The mayor preferred to have the interview at his office. The room at the back of city hall was closed off to all natural light—the blinds on the windows at the side of the office were closed and the drapes drawn. An infinitesimal amount of florescent light from the hallway leaked in through the door crack. There was a lamp in the office, a squat ugly thing that had been relegated to the corner. It was visibly unplugged.
Mel and Stuart had arrived at the mayor’s office promptly, according to the chiming of the church’s clock next door. Mel had followed Stuart with the intention of getting some photographs of the mayor but at the sight of lumpy bulk occupying the mayor’s chair, she had balked. There was no way she would be able to take a flattering picture unless the whole point was the portray Gavot’s fearless leader as an oozing blob.
Calling the mayor a fat man, or even an obese man, would have been a sad understatement. Elwood Hinton was a squat toad in a vaguely humanoid form. When the journalists were waiting in the reception area for the mayor to come back from his own lunch break, the city clerk, Belinda Montgomery had given them a brief summary of Elwood Hinton’s genealogy. Hinton’s father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, and so on had all served as mayor of Gavot at one point or another. Not so subtly, Belinda Montgomery implied that the general ineptitude of mayor-hood was due to inbreeding. “His grandfather married his first cousin. So did his father. And predictably, Elwood Hinton continued that tradition,” she said. “I don’t mind saying so, but the latest in the Hinton line isn’t too bright either. But I wouldn’t be surprised if in fifteen years or so he will ascend to the seat of mayor. Gavot isn’t too fond of change even if the current direction is driving it down the drain.”
Elwood Hinton had sort of rolled and oozed in through the city hall doors and gave the journalists a rather clipped and cryptic greeting. They couldn’t tell if he was annoyed with them or simply didn’t care. Mel had inquired about taking his picture. He only gave her a beady eyed stare and said that she had better photograph him in his natural environs—at his desk, in his office.
So they found themselves in the mayor’s office. Mel not so discretely wrinkled her nose at the strong ripe banana smell which permeated the entire room as she raised her camera to take a couple shots of Hinton at his desk and computer. The glow from the monitor gave the mayor a strange slimy appearance. It was in mid-picture that Hinton caught sight of Stuart’s t-shirt under his leather jacket. He made a strange surprised gurgle.
Mel grimaced. No doubt, when she developed the pictures, that one would look like a bloated fish corpse. Stuart was busy fiddling with his recorder and getting out a pad of paper and a pen to notice.
“Emoticon Systems makes the greatest games,” blabbered the mayor. “I just got their newest release of ‘War Dunes’ yesterday.”
The reporter looked confused for a moment before glancing down at his shirt. “Ah, that’s nice,” he replied vaguely. “I got this as a gift for play-testing and reviewing one of their games about two years ago. I’m afraid I’m not so much in the loop of the industry these days, though. I changed genres.”
“Huh?” Apparently Stuart’s explanation was too complicated for the mayor’s brain to process.
“Never mind,” the reporter said quickly. “So mostly we have some questions about the Harvest Festival. You know, about organization, history,…”
Hinton waved a pudgy hand, cutting him off. “I’ll just tell you what I told that reporter from The Callas Post. The basics.”
“Okay.”
“Every year, the mayor—who happens to be me—gets to start off the Harvest Festival with an opening ceremony. I make a speech and do some ribbon cutting and that’s about it. You should come tomorrow and see it. It’ll be spectacular.”
Mel sat back in one of the cold plastic visitor seats at the side of the room and wondered how a speech could ever be ‘spectacular.’ She hoped the interview would be relatively short as Hinton was obviously quite dim on the light bulb department.
“We’ll be there,” Stuart assured him. “So do you help organize any of the other events in the Harvest Festival?”
“The Bingo Club does all of that. Those old women in the club have plenty of time for that since otherwise they would be stuck at home. My wife says she would like to be in the Bingo Club but I tell her not until Junior is grown. We wouldn’t want Junior to be stuck home alone.”
“Hm.”
The mayor’s beady eyes suddenly lit up. “Have you seen Junior? He makes his old man proud. He’s both class president and football quarterback at Gavot Academy.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a picture to pass around. “Cute kid, isn’t he?”
Stuart looked at the photo and made some agreeable noises before he handed it to Mel. The kid in the photograph was a miniature version of his blobby father. She only gave the mayor a weak smile before sliding the photograph back on his desk.
Taking the journalists’ silence as agreement, he boasted, “All the kids look up to Junior. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decides to run for mayor when he grows up.”
Stuart coughed, looking a little queasy at the parental gushing. “Uh, Mr. Hinton, so the Harvest Festival. Everything’s done by the Bingo Club? How do you finance the event every year? Does the Bingo Club raise proceeds to help fund it?”
“The city’s financial director, Lloyd Fenster takes care of that. I have no hand in it. You might want to contact Lloyd if you want to know more about that kind of stuff. But knowing Lloyd, you might not get too far. Gavot is a small town with a small budget, but nonetheless, Lloyd keeps a tight reign on the books, if you know what I mean.”
“You know how we can contact Mr. Fenster?”
“Belinda has that information,” said Hinton. “But now that you mention Lloyd, he really does have some good ideas for Gavot. Ever since I’ve come to office, he’s been the best advisor a man could ask for. Some of his ideas are for sprucing up the place and bringing revenue. His latest idea was to sell a bid to a motel chain to build one of their motels down on Route 76. It’ll bring in more visitors to our little town. And you know how tourists are,” he winked. “They’ll drop money on any little thing.”
* * *
Stuart staggered out of city hall, trailing Mel who had stopped just outside on the sidewalk. The city clerk gave the journalists a sadistic grin before she resumed her typing. Mel was leaning against the side of the building with her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers kneading her temples. Stuart felt a little dizzy and had to support himself temporarily by placing a hand on the wall. He sucked in a lungful of crisp air, trying to clear his mind.
He had finally asked the mayor if he knew about the history and the origins of the Harvest Festival. Instead, the man took the liberty to delve into his family history. For two hours straight.
They had managed to escape when Mel said something about having an appointment. Stuart had hastily agreed and before Elwood Hinton could tell them how his grandfather had contracted the skin infection that eventually led to his slow and painful death, they were out the door.
“Never again,” muttered Mel. “There should be a rule about little town blabbermouths.”
“That they shouldn’t say a single word?” suggested Stuart.
“Yeah.” She finally lowered her massaging fingers and opened her eyes. “May I suggest something?”
“Hm?”
“Next time, for one of your interviews, we bring a roll of duct tape. I hear they work wonders on mouths.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said seriously. Stuart straightened up from the wall and glanced down Main Street. Most of the tents for the vendors were up now and the scaffold—or at least the main supports—had been finished. The workers were beginning to board it up with plywood now.
Mel let out a breath and looked up at the sky. It was clear and darkening. She looked at her watch. It was ticking down towards five. “I wasn’t completely lying when I said I had an appointment. The guy I have an appointment with doesn’t know that he has an appointment though.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I took a look around the McNab Furniture Emporium earlier today. The boy who worked there said Wally McNab was going to be in near closing time.”
The two journalists made their way down the street in a leisurely fashion, occasionally passing other tourists, last minute shoppers, and locals on their way to dinner. Stuart observed the photographer from out of the corner of his eye, his indirect gaze fixated on her hair and the smooth skin of her throat which disappeared beneath the neck of her blue sweater. If he were a photographer, he mused, he would take her picture, just like that—striding confidently down the street. He forced attention away from her and concentrated on the sidewalk just ahead.
Other than the dim light, the furniture store looked like it was abandoned. The teenaged boy who Mel had met earlier was nowhere to be found. Instead, a gaunt man puttered on the other side of the counter at the end of the room. Wisps of white hair decorated his scalp and his face was so full of wrinkles that the skin looked like it was in danger of flaking away. He appeared to be clad in a bright red jogging suit which had pockets for the hands at the belly and black and white stripes running down the sides. It fit him like his skin—saggy and too big for his frame.
“May I help you folks?” His voice was reedy thin and ended on a high note. The man unconsciously licked his sunken lips. He didn’t have any teeth. And perhaps he didn’t care to put in fake ones either just for the sake of appearances.
“We’re looking for Wally McNab,” said Mel.
The man smacked his lips loudly. “That’s me.” And then he turned his head off to one side to succumb to a fit of coughing. “Don’t mind me,” he finally continued when his hacking subsided and he had wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s just that darn time of the year again when my allergies flare up. So what are you looking for me for?”
Mel glanced at Stuart. He had his hands in his pockets again, his lips in a faint semblance of a smile. He seemed content to let her take up the questioning. “We just have some questions concerning a clock,” she said.
“Clock? I have plenty of clocks for sale. Tall ones. Short ones. Cherry, oak, maple, ebony.” He walked around the counter and ambled toward one corner of the showroom where a couple of grandfather clocks were stashed. “If I don’t have one that you’re thinking of, I can probably custom order it for you.”
“Actually it’s a clock that you’ve already sold. It’s at the Townsend House bed and breakfast.”
Wally McNab snorted. “So?”
“We were examining the craftsmanship and we were really curious about one thing—the numbers on the clock face. They looked like carved stone of some sort. But we’re not geologists so we were hoping you could help us figure out what it is.”
The furniture store owner scratched his head. “I don’t know anything about stones. And I don’t remember precisely which model I sold to the Townsends.” He pointed to the closest clock. “The faces look all the same to me.”
Mel and Stuart peered at the clock he was pointing to. The numbers on it gleamed in the same queer waxy way that the gray beads did. Mel felt something rise in her throat. “Yes, that’s what the Townsend’s clock looked like. What are the numbers made of? Surely not mother-of-pearl?”
McNab guffawed. “I don’t sell that sort of fancy stuff. All of these are from local craftsman. This particular one is out of oak. From what I remember, the pendulum and hands are brass. The numbers on the face, well, it sort of looks like horn silver. Not real pure silver, of course. That stuff is scarce.”
“Horn silver?” Mel repeated.
“It’s a sort of ore or something.” McNab shrugged. “There’s a horn silver mine a couple miles away from here, north of the Grandbury farm. You’ll have no luck getting there though. It’s been closed down for years. Most of the horn silver is probably from elsewhere.”
