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Authors: Mark Schweizer
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his replacement. In the old days, you knew your banker. He knew you and your family and his assessment of your ability to pay back the loan carried a lot of weight. There's the letter to Wilmer Griggs detailing his delinquency and noting the foreclosure date on his farm. There is a ledger with about thirty short-term loan accounts including payments and interest. Nothing over five hundred dollars though. And nothing in arrears. Except for Mr. Griggs, Lester seemed to have quite a good record of making and collecting his loans."
"Wouldn't foreclosing on the farm be advantageous to the bank?"
"Not in the 30's. Coming out of the Great Depression, the last thing a bank wanted was a farm that wasn't making any money."
"Good point."
Rob closed the folder and secured it with a large elastic band. He laid it on the desk.
"Maybe you can find something that I missed."
"I doubt it. I can't imagine that the murderer left any kind of a clue in the folder. Still, we have to go through it."
"Well, call me if I can help," he said, shouldering past me, giving Nancy a nod and disappearing out the front door.
"Harumph," I grunted under my breath.
Chapter 7
"Get me Toby on the phone," I called to Marilyn, Ace Secretary, as I breezed into the office the next morning. My evening with Alice had left me feeling as chipper as the deluxe floor model at Mr. Mulch.
"Toby who?" asked Marilyn, not looking up from the clattering keys of her typewriter.
"Toby Taps. That's who."
Marilyn stopped clattering and peered at me over her half-glasses, her eyes appearing to be half-full, or maybe half-empty. depending on your perspective.
"Toby Taps?" she said through pursed lips. "I thought he was retired."
"He's retired," I said. "But not that retired."
"I don't have his number," said Marilyn as offhandedly as Captain Hook and just as seemingly uninterested as he would have been had he--Captain Hook--been sitting where Marilyn now sat; although typing would be much more difficult, seeing that he couldn't use standard touch-typing technique, having only five fingers and one hook.
"Sure you do, Cupcake. I know you're still seeing him."
Marilyn shrugged and adjusted her glasses, raising and lowering the lenses like the opaque third eyelid of a very pretty crocodile.
"Off and on."
"Well, pretend you're on, and get him for me, will ya?"
"He doesn't like you, you know."
"No one does, Doll-face."
* * *
The house was dark. It was six in the evening and this being mid-October, the sun was already an hour gone. I had turned out the lights, fixed myself a sandwich and gotten one of the two remaining Malheur Black Chocolate beers out of the fridge, vowing to myself to save the last for a special occasion.
I shared my house with two pets. There was Baxter, of course. I had gotten him for Meg as a Christmas present, but he had moved in with me as soon as he outgrew Meg's house. My other pet, or rather, part-time lodger, was an owl we had named Archimedes. He had shown up on my windowsill last year and I had begun feeding him the mice that had been foolish enough to try for the cheese in my traps. Eventually he became accustomed to the house. Now came and went at will by way of the automatic window I had installed.
Baxter was in his usual place—asleep in front of the fire. Archimedes had already left for the evening. He tended to leave the house at dusk or just after. Owls are, by nature, creatures of the night and although I still supplemented Archimedes' diet with frozen rodents, he still covered the mountains from dusk till dawn. Occasionally, he'd be gone for a few days or even a week. Then one morning I'd find him sitting on top of the stuffed buffalo in the den, preening his feathers.
The den of my house was actually a log cabin first built in 1842 by, if the authentication certificate was correct, Daniel Boone's granddaughter. In fact, Daniel may have actually stayed in this very cabin. At least, that's what I liked to imagine. It wasn't the
"Wouldn't foreclosing on the farm be advantageous to the bank?"
"Not in the 30's. Coming out of the Great Depression, the last thing a bank wanted was a farm that wasn't making any money."
"Good point."
Rob closed the folder and secured it with a large elastic band. He laid it on the desk.
"Maybe you can find something that I missed."
"I doubt it. I can't imagine that the murderer left any kind of a clue in the folder. Still, we have to go through it."
"Well, call me if I can help," he said, shouldering past me, giving Nancy a nod and disappearing out the front door.
"Harumph," I grunted under my breath.
Chapter 7
"Get me Toby on the phone," I called to Marilyn, Ace Secretary, as I breezed into the office the next morning. My evening with Alice had left me feeling as chipper as the deluxe floor model at Mr. Mulch.
"Toby who?" asked Marilyn, not looking up from the clattering keys of her typewriter.
"Toby Taps. That's who."
Marilyn stopped clattering and peered at me over her half-glasses, her eyes appearing to be half-full, or maybe half-empty. depending on your perspective.
"Toby Taps?" she said through pursed lips. "I thought he was retired."
"He's retired," I said. "But not that retired."
"I don't have his number," said Marilyn as offhandedly as Captain Hook and just as seemingly uninterested as he would have been had he--Captain Hook--been sitting where Marilyn now sat; although typing would be much more difficult, seeing that he couldn't use standard touch-typing technique, having only five fingers and one hook.
"Sure you do, Cupcake. I know you're still seeing him."
Marilyn shrugged and adjusted her glasses, raising and lowering the lenses like the opaque third eyelid of a very pretty crocodile.
"Off and on."
"Well, pretend you're on, and get him for me, will ya?"
"He doesn't like you, you know."
"No one does, Doll-face."
* * *
The house was dark. It was six in the evening and this being mid-October, the sun was already an hour gone. I had turned out the lights, fixed myself a sandwich and gotten one of the two remaining Malheur Black Chocolate beers out of the fridge, vowing to myself to save the last for a special occasion.
I shared my house with two pets. There was Baxter, of course. I had gotten him for Meg as a Christmas present, but he had moved in with me as soon as he outgrew Meg's house. My other pet, or rather, part-time lodger, was an owl we had named Archimedes. He had shown up on my windowsill last year and I had begun feeding him the mice that had been foolish enough to try for the cheese in my traps. Eventually he became accustomed to the house. Now came and went at will by way of the automatic window I had installed.
Baxter was in his usual place—asleep in front of the fire. Archimedes had already left for the evening. He tended to leave the house at dusk or just after. Owls are, by nature, creatures of the night and although I still supplemented Archimedes' diet with frozen rodents, he still covered the mountains from dusk till dawn. Occasionally, he'd be gone for a few days or even a week. Then one morning I'd find him sitting on top of the stuffed buffalo in the den, preening his feathers.
The den of my house was actually a log cabin first built in 1842 by, if the authentication certificate was correct, Daniel Boone's granddaughter. In fact, Daniel may have actually stayed in this very cabin. At least, that's what I liked to imagine. It wasn't the
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