Another truck turned into the driveway.
“Here’s Alice,” she said. “Gotta empty the ashtray.”
Qwilleran drove back to town thinking that the plight of an ex-balloon-chaser was more interesting than the construction and operation of antique spinning wheels, though less suitable for his column.
In Mooseville, he proceeded to wait for the newspaper truck from Pickax; the Monday edition would carry his theater review, the closure of the backpacker case, and something about the drowned sailor from Grand Island. He was curious to know if his remarks to Arch about twenty-word coverage had made any difference. Probably not, he guessed. The truck from the printing plant was always late on Mondays, a breach he attributed to Monday Morning Flu, which seemed to be epidemic in the workplace everywhere. Fortunately, one could always kill time at the Northern Lights Hotel, open seven days a week and twenty-four hours a day. Its presence was like a beacon shining across a somnolent resort town on
Mondays, when most places were closed. One could always buy a magazine in the lobby, chat with the desk clerk, sit on the rear veranda to watch the harbor traffic, or have a meal - not a good one, but adequate. The couple who now owned it did their best. Wayne Stacy was conscientious, and his wife was compassionate; she would rather lose customers than discharge the old cook before his retirement. The ordinariness of the food was a tradition to townfolk; to vacationers it was local color.
Qwilleran, always amazed that the historical building had not burned down or slid into the harbor, mounted the broad flight of wooden steps to the wide porch that overlooked Main Street.
“Coming for lunch?” Mrs. Stacy greeted him in the lobby. She always looked businesslike in a neutral-colored pantsuit, but she had a family-style approach. It convinced Qwilleran that she cared more about his hunger than the selling of a lunch.
“I might have a sandwich,” he said. “What’s the chopper doing over the lake?” The sheriff’s helicopter could be seen in the distance, making wide circles.
“Looks like a boating emergency. I hope it’s nothing serious. By the way, you know that woman you spoke to in the coffee shop yesterday? She’s been in twice more.”
“She must like your food,” he said, a remark with ambiguous connotations.
“I don’t know about that. She eats like a bird.”
Qwilleran had his ham-and-cheese sandwich and a cup of cream of tomato soup, and still the Monday papers had not arrived, so he sat in one of the weathered chairs on the veranda and watched the desultory activity on the waterfront.
The helicopter was still hovering, and after a while he began to have uncomfortable feelings about its mission. He patted his moustache several times, and his suspicions were confirmed when an ambulance drove to the end of the main pier and waited. A cabin cruiser was heading for shore at a fast clip. When it docked, a sheriff’s deputy jumped to the wharf and conferred with the medics. A wheelchair was rolled out, and a young woman in deckwear and a visored cap was helped off the boat. Although not noticeably ill or injured, she was wheeled to the hotel’s side door on the lower level.
At this point, Qwilleran’s curiosity exceeded his interest in Monday’s paper. He returned to the lobby in time to see an elevator door open and a medic hurry to the manager’s office; the other stayed
in the elevator with the woman, who was still wearing dark glasses. Mrs. Stacy was brought to the elevator, and a pantomime ensued: questioning, advising, urging, refusing. As a result, she hurried back to her office and the elevator ascended with the patient and the two attendants.
Now captivated by the melodrama, Qwilleran stationed himself where he could see both elevator and office. Mrs. Stacy was making urgent phone calls, to judge by her nervous gestures. The elevator signal indicated that the car had stopped at the second floor. Soon after, Mrs. Stacy left her office and ran up a nearby flight of stairs, whereupon the elevator came down with the emergency personnel and a folded wheelchair.
Still the bundle of newspapers had not arrived, and the desk clerk explained to Qwilleran with a sly smirk, “The truck drops the first bundle here, the next at the drugstore, and third at the tavern, where the driver has a nip of something. Maybe today he’s doing it the other way around.”
Qwilleran disliked waiting for his newspaper, but the charade piqued his curiosity. Soon he saw Derek Cuttlebrink rushing into the building and bounding up the stairs, after which Mrs. Stacy came slowly down the same flight, looking disturbed.
Qwilleran called to her, “Mrs. Stacy! What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?” It was the password that always opened the door to confidences.
“Come in the office, Mr. Q, and have a cup of coffee,” she said. “I need one. I feel so sorry for that poor woman.” She peered across the lobby. “There’s my husband. I’m so glad he got back… Wayne! Wayne! Come in here!”
The hotelkeeper joined them, nodding to Qwilleran. “Just got back from Pickax. I could smell bad news, soon’s I parked in the lot - people standing around, staring at nothing, looking bewildered. What happened?”
“One of our guests drowned!” his wife said. “Owen Bowen!”
“No! … I hope he wasn’t fool enough to jump off his boat for a swim. I warned him! But he was so cocksure of himself. Any details?”
“Nothing much. He and Mrs. Bowen were boating on their day off, and she radioed for help. The sheriff’s marine patrol brought her and the boat in.
The helicopter’s been searching for more than an hour.”
“Where is she now?”
“Upstairs. She wouldn’t have a doctor-afraid he’d give her a shot. She’s fussy about what she takes into her body.”
“Does she have any friends in town? They haven’t been very sociable.”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Stacy said. “She asked me to call their assistant manager. I had a terrible time finding him.”
Wayne Stacy, who was president of the chamber of commerce, said, “I wonder if there’s something the chamber can do for her. The restaurant may never reopen. And after all the work we did! Darn shame!”
Qwilleran spoke for the first time. “The chef is called the kingpin of a restaurant, and this one is dedicated to her profession, so she might decide to carry on. Derek Cuttlebrink has been managing the lunch hour, and he could take over both shifts - after the run of the play, of course; he has a lead role.”
“Yes, but will that poor woman have the heart to carry on?” Mrs. Stacy worried.
“You know what they say,” he reminded her. “Work is a healthy way of coping with grief, and Derek calls her a workaholic. I predict the operation will continue after a suitable hiatus.”
“I hope so. The town needs a place like that. They say she’s a wonderful chef.”
Next he walked to Elizabeth’s Magic on Oak Street. Although it was closed on Mondays, she would be there, rearranging her stock and totaling the previous week’s receipts. Her enterprise was doing well. She brought to it an infectious spirit, off-beat ideas, and a certain shrewdness. He rapped on the glass, and she ran to the door.
Her first breathless words were, “Qwill! Have’ you heard - ?”
“Shocking, isn’t it? How did you find out?”
“Mrs. Stacy was trying to locate Derek, and he happened to be doing some work for me. He rushed over to the hotel.”
“Do you expect him to come back?”
“He’d better come back!” she said firmly. “He can’t leave me with all this sawdust and plaster lying around!” A somewhat tilted rectangle had been cut in the sidewall of the shop. “I own the whole building, you know, and my tenant next door has moved out, so I’m going to use the space for a lending library.”
“Admirable idea!” he said. “But was that lopsided doorway intentional? Or was Derek hung-over?”