is past; Clarice knows how I feel about mixing business and pleasure and that I’m concerned she’s heading down the same street I took with Vinnie. A minute of uneasy silence ends when the waiter asks if we want anything else.
I grab the check. We gather our stuff and head into the sunshine. I was right about the temperature, it’s just pleasant, probably in the low 80s with a breeze gentle enough to just stir the Chamber of Commerce flags lining Main Street.
“Thanks for the company and information,” I tell Dodson. “I’m always surprised that it’s such a small world.”
“Well, there are only a finite number of cops and reporters, even in California. I don’t think it’s unusual to run into folks you know, or more likely folks who know folks you know,” Dodson says with a trace of compassion. “It’s always nice to work with people who have something in common.”
He turns to Clarice who’s been strangely quiet. “Please call me if you have any questions about San Juan County crime. If you’re up here again, maybe we can have lunch or a drink.”
He nods and walks off, leaving Clarice red and speechless.
“Damn him! I don’t know what...why....why the hell he makes me feel like a kid in the company of adults! I’m fine with him on the phone, it’s all business. In person—it’s just like my brain slips into neutral. I don’t say anything stupid. I just don’t say much of anything.”
She actually stomps her foot, like a five-year-old in a temper. This is interesting, I’ve never seen her act like this.
“Not to worry, Clarice. All of us go through this. I’ve always called it limmerence. Not lust, not like, just a glimmer of a feeling. It might burst into a light show, but chances are it’s just going to fade away. Let’s go find our Mr. Royce Calvert.”
The Marshalltown Hotel is less than two blocks from the cafe and just four from the Courthouse and Dodson’s Sheriff’s Office. It sits on the corner of Main Street and Mine Run Street, the intersection that was the heart of Marshalltown for close to a century. It’s a three story stone and brick building that takes up all of the block and carries an aura of permanence. There are no workmen visible but an electric saw whines in the warm air.
We go in through the large main door and are instantly blind. The drapes in the lobby, the hall and the dining room off to the right are all pulled closed.
“This is the way it was last time I was here,” Clarice half-whispers. “It’s creepy but Royce says it cuts down on the heating and cooling bills.”
It is creepy. Not scary-creepy but old-creepy, as though generations of people are all clamoring for attention. You could cut history with a knife here.
“Can I help you?”
The voice comes from the left. When I turn, I realize that it’s the bar or cocktail lounge, a room large enough for a long bar, several tables and space for a dance floor.
“Hello Royce, do you remember me?” Clarice is over her Dodson-induced silence and is all business again. “I told you I was gonna come up again and here I am.”
She sticks her hand out, grabs his and says, “This is Amy Hobbes the managing editor of the Monroe Press. Amy this is Royce Calvert. His grandfather was Senator Robert Calvert and he’s the new owner of the Marshalltown Hotel.”
Good God, she’s back with a vengeance, she’s talking so fast she’s on the edge of babbling.
I stick my hand out to the youngish man who’s looking a little blown over by Clarice’s hurricane of words. “Hello Mr. Calvert, it’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Please, call me Royce,” Royce says with a smile that’s reminiscent of the Senator’s cocky grin. “And it’s good to meet you, too. What can I do for you?”
“I got interested in Marshalltown after Clarice was up here,” I say taking in the dim lobby. “We’re practically neighbors. I know we don’t do much coverage of Marshalltown so I decided to come up and see
I grab the check. We gather our stuff and head into the sunshine. I was right about the temperature, it’s just pleasant, probably in the low 80s with a breeze gentle enough to just stir the Chamber of Commerce flags lining Main Street.
“Thanks for the company and information,” I tell Dodson. “I’m always surprised that it’s such a small world.”
“Well, there are only a finite number of cops and reporters, even in California. I don’t think it’s unusual to run into folks you know, or more likely folks who know folks you know,” Dodson says with a trace of compassion. “It’s always nice to work with people who have something in common.”
He turns to Clarice who’s been strangely quiet. “Please call me if you have any questions about San Juan County crime. If you’re up here again, maybe we can have lunch or a drink.”
He nods and walks off, leaving Clarice red and speechless.
“Damn him! I don’t know what...why....why the hell he makes me feel like a kid in the company of adults! I’m fine with him on the phone, it’s all business. In person—it’s just like my brain slips into neutral. I don’t say anything stupid. I just don’t say much of anything.”
She actually stomps her foot, like a five-year-old in a temper. This is interesting, I’ve never seen her act like this.
“Not to worry, Clarice. All of us go through this. I’ve always called it limmerence. Not lust, not like, just a glimmer of a feeling. It might burst into a light show, but chances are it’s just going to fade away. Let’s go find our Mr. Royce Calvert.”
The Marshalltown Hotel is less than two blocks from the cafe and just four from the Courthouse and Dodson’s Sheriff’s Office. It sits on the corner of Main Street and Mine Run Street, the intersection that was the heart of Marshalltown for close to a century. It’s a three story stone and brick building that takes up all of the block and carries an aura of permanence. There are no workmen visible but an electric saw whines in the warm air.
We go in through the large main door and are instantly blind. The drapes in the lobby, the hall and the dining room off to the right are all pulled closed.
“This is the way it was last time I was here,” Clarice half-whispers. “It’s creepy but Royce says it cuts down on the heating and cooling bills.”
It is creepy. Not scary-creepy but old-creepy, as though generations of people are all clamoring for attention. You could cut history with a knife here.
“Can I help you?”
The voice comes from the left. When I turn, I realize that it’s the bar or cocktail lounge, a room large enough for a long bar, several tables and space for a dance floor.
“Hello Royce, do you remember me?” Clarice is over her Dodson-induced silence and is all business again. “I told you I was gonna come up again and here I am.”
She sticks her hand out, grabs his and says, “This is Amy Hobbes the managing editor of the Monroe Press. Amy this is Royce Calvert. His grandfather was Senator Robert Calvert and he’s the new owner of the Marshalltown Hotel.”
Good God, she’s back with a vengeance, she’s talking so fast she’s on the edge of babbling.
I stick my hand out to the youngish man who’s looking a little blown over by Clarice’s hurricane of words. “Hello Mr. Calvert, it’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Please, call me Royce,” Royce says with a smile that’s reminiscent of the Senator’s cocky grin. “And it’s good to meet you, too. What can I do for you?”
“I got interested in Marshalltown after Clarice was up here,” I say taking in the dim lobby. “We’re practically neighbors. I know we don’t do much coverage of Marshalltown so I decided to come up and see
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