest fires that are rapidly approaching Moose County...
In the first three rows eyes and mouths were wide open. A small girl in the front row, whose feet could not reach the floor, was swinging them back and forth continuously. Her legs, in white leggings, were like a beacon in the dark room. When the old farmer's voice came from the speakers, the legs swung faster. The old farmer was saying:
"I come in from my farm west o' here, and I seen some terrible things! Hitched the hosses to the wagon and got my fambly here safe but never thought we'd make it! We come through fire rainin' down out of the sky like hailstones! Smoke everywhere! Couldn't see the road, hardly. Hay in the wagon caught fire, and we had to throw it out and rattle along on the bare boards. We picked up one lad not more'n eight year old, carryin' a baby - all that were left of his fambly. His shoes, they was burned clean off his feet!"
The white legs never stopped swinging, back and forth like a pendulum: left, right, left, right. Qwilleran, aware of the movement through the corner of his eye, found himself being mesmerized. He had to fight to maintain his concentration on the announcer's script:
"Here in Pickax it's dark as midnight. Winds have suddenly risen to hurricane fury. Great blasts of heat and cinders are smothering the city. We can hear screams of frightened horses, then a splintering crash as a great tree is uprooted or the wind wrenches the roof from a house. Wagons are being lifted like toys and blown away!... There's a red glare in the sky!... Pickax is in flames!"
The red light flicked on. Coughing and choking, the announcer rushed from the studio.
In the hallway beyond the exit door Qwilleran leaned against the wall, recovering from the scene he had just played. A moment later, Hixie joined him. "They love it!" she said. "Especially the part about the boy with his shoes burned off. The kids identify."
"Did you see that one swinging her legs in the front row?" Qwilleran asked irritably.
"She was spellbound!"
"Well, those white legs were putting a spell on me! I was afraid I'd topple off my chair."
"Did you hear the girl crying when you told about the little baby? She created quite a disturbance."
"I don't care if the whole audience cries!" Qwilleran snapped. "Get those white legs out of the front row!"
When he made his entrance for Scene Two, an instant hush fell upon the room. Surreptitiously he glanced at the front row; the white legs had gone.
"After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the scene is one of desolation in every direction. Only this brick courthouse is left standing, a haven for hundreds of refugees. Fortunately a sudden wind from the lake turned back the flames, and Mooseville and Brrr have been saved."
Qwilleran had not seen the last of the white legs, however. Halfway through Scene Two he was interviewing the Irish innkeeper by phone: "Sir, what news do you hear from Sawdust City?"
A thick Irish brogue came from the speakers: "It's gone! All gone! Every stick of it, they're tellin'. And there's plenty of sad tales this mornin'. One poor chap from Sawdust City walked into town carryin' the remains of his wife and little boy in a pail - a ten-quart pail! Wouldja believe it, now?"
At that tense moment, Qwilleran's peripheral vision picked up a pair of white legs walking toward the stage. What the devil is she doing? he thought.
The girl climbed onto the stage, crossed to the exit door at the rear, and went to the restroom.