When the Moose County Something appeared, the front page was not what Qwilleran had been led to expect. The Party Train had the banner headline:
JOY IN MUDVILLE
OLD NO. 9 ROLLS AGAIN!
The Lumbertown crisis was played down with only a stickfull of type in a lower corner of the page: Sawdust C.U. Close for Audit. Either there was no alarming development, or the editor had chosen not to throw the depositors into panic. That was small-town newspaper policy. Riker, with his background on large metropolitan dailies, preferred the eye-grabbing, heart-stopping, hair-raising headline; Junior Goodwinter, born and bred 400 miles north of everywhere, had other ideas rooted in local custom. He always said, “Don’t try to make bad news worse.”
Qwilleran was pondering this viewpoint over a ham sandwich at Lois’s Luncheonette when Roger MacGillivray blustered into the restaurant and flung himself into the booth where Qwilleran was reading the paper.
“I suppose you’re wondering why we didn’t play it up,” the young reporter said.
“You’re right. I did…Why?”
“Because there was nothing to report! Junior was stonewalled when he called the commission, and no one in Mudville would talk to me. Two state vehicles were parked behind the Lumbertown building, and there was a notice plastered on the front door with some legal gobbledy-gook, but the doors were locked front and back, and the dirty dogs completely ignored my knocking. Also they refused to answer when I called from a phone booth. Before I left, I got a shot of the building exterior with some old geezers standing on the sidewalk in a huddle. I also got a close-up of the official notice on the door, and another one of the license plate on a state car.…How’s that for brilliant photojournalism?” he finished with a bitter laugh.
“They didn’t use any photos,” Qwilleran said, tapping his newspaper.
“I know, but you have to hand in something, just so they know you’ve been there.”
“Could you see through the window?”
“I could see auditors at work stations, that’s all. But then I talked to the old geezers and got some man-on-the-street stuff, which I phoned in, and which they didn’t print.”
“Maybe later,” Qwilleran said encouragingly. “What did the old geezers say?”
“Well! It was an eye-opener, I thought. First of all, they like Floyd. He’s the local boy who was captain of the high school football team, started to work as a carpenter, and made millions! They like the interest he pays. They like the electric trains in the lobby. They think this underhanded action on the part of vipers in the state Capitol is unfair and probably in violation of the Constitution. They don’t trust government agencies.”
“Did you try to reach Floyd’s secretary?”
“Yeah, but no luck. When I asked the old geezers about her, they sniggered like schoolkids. Anyway, they told me she lives in Indian Village, so I phoned out there. No answer. I went to Floyd’s house. He wasn’t there, and no one would talk or even open the door more than an inch. It’s been a frustrating day so far, Qwill. On days like this I’d like to be back in the school system, teaching history to kids who couldn’t care less.”
The Cat Who Came to Breakfast Page 23