large tragic painting of a three-masted schooner sinking in a raging sea.
"Well, we had a perfect day," Qwilleran said, opening with the obligatory weather report. "Sunny. Pleasant breeze. Ideal temperature."
"Yes, but the fog's starting to roll in. By morning you won't be able to see the end of your nose. It's no good for the trolling business."
"If you ask me, Roger, the artwork in this room isn't any good for the trolling business. Every picture on the wall is some kind of disaster at sea. It scares the hell out of me. Besides, the charter boats charge too much—that is, too much for someone like me who isn't really interested in fishing."
"You should try it once," Roger urged. "Trolling is a lot more exciting, you know, than sitting in a rowboat with a worm on a hook."
Qwilleran looked at the menu. "If the lake is full of fish, why isn't there one local product on the menu? Nothing but Nova Scotia halibut, Columbia River salmon, and Boston scrod."
"It's all sport-fishing here. The commercial fisheries down the shore net tons of fish and ship them out."
To Nova Scotia, Massachusetts, and the state of Washington, Qwilleran guessed.
Roger ordered a bourbon and water; Qwilleran, his usual tomato juice. A cranky-looking couple took a table nearby, and he noted smugly that the man was red-faced and obese and the woman wore a hearing aid.
Roger said: "Is that all you drink? I thought newsmen were hard drinkers. I studied journalism before I switched to history ed. . . . Say, you've got me counting blue pickups, and I found out you're right. My wife always says people in northern climates like blue. . . . Do you live alone?"
"Not entirely. I've adopted a couple of despotic Siamese cats. One was orphaned as the result of a murder on my beat. The female was abandoned when she was a kitten. They're both purebred, and the male is smarter than I am."
"I have a hunting dog—Brittany spaniel," Roger said. "Sharon has a Scottie. . . .
Were you ever married, Qwill?"
"Once. It wasn't an overwhelming success."
"What happened?"
"She had a nervous breakdown, and I tried to pickle my troubles in alcohol. You ask a lot of questions, Roger. You should have stuck to journalism." The newsman said it with good humor. He had spent his entire career asking questions, and now he enjoyed being interrogated.
"Would you ever get married again?"
Qwilleran allowed the glimmer of a smile to twitch his moustache. "Three months ago I would have said no; now I'm not so sure." He rubbed the backs of his hands as he spoke; they were beginning to itch. The bartender at the Press Club had predicted he would get hives from drinking so much tomato juice, and perhaps Bruno was right.
The fat man at the next table seemed to be listening, so Qwilleran lowered his voice.
"The police set up a roadblock Monday night. What was that all about? There was nothing in the paper or on the radio."
Roger shrugged. "Roadblocks are a social activity up here, like potluck suppers. I think the cops do it once in a while when things get dull."
"Are you telling me there isn't enough crime in Moose County to keep them busy?"
"Not like you have in the city. The conservation guys catch a few poachers, and things get lively at the Shipwreck Tavern on Saturday nights, but the cops spend most of their time chasing accidents—single-car accidents mostly. Someone drives too fast and hits a moose, or kids get a few beers and wrap themselves around a tree. There's a lot of rescue work on the lake, too; the sheriff has two boats and a helicopter."
"No drug problem?"
"Maybe the tourists smoke a few funny cigarettes, but—no problem, really. What I worry about is shipwreck-looting. The lake is full of sunken ships. Some of them went down a hundred years ago, and their cargoes are on public record. The looters have sophisticated diving equipment—cold-water gear, electronic stuff, and all that. There's valuable cargo down there, and they're stripping the wrecks for private
"Well, we had a perfect day," Qwilleran said, opening with the obligatory weather report. "Sunny. Pleasant breeze. Ideal temperature."
"Yes, but the fog's starting to roll in. By morning you won't be able to see the end of your nose. It's no good for the trolling business."
"If you ask me, Roger, the artwork in this room isn't any good for the trolling business. Every picture on the wall is some kind of disaster at sea. It scares the hell out of me. Besides, the charter boats charge too much—that is, too much for someone like me who isn't really interested in fishing."
"You should try it once," Roger urged. "Trolling is a lot more exciting, you know, than sitting in a rowboat with a worm on a hook."
Qwilleran looked at the menu. "If the lake is full of fish, why isn't there one local product on the menu? Nothing but Nova Scotia halibut, Columbia River salmon, and Boston scrod."
"It's all sport-fishing here. The commercial fisheries down the shore net tons of fish and ship them out."
To Nova Scotia, Massachusetts, and the state of Washington, Qwilleran guessed.
Roger ordered a bourbon and water; Qwilleran, his usual tomato juice. A cranky-looking couple took a table nearby, and he noted smugly that the man was red-faced and obese and the woman wore a hearing aid.
Roger said: "Is that all you drink? I thought newsmen were hard drinkers. I studied journalism before I switched to history ed. . . . Say, you've got me counting blue pickups, and I found out you're right. My wife always says people in northern climates like blue. . . . Do you live alone?"
"Not entirely. I've adopted a couple of despotic Siamese cats. One was orphaned as the result of a murder on my beat. The female was abandoned when she was a kitten. They're both purebred, and the male is smarter than I am."
"I have a hunting dog—Brittany spaniel," Roger said. "Sharon has a Scottie. . . .
Were you ever married, Qwill?"
"Once. It wasn't an overwhelming success."
"What happened?"
"She had a nervous breakdown, and I tried to pickle my troubles in alcohol. You ask a lot of questions, Roger. You should have stuck to journalism." The newsman said it with good humor. He had spent his entire career asking questions, and now he enjoyed being interrogated.
"Would you ever get married again?"
Qwilleran allowed the glimmer of a smile to twitch his moustache. "Three months ago I would have said no; now I'm not so sure." He rubbed the backs of his hands as he spoke; they were beginning to itch. The bartender at the Press Club had predicted he would get hives from drinking so much tomato juice, and perhaps Bruno was right.
The fat man at the next table seemed to be listening, so Qwilleran lowered his voice.
"The police set up a roadblock Monday night. What was that all about? There was nothing in the paper or on the radio."
Roger shrugged. "Roadblocks are a social activity up here, like potluck suppers. I think the cops do it once in a while when things get dull."
"Are you telling me there isn't enough crime in Moose County to keep them busy?"
"Not like you have in the city. The conservation guys catch a few poachers, and things get lively at the Shipwreck Tavern on Saturday nights, but the cops spend most of their time chasing accidents—single-car accidents mostly. Someone drives too fast and hits a moose, or kids get a few beers and wrap themselves around a tree. There's a lot of rescue work on the lake, too; the sheriff has two boats and a helicopter."
"No drug problem?"
"Maybe the tourists smoke a few funny cigarettes, but—no problem, really. What I worry about is shipwreck-looting. The lake is full of sunken ships. Some of them went down a hundred years ago, and their cargoes are on public record. The looters have sophisticated diving equipment—cold-water gear, electronic stuff, and all that. There's valuable cargo down there, and they're stripping the wrecks for private
Similar Books
