Loonies (25 page)

Fitchen stroked the black horse’s wooden mane. “I’m so happy you’ve come back to me.” He planted a kiss on the horse’s cheek.

The carousel operator left his control station and wove through the passengers and horses toward Fitchen and the black horse. He seemed cautious, almost afraid to approach the man. Brian moved a few steps closer.

“I love you so much,” Fitchen said to the horse, tightening his hug around the animal’s neck.

“Mister,” the carousel operator said. “We’re not going to go through this again.”

“Leave us alone!” Fitchen yelled, not turning to look at the man.

“Enough of this!” the operator yelled, somehow finding his courage. “You gotta leave. You’re scaring the children.”

“I’m not leaving without her,” Fitchen said, his voice forlorn.

Brian wondered if the taxidermist had had a bit too much to drink at the beer tent. He thought about stepping onto the carousel to assist however he could, but instead stood his ground and watched. That was his job as a reporter, to observe, not interact. He had inadvertently become part of one story. He didn’t want to become part of this one.

The crowd was murmuring around him when out of nowhere strode Selectman Winch, pushing his way through the onlookers. He stepped onto the carousel and approached Fitchen, putting a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Come, Jonas,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

“But I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Winch put both hands on the man’s shoulders and, with a much firmer grip, pulled the man away from the black horse.

“No!” Fitchen cried, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“We must go,” Winch said, his voice soft and soothing.

Fitchen looked at the carousel operator, who seemed relieved that Winch had taken control.

“You can’t keep us apart!” Fitchen yelled at the operator, his voice choked with sobs.

“Easy,” Winch said. “No one’s trying to do that.” He guided the man off the carousel.

Fitchen looked behind him. “I’ll be back for you!”

At first Brian thought he was threatening the carousel operator, who looked stunned. But then Brian realized that Fitchen was talking to the horse.

“We’re going to be married,” Fitchen said to Winch as the selectman guided him through the crowd, his arm around the man’s shoulders. “We’re in love.”

“I know you are,” Winch said.

“There’s no treatment in the world that’s going to prevent that,” Fitchen said as Winch led him away.

On Monday, Brian worked on his story on the Dump Festival and sorted the photographs he had taken. He selected some nice shots of the couple on the balloon ride and some of the families riding the carousel. He selected another shot he had taken during a pie-eating contest, a chubby kid with his face smothered in blueberry.

He looked at his agenda for the week with dismay. There was an interview with Selectman Winch later but not much else. The chairman was going to be honored at the board meeting the next night for forty years of service as a selectman. That seemed a long time for one man to be in office, he thought, but with no term limits, it was up to the townspeople to decide if they didn’t want him representing them, and apparently the voters believed he was doing something right.

There was no new information on the murders, and that disappointed Brian. The last couple issues of the paper had been dynamic; he should have known it wouldn’t hold out. He had the story about Hester Pigott’s ducks being buried alive upside down, and that certainly was bizarre enough, but even missing bones elicited little reaction from Capt. Steem. If he saw a connection with the other events, he wasn’t sharing that with the media, whose interest in the happenings in Smokey Hollow had waned.

Chief Treece had shown a bit more interest in Hester Pigott’s rib bones. Noah was surprised and a bit perplexed that Chief Pfefferkorn hadn’t told him about the discovery at Thrasher Pond. But it had been a long time ago, and if the former chief truly thought the bones were animal remains, he must have felt it was insignificant and not worth mentioning.

Beverly Crump strode into his office with a stack of mail in one hand and waving a single envelope in the other. “More fan mail.”

Brian put his head in his hands. He was discouraged by some of the mostly anonymous letters from readers who didn’t like how he was putting so much negative news in the paper. They missed the way the paper used to be. Didn’t they understand what real news was? They were just used to nothing much happening in town, but he couldn’t ignore it. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was a letter-writing campaign instigated by Mrs. Picklesmeir. She had never forgiven him for the lack of attention the Women’s Garden Club tour received.

When Bev handed him the mail, he plopped it down on the only empty spot on his desk, envelopes fanned out like a hand of playing cards. He spotted the white envelope with the black lettering as Beverly left his office. He grabbed it, excited, tearing open the back flap and retrieving the note inside.

Do you think Dr. Wymbs told you the truth?

The Silhouette

His eyes scanned the words several times. He wished his anonymous ally would just tell him something instead of making everything a guessing game. It was frustrating. Brian felt his stomach churn, and he opened his top drawer, grabbing his antacid tablets and popping a couple in his mouth.

He had only spoken to Wymbs once, and the doctor hadn’t really told him anything. Brian went to his files and retrieved the copy with the Wymbs interview. Finding it, he re-read the article. When he finished, he dropped the paper. Nothing. This wasn’t much help, he thought. He looked at the mysterious note again, thinking even Steem might not be interested in seeing it. It said nothing. But there must be some meaning to it, otherwise The Silhouette wouldn’t have sent it.

Brian shoved the note into his drawer. He would think about it later.

He left the office to pay a visit to Wibbels’ Fruit Market and Real Estate. Wibbels was going to give him a list of contest winners and craft awards handed out at the festival. As he crossed Main Street to the market, he noticed a “Closed” sign in the window of the taxidermist shop. When he entered the market, Wibbels was removing several large pickles from the barrel for Sister Bernice. He greeted Brian and rang up the nun’s purchase.

“Thank you,” the woman said in a gruff, aged voice before exiting the store.

“How are you today, Mr. Keays?” Wibbels didn’t have his usual flashy grin.

“Fine, Leo,” he answered, looking around the store for the clerk he had spoken to on Saturday.

“I trust you and your lovely wife enjoyed your first Dump Festival?” Now the smile was there, though it seemed forced.

“Yes, better than I expected.”

There was no one else in the store.

“I take it you’re here for that information you had called about?”

Brian nodded and Wibbels disappeared into his back room office, emerging seconds later. He handed Brian some papers.

“Everything you need should be there. If not, give me or Eldon a call and we can help out.”

“I think this should suffice,” Brian said, looking the sheets over but not really paying attention to them. He glanced around the store again.

“Something else I can help you with?” Wibbels asked, arching his eyebrows.

“I was just hoping to catch your clerk here, Mr. Potash.”

Wibbels’ eyebrows lowered. “He’s out on an errand. Anything special you needed him for?”

“Oh no. I just wanted to see how he was doing?”

A look of confusion crossed Wibbels’ face. “Doing?”

“He just had a little trouble on the balloon ride at the festival. Guess he has a bit of a fear of heights. I wanted to make sure he felt better. It gave him quite a scare.”

“Oh, he seemed fine when I saw him earlier,” Wibbels said, heading toward a pile of crates near the counter and grabbing a crowbar off the top box.

“That’s good,” Brian said. “Just tell him I was asking.”

Wibbels held the crowbar in one hand and tapped one end into the palm of his other hand. “Asking what?”

“Just if he was feeling better.” Brian turned to go, and then paused and looked back. “Has he worked here long?”

Wibbels seemed caught off-guard by the question and at first stuttered. “F-for quite some years,” he finally managed.

“Has he always been afraid of heights?”

Wibbels shrugged his shoulders. “I guess. He doesn’t really talk about it much. Why?”

“He said he’d been getting help for it. I was just wondering how he was progressing, that’s all.”

Brian left the market.

In Winch’s office on the second floor of Town Hall, Brian scribbled notes as the town official pontificated about his forty-year career of service to the town of Smokey Hollow. The man did a good job of trying to sound humble while bragging about his achievements for the community. He certainly was a man of the people. How else could you explain his continued re-election?

“The people appreciate all I do for this town,” he said, standing behind his desk and gesturing out the window toward Main Street. “I didn’t ask for this honor they are bestowing on me tomorrow night. Make sure you write that down. I do what I do because I have invested my life in this town and its people.” He paused. “Am I speaking too fast?”

“No,” Brian said, scribbling. He wished he had thought to bring a recorder, not anticipating how much the elder statesman would spew. “I’m good.” He knew he wouldn’t put even half of what the blowhard prattled about in the article he was expected to write.

“This town has been through a lot of ups and downs,” he continued. “Some good times and bad times. The economy is fickle. And that’s the most important thing. People are trying to make a living, and some are just getting by. The businesses in town have struggled.”

“I’ve noticed a lot of empty storefronts,” Brian said, and was glad he did when he saw the sudden reaction in Winch’s face.

“This town has suffered,” he said, pounding his fist on his desk.

Brian wished the man would sit back down.

“When the economy started to go, it was tough,” the chairman continued. “The shoe factory closing down was quite a blow. Lot of jobs went with that, including my own. That factory was the lifeblood of this town, the people who worked there, the families who depended on those paychecks, the money it brought into the town in business-tax revenues.” He took a deep breath. “God, that was hard. Some families moved away, the breadwinners drawn to work elsewhere. That made it hard on other businesses in town. Shops that couldn’t survive closed.” He glared at Brian across his large desk. “Nothing kills a town like a crumbling business district. If there’s nothing to draw the people who live here to shop downtown, what’s going to attract people from surrounding towns?” He looked at Brian as if expecting him to answer.

Brian just shrugged.

“Exactly!” Winch said, pounding his fist on the desktop again. “There is no reason.” He turned his back to Brian, looking out the window.

Brian waited for the man to continue. There was one good thing about interviewing a man like Eldon Winch. You didn’t have to ask a lot of questions. Once the man got started, he just kept going.

“I’ve worked hard in this office to try to revive this town. I’ve brought forth proposals and ideas to generate business in this town.”

Brian cleared his throat. “Through your commercial-development firm?”

Winch turned to face him with a look of a school teacher who feels upstaged by a smart-aleck student. The man chuckled, but it didn’t put Brian at ease.

“Sure, I’ve used the firm I started after leaving the shoe factory to help develop business in town. But no one’s mentioned any conflict of interest.”

Of course not, Brian thought.

“All my dealings have been out in the open, on the table. Nothing shady. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ve worked with the town as a developer and a town official. But my goal has been the same in both, helping the town.” Finally he did sit down, and it made Brian feel a little less intimidated. “Have I benefitted from it? Yes. I’m the first to admit it. But I don’t think anyone in town will complain about any of the dealings I’ve made, both as a selectman and as a businessman. I spearheaded rescinding the town ban against drinking establishments and helped set up Hale Cullumber’s pub and restaurant. And look how many people in town enjoy a good meal and beverage at that establishment.” He pointed a long, bony index finger at him. “Including you and your wife.” Big emphasis on this last comment.

“It is a nice place,” Brian said, thinking of no other response.

“And there are plenty of other businesses I’ve had a hand in helping develop. Wigland, the taxidermist shop, the hardware store.” He leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. “Is that enough?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “No. Of course not. It’s never enough. There’s still much more work to do. There are still too many empty storefronts. I won’t rest until every one of them is filled and open for business. I still have hopes the old movie theater can be revived, if not as a cinema, then as some kind of arts-and-entertainment centerpiece for the community.”

“Is that one of your properties?” Brian asked.

“Yes, I am handling that parcel. And I believe it has great potential for the right person. And believe it or not, I still have hope for that old shoe factory.”

“Really?” Brian thought about the decrepit state of the structure.

“I know how it looks, pretty run down.” He leaned. “But that’s one of our biggest facilities in town, and I think there could be great things for it, with the right ideas and the right money.”

“And where would this money come from?” Brian wasn’t even sure where his question came from.

“Money can be found,” Winch said, leaning back again. “If one looks hard enough.”

“Would you call that one of your main goals for the town?” Brian asked. “Reviving the shoe factory building?”

“That would be a major achievement. If this town could make that structure viable again, it would go a long way toward the recovery.” Winch must have seen the doubt on Brian’s face. “You don’t think that’s possible?”