Then Arch Riker, “Did everybody hear the news about Owen Bowen? He drowned this afternoon. He’d been here only a few weeks.”
There were polite murmurings: “Really too bad! … How old was he? … Where was he from? … Will the restaurant fold?”
Guiltily, Qwilleran thought, If he were “one of us,” we’d be shocked, horrified, and ready to take up a collection for his family. But Owen was an outsider, as Qwilleran himself had been before he inherited the Klingenschoen fortune and before the Moose County Something was established.
To restore the party mood Mildred served zucchini fritters with a dill-yogurt dip, and Qwilleran presented her with the set of rune stones. She promised to study the instructions and tell fortunes the next time they met. Roger hoped the stones would predict rain.
“It’s dangerously dry. I worry about forest fires,” he said. “Even the Sand Giant is worried. People think they’re hearing distant thunder, but it’s really the old boy growling in his cave.”
Qwilleran, who was collecting local legends for a book to be titled Short & Tall Tales, said, “Would you explain the Sand Giant to me? I just happen to have my tape recorder here.” He knew Roger always had a yarn to tell, having been a history teacher before switching to journalism.
“Sure!” he said, relishing an audience. “The history of the Sand Giant goes way back. The first explorers in this region arrived by sailing ship and made camp on the beach at the base of a huge wall of sand. Strangely, they claimed to hear rumbling inside the dune, and some nights they could see a large gray shape moving among the trees on the summit. Being superstitious in those days, they decided a giant lived in a cave inside the dune. They often ‘saw things’ that weren’t there.”
“Still do,” Riker muttered with a glance at Qwilleran, who nodded and chuckled.”
“Through the years,” Roger went on, “the Sand Giant continued to prowl and growl, and kids were afraid of being grabbed and taken to his cave if they misbehaved. His first overt act of hostility didn’t occur, however, until the mid-nineteenth century, when wealthy lumbermen got the idea of building fine houses on top of the Great Dune, as it was then called. As soon as they started cutting down the ancient hardwoods, a giant sandslide engulfed the lumbercamp, killing everybody. Old-timers weren’t surprised; they said the lumbermen had offended the Sand Giant. My grandparents believed that absolutely.”
“My mother’s forebears were believers,” Lisa I said, “but not the Campbell side of the family.”
“There’s more to the story,” Roger went on. “For about sixty years no one tampered with the Great Dune, and Moose County prospered. Then came the economic collapse. Mines closed, and shipping went down the drain. There was no money and precious little food. But somebody got the bright idea of mining sand and shipping it Down Below to make concrete for bridges and large buildings. So the county commissioners issued a permit to hack away at the Great Dune, where Sandpit Road now cuts through. It was dangerous work because of the shifting sand, but men had to feed their families, and they kept on hacking in spite of occasional casualties.
“Eventually they tapped a pocket of hydrogen sulphide that smelled like rotten eggs and made the whole town sick. The permit was revoked, and it was back to oatmeal and turnips for hungry families… that is, until Prohibition came along and bootlegging was found to be profitable. There were no more sandslides, but, in certain kinds of weather, you can still hear the Sand Giant growling in his cave.” “Great story!” Qwilleran said, turning off the recorder.
I’m willing to believe it,” said Lisa.
“Interesting,” was Arch’s reluctant comment.
“Dinner is served,” Mildred announced. It was squash bisque, lamb stew, crusty bread, and green salad. Dessert and coffee were served on the deck, during which Qwilleran and Arch entertained them with a tell-all session about growing up in Chicago. How Qwilleran’s first name was really Merlin and he’d never let any other kid use his baseball bat… and how Arch’s nickname was Tubby and he once got sick from eating erasers… and how both of them were sent to the principal’s office for putting glue on the teacher’s chair pad.
“You did it!” said Qwilleran, pointing at his old friend.
“No, you did it, you dirty dog!” The evening ended with laughter, and Qwilleran accompanied Lisa back along the beach.
“Do you ever see the aurora borealis?” she asked.
“Once in a while. When I first saw those dancing lights on the horizon, I was tempted to call 911.”
“Have you seen many Visitors this year?”
He knew what she meant, but he hesitated. “Visitors?”
“Spacecraft,” she explained. “Lyle films them, and when he gets back from Duluth, we’ll have you over to look at our videos.”
“Well! That’s something to look forward to,” he said ambiguously.
When they reached The Little Frame House, she introduced him to the Van Roops, who did picture framing.
“My shop is in Lockmaster, but we advertise in your paper,” the framer said.
“Our niece knows you,” his wife said. “She’s a volunteer at Safe Harbor.”
“Charming young woman,” Qwilleran murmured.
He left the sampler at The Little Frame House, then escorted Lisa to Bah Humbug.
When he arrived at the cabin, the Siamese were waiting with the tranquillity that comes halfway between dinner and bedtime snack. It indicated that some mischief had been done. Polly’s postcards, which had been stacked on the bar, were now scattered about the floor.
-11-
r Christopher Smart’s cat always greeted the morning by wreathing his body seven times around with elegant quickness. Qwilleran’s Siamese did a few turns upon waking but never more than three, and , those were done sleepily. The day after the Owen’ Bowen incident he fed them and addressed the two. heads that bobbed over the plates of red salmon: “How come Jeoffrey did seven turns and you do “, only three? You have a gourmet diet and health fo care. He had to catch his own breakfast, and there were no vitamin drops. He never had a vaccination, :, blood test, or dental prophylaxis.” The heads went : on bobbing contentedly.
As Qwilleran thawed the last one of Doris Hawley’s cinnamon rolls, it occurred to him that the closure of the backpacker case would put her back , in the baking business. He telephoned, and she answered cheerily - a good sign. There were cinnamon rolls in the oven, she said.
“Save a whole pan for me,” he requested. “I’ll be there at midday.”
In Mooseville, he picked up a basket of fresh fruit before heading for Fishport. There, the Roaring Creek was reduced to a gurgle by the lack of rain, and the Hawleys’ lawn looked sadly thirsty.
The burlap sack had been removed from the home-bake sign, however. He rapped on the side door, and the Doris Hawley who answered his knock was twenty years younger than the one who had recited her woes at Safe Harbor.
He presented his basket of fruit. “To celebrate the end of a nasty experience! You and Magnus handled it well.”
“He’s really mad! He wants to sue somebody. I’m just glad it’s over… but you haven’t heard the latest, Mr. Q. Come in the kitchen and have a cup of tea.”
The kitchen was heady with the aroma of baking ginger snaps. “Sunday afternoon,” she began, a “woman came to the door wanting to talk to the last ones who saw David alive. She was his partner, she said. She’d come from Philadelphia to claim his body and his belongings.”