ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATED

Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Toodle celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary at a dinner given by seven of their 11 children: Richard Toodle, Emil Toodle, Joseph Toodle, Conrad Toodle, Donna Toodle, Dorothy (Toodle) Fugtree, and Estelle (Toodle) Campbell. Also present were 30 grandchildren, 82! great-grandchildren, and 13 great-great-grandchildren. The dinner was held at the Toodle Family Restaurant. The sheet cake was decorated by Betsy Ann Toodle.

During the uproar (everyone was reading aloud) the Press Club manager sidled up to the head table and whispered in the host's ear. "Long distance for you, Qwill. In my office."

Before hurrying to the phone, Qwilleran shouted, "Thanks for coming, everyone! The bar's open!"

He was absent from the dining room long enough to make a few phone calls of his own, and when he returned he dragged Junior away from a group of editors and reporters.

"We've gotta get out, Junior. We're going home. I've changed our reservations... Arch, tell everyone goodbye for us, will you? It's an emergency...Come on, Junior."

"What? ... What?" Junior spluttered.

"Tell you later."

"My sack — "

"Forget your sack."

Qwilleran hustled the young man down the steps of the club and pushed him into the cab that waited at the curb with motor running.

"Hotel Stilton on the double," he yelled to the driver as the cab shot forward, "and run the red lights."

"Oh, wow!" Junior said.

"How fast can you throw your things in your duffel, kid? We've got seven minutes to pack, check out, and get up to the heliport on the hotel roof. "

Not until they had piled into the police helicopter did Qwilleran take time to explain. "Urgent phone call from Pickax," he shouted. "The Big One is moving in. Gotta beat it — personal emergency. Get ready to run. They're holding the plane."

When they finally buckled up on the jet, Junior said, "Hey, how did you swing that deal? I've never been on a chopper."

"It helps if you've worked at the Fluxion," Qwilleran explained, "and if you've cooperated with Homicide and plugged the Police Widows' Fund. Sorry to spoil the rest of our plans."

"That's okay. I don't mind missing the other stuff."

"We can make a fast connection in Chicago and then catch the TGIF commuter out of Minneapolis. We're lucky it worked out that way."

For the rest of the flight Qwilleran was reluctant to talk, but Junior couldn't stop. "Everybody was great! The sportswriters said they'd get me into the press box any time I'm in town... The guy that runs the "Newsroom Mouse" column is going to write up the Picayune on Tuesday, and that's syndicated allover the country, you know. How about that? ... Mr. Bates said I could have a job any time I want n to leave Pickax."

Qwilleran reserved comment. He was familiar with the managing editor's promises; the man had a short memory.

Junior chattered on. "They hire a lot of women at the Fluxion, don't they? On the desk, general assignment, heads, of departments, photographers. Do you know that redheaded photographer — the one with green stockings?"

Qwilleran shook his head. "She's new since I left the paper.”

"She's a photojournalist, and she free-lances for national magazines. She might come up to Moose County next spring and do a picture story on the abandoned mines. Not bad!"

"Not bad," Qwilleran echoed quietly.

He was still abnormally quiet when they boarded the tiny commuter after midnight. He occupied the window seat, and when he turned to listen to Junior he could see a man sitting across the aisle, holding an open magazine. The passenger stared at the same page throughout the flight.

He isn't reading, Qwilleran thought. He's listening. And he doesn't belong up here. No one in Moose County has that buttoned-down cool.

At the airport terminal the stranger went to the counter to rent a car.

"Junior ," Qwilleran muttered, "who's the guy in the black raincoat?"

"Never saw him before," Junior said. "Looks like a traveling salesman."

The man was no traveling salesman, Qwilleran told himself. There was something about his walk, his manner, the way he appraised his surroundings...

As they drove back to Pickax in the early hours of the morning, Junior finally showed signs of running out of exuberance, and he noticed Qwilleran' s preoccupied silence. "Anything wrong at your house, Qwill? You said it was an emergency."

"It's an emergency, but not at my house. Your mother called my housekeeper, and Mrs. Cobb phoned the Press Club. You're needed at home in a hurry. There's no storm moving in; I lied to you about that." Qwilleran made a right turn at the traffic light.

"Hey! Where are you going? Aren't you dropping me at the farm?"

"We're going to the hospital. There's been an accident. A car accident."

"My dad?" Junior shouted. "How serious?"

"Very bad. Your mother's waiting for you at the hospital. I don't know how to say this, Junior, but I've got to tell you. Your dad was killed instantly. It was on the bridge — the old plank bridge."

They pulled up at the side door of the hospital. Junior jumped out of the car without a word and bolted into the building.

Monday, November eleventh. “Heavy cloud cover throughout the country, with promise of snow before nightfall. Present temperature in Pickax, twenty-two degrees, with a windchill factor of ten below.” — So said the WPKX meteorologist.

On Monday morning the schools, stores, offices, and restaurants of Pickax were closed until noon — for the funeral. The day was cold, gray, damp, and miserable. Yet, crowds milled about the Old Stone church on Park Circle. Other onlookers huddle din the little circular park — shivering, stamping feet, swinging arms, clapping mittened hands together, anything to keep warm, and that included a furtive swig from a half-pint bottle in desperate cases. They were expecting to see a record broken: the longest funeral procession since 1904.

Police cars blockaded downtown Main Street to facilitate the formation of the procession. Cars bearing purple flags on the fender were lined up four abreast from curb to curb.

Qwilleran, moving through the crowd in the park, watched faces and listened to the low, respectful hum of voices. Small boys who climbed on the fountain for a better view were shooed away by a police officer and admonished if they shrieked or raced through the crowd.

Gathered inside the church were the numerous branches of the Goodwinter clan, as well as city officials, members of the Chamber of Commerce, and the country club set. Outside the church were the readers of the Picayune: businessmen, housewives, farmers, retirees, waitresses, laborers, hunters. They were witnessing an event they would remember all their lives and describe to future generations, just as their grandparents had described the funeral of Ephraim Good winter.

Among them was one man who was obviously foreign to the scene. He wandered through the crowd, glancing alertly in all directions, studying faces. He was wearing a black raincoat, and Qwilleran hoped it had a heavy lining; the cold was bone chilling.

A hunter in orange-and-black camouflage was mumbling to a man who wore a feed cap and had a cheek full of snuff. “Gonna be a long one. Longer than Captain Fugtree’s, looks like.”

The farmer shifted his chew. “Near a hundred, I reckon. The captain had seventy-five, they said in the paper.”

“Lucky they could bury him before snow flies. There’s a big One headed this way, they said on radio.”

“Can’t believe nothin’ they say on radio. That storm from Canada blowed itself out afore it got anywheres near the border.”

“Where’d it happen?” the hunter asked. “The accident, I mean.”

“Old plank bridge. It’s a bugger! We been after the county to get off their duff and widen the danged thing. They say he rammed the stone rail, flipped head over tail, landed on the rocks in the river. Car caught fire. It’s a closed casket, I hear.”