names. Anyway, Number Three took out numerous loans to try to expandthe business into the root beer and even cola markets, hiring dozens of new employees in a manner of weeks. He threw lavish parties and made dozens of donations to Michael Pike University, which his father started twenty years before in honor of the original Michael Pike. He might have made it, too, but then the Crash happened. Like so many entrepreneurial businessmen, he was too dependent on the soaring price of his stock and the loans from his banks.”
Mr. Finnigan shook his head. “They did everything they could think of to save the business. They downsized and produced only ginger ale again, they laid off seventy employees, and they closed the ranks. But the writing remained on the wall. The business probably could have held it together if the public had stayed loyal and continued to drink ginger ale. Unfortunately, people didn’t spend money on ginger ale back then because they didn’t even have enough money to buy milk for their children. Sometimes they had to send away their children to live with another family or even strangers because they couldn’t support them anymore.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about this,” I said as we re-entered the hallway and walked past the three portraits of the hook-nosed Michael Pikes.
“I grew up in Killdeer, and the bottling company’s history is a piece of town lore.” He shrugged. “And since we moved the historical society archives in here and opened the museum last year, I’ve recently completed quite a lot of research on the family. The Pikes were fascinating people.”
He stopped in front of another large portrait, this one of a woman in her thirties. “This is Margaret Pike, but everyone called her Peggy. I know her personally. She lives somewhere north of here now, and she’s married with kids and grandkids, too.”
Colin wandered back to the carbonating machine and started poking at the engine as I stared at the woman’s portrait. She had pale skin and red hair that was parted in the middle. Her top matched her cheerful green eyes. As I glanced between her and the three Michael Pikes, I wondered what her mother had looked like.
Colin rejoined us. “So where are those archives?”
CASE FILE NO. 8
We walked down an adjoining hallway lined with checkerboard tiles and dark wood walls. “We put the archives in Number Three’s old office. When we started renovating the plant, we found his office to be in remarkable condition. The renovations will continue for quite a while—most of the plant is closed off for the moment, even to me. There are a lot of places that are too dangerous to set foot in.” He pulled a key ring from his pocket. The door opened into a room that looked like it once belonged to Number Three’s secretary. A photograph of the secretary talking into a black rotary telephone hung on the wall. She wore a crisp suit with a rolled collar and dark movie star lipstick. Her dark hair was arranged in fluffy curls around her small face.
The room was ringed by glass cases filled with artifactsof Killdeer history, from pre-Christopher Columbus arrowheads to Mike Pike T-shirts from the 1990s. I wanted to spend some time mulling over those cases, but the search for Andora came first.
“The newspaper archives are in here,” Mr. Finnigan said, as he unlocked a second room that was twice the size of the secretary’s office. We entered the room, and Mr. Finnigan flipped the light switch. I gaped.
The archive housed row after row of filing cabinets, which seemed out of place among the faded but still lush Oriental rug and cherry wood paneled walls.
“This is only temporary until we can move the archives into our temperature-controlled room in another part of the factory,” Mr. Finnigan explained. “Eventually, we want to restore the office to the way it looked when Number Three ran the plant. The historical society intends to host guided tours of the entire plant after the
Mr. Finnigan shook his head. “They did everything they could think of to save the business. They downsized and produced only ginger ale again, they laid off seventy employees, and they closed the ranks. But the writing remained on the wall. The business probably could have held it together if the public had stayed loyal and continued to drink ginger ale. Unfortunately, people didn’t spend money on ginger ale back then because they didn’t even have enough money to buy milk for their children. Sometimes they had to send away their children to live with another family or even strangers because they couldn’t support them anymore.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about this,” I said as we re-entered the hallway and walked past the three portraits of the hook-nosed Michael Pikes.
“I grew up in Killdeer, and the bottling company’s history is a piece of town lore.” He shrugged. “And since we moved the historical society archives in here and opened the museum last year, I’ve recently completed quite a lot of research on the family. The Pikes were fascinating people.”
He stopped in front of another large portrait, this one of a woman in her thirties. “This is Margaret Pike, but everyone called her Peggy. I know her personally. She lives somewhere north of here now, and she’s married with kids and grandkids, too.”
Colin wandered back to the carbonating machine and started poking at the engine as I stared at the woman’s portrait. She had pale skin and red hair that was parted in the middle. Her top matched her cheerful green eyes. As I glanced between her and the three Michael Pikes, I wondered what her mother had looked like.
Colin rejoined us. “So where are those archives?”
CASE FILE NO. 8
We walked down an adjoining hallway lined with checkerboard tiles and dark wood walls. “We put the archives in Number Three’s old office. When we started renovating the plant, we found his office to be in remarkable condition. The renovations will continue for quite a while—most of the plant is closed off for the moment, even to me. There are a lot of places that are too dangerous to set foot in.” He pulled a key ring from his pocket. The door opened into a room that looked like it once belonged to Number Three’s secretary. A photograph of the secretary talking into a black rotary telephone hung on the wall. She wore a crisp suit with a rolled collar and dark movie star lipstick. Her dark hair was arranged in fluffy curls around her small face.
The room was ringed by glass cases filled with artifactsof Killdeer history, from pre-Christopher Columbus arrowheads to Mike Pike T-shirts from the 1990s. I wanted to spend some time mulling over those cases, but the search for Andora came first.
“The newspaper archives are in here,” Mr. Finnigan said, as he unlocked a second room that was twice the size of the secretary’s office. We entered the room, and Mr. Finnigan flipped the light switch. I gaped.
The archive housed row after row of filing cabinets, which seemed out of place among the faded but still lush Oriental rug and cherry wood paneled walls.
“This is only temporary until we can move the archives into our temperature-controlled room in another part of the factory,” Mr. Finnigan explained. “Eventually, we want to restore the office to the way it looked when Number Three ran the plant. The historical society intends to host guided tours of the entire plant after the
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