Loe raamatut: «The Big Scoop»

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July 10: On the front page of the Peachtown Post

Can Peach Paradise Save Our Town?

Sally Darville, marketing manager for Darville Dairy, is a woman with a mission.

Darville, the twenty-seven-year-old daughter of Dean and Sarah Darville—the fourth generation of Darvilles to own and operate the local dairy—believes that Peach Paradise, their delicious new ice cream, can save Peachtown from ruin.

After three consecutive years of drought, Peachtown’s usually thriving tourism industry is hurting. With daily temperatures soaring into the high nineties and fire bans in effect at all campgrounds, people are staying away in droves. Darville believes that Peach Paradise will bring them back.

“We can’t make rain, but we can make the world’s best ice cream,” she said.

The tasty treat, introduced last March, sold out of local stores within a week and has since attracted fans throughout the Okanagan Valley. Now Darville has enlisted the help of Vancouver Satellite reporter “Cracker” Jack Gold to spread the word about Peach Paradise across British Columbia’s densely populated lower mainland.

Gold, thirty-four, recently won the Gobey Award for uncovering a conspiracy by Vancouver-based Denton Corporation’s top executives to launder two million dollars siphoned from the company’s employee pension fund. Gold is the youngest reporter ever to win the prestigious international award.

Said Darville, “If Cracker Jack Gold can’t help us, no one can.”

“HOT ENOUGH FOR YA?”

Fingertips tapping out a steady beat on the chipped white countertop, Jack regarded the too-cheerful customer service clerk with the little patience he had left. “Yes, it is. I wonder if you’d mind taking another look at those records.”

The clerk, a lanky youth with a drunk-on-life smile and a giant zit in the middle of his forehead, struck a solemn tone. “I can if you like, sir, but I really don’t believe your car was towed. I believe it was moved.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Well, yes. You see, sir, there’s no record of anyone from this office having towed a candy-apple red 1968 Mustang convertible with the original leather seats plus inlaid mother-of-pearl console and the black-and-yellow foam dice once owned by Jerry Lee Lewis. No record at all, sir.”

“Then, do you have any thoughts on who might have…moved it?”

The boy shrugged. “I may have.”

Jack forced his fingers to be still as he drew a shallow breath. Five years of pounding the backroads for small-town newspapers across the lower mainland had taught him there was no point in losing it with guys like—he glanced at the boy’s name tag—Dudley here. The Dudleys of the world, he vaguely recalled from those long forgotten days, couldn’t be rushed under terrorist threat.

Back then, Jack had customized a smile for people he had nothing against but hoped never to see again. He flashed it now. “Care to share your thoughts, Dudley?”

The teenager nodded in the general direction of the window separating the tiny impoundment office from Peachtown’s main drag. “Well, see, we have these identical twins here in town—Terry and Tommy Trubble? Anyway, they’re sorta the town pranksters.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, okay, the county pranksters, if you wanna be, you know, real accurate.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned closer to Jack. “You won’t believe this, but one time they…”

“My car, Dudley?”

“Oh, right. Well, the fact is, sir, they like to move cars.”

“Move cars,” Jack repeated dumbly. “You mean steal cars.”

Shock turned Dudley’s zit a singularly unattractive shade of red. “Oh no, sir! They don’t keep ’em. They just hot-wire ’em and then relocate ’em.” His vacant gaze suggested that no further explanation should be necessary.

“Uh-huh, and just for the record, Dudley, where exactly do they relocate them to?”

The boy cleared his throat. “Well now, that depends on a number of things.”

Grasping the counter’s edge with both hands, Jack arched his aching back and let his eyelids droop. It was bad enough that he was here. It was bad enough that he was here to cover a story about ice cream. It was bad enough that he was here to cover a story about ice cream because he’d acted like—how had his editor put it?— “a spoiled celebrity.” This headache he definitely didn’t need.

In addition to everything else, he was hot and tired and hungry. The inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his legs were stiff and cramped after the four-hour drive east from Vancouver. The drive he had foolishly undertaken in his prized Mustang. The prized Mustang which was now missing.

Just thirty minutes ago, he’d parked it across the street from Cora’s Café and gone into the restaurant for directions. While he stood there nodding like a puppet, a woman he presumed to be Cora had passed a pleasant twenty minutes disagreeing with the restaurant’s lone patron about the fastest route to Darville Dairy. Jack had eventually tuned out the debate and inched toward the door.

They were arguing the merits of highway number seven versus county road nineteen when he slipped outside and saw that the Mustang was gone. For one hellish moment he had stood there gawking at the empty parking space, convinced it was an optical illusion created by the heat. It wasn’t.

“So,” he said to Dudley. “On what sort of things does it depend?”

Well, it being Saturday and all, Dudley explained, the twins probably had relocated the Mustang to the Darville Dairy Bar. Lots of folks would be there today, ’cause of Peach Paradise. The twins might have taken the car to the bakery just three blocks from here, which, Jack would want to know, gave out free pastries on Saturdays. Course apple turnovers were no competition for Sally Darville’s fabulous new ice cream, and being that you could spot a red Mustang that close—what the heck, you could spot one in a blizzard, couldn’t you?—most likely the bakery wasn’t the place. Yesterday they definitely would have taken it to Peach Pit Park….

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “Where are they most likely to have taken it today, Dudley?”

“To the dairy bar, sir. That’s your best bet.”

After getting directions, Jack thanked the boy and made haste for the door.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Dudley called after him. “You’re that hotshot reporter from the Vancouver Satellite. Cracker Jack Gold, right?”

Pleasantly surprised, Jack turned around. Could his reputation have traveled this far? It seemed unlikely. Then again, it wasn’t every day that a thirty-four-year-old reporter won the Gobey Award. To his knowledge, until now no one under the age of fifty had ever won it. So, maybe…

He nodded as humbly as a man headed for stardom possibly could. “I am indeed. I take it you’re familiar with my work?”

“Nope, never heard of you. Sally said you were some kind of hotshot, was all.”

“Oh,” Jack muttered. So much for fame.

Opportunity sprang to life in Dudley’s big brown eyes. “So, you’re here to get the big scoop on Peach Paradise, right?” He slapped his thigh and cackled merrily.

Jack chuckled along with him. It was pointless to tell the boy he’d already heard that one a dozen times back at the Satellite— along with a dozen other stupid jokes involving peaches, cream, sugar, waffle cones and reporters whose heads get swelled by major awards and end up in small towns, writing about dairy fat.

“Well, Sally sure is excited,” Dudley gushed. “A feature story in the Satellite. Imagine!”

“Yes, imagine. Thanks again, Dudley.”

“You be sure to have a nice day, Mr. Gold.”

Stepping outside, Jack nearly collided with two apple-cheeked matrons in flouncy dresses. Each wore a straw hat laden with plastic grapes and carried a basket of freshly cut roses. Certain he was about to get nailed, Jack mumbled an apology and tried to sidestep the women. The tallest of the two seized him painfully by the arm. “Hello there. You must be that hotshot reporter from Vancouver. The one who got that—what did Sally call it?—a gopher trophy?”

“Actually ma’am, it was the Gobey Award. And if you don’t mind…”

“So it was. Aren’t you just the handsomest thing. Isn’t he handsome, Elsa?”

“Oh, he is, Elvira,” the much shorter woman agreed. She had the funniest little Betty Boop voice Jack had ever heard.

“Thank you, ladies, but…”

“What’s your name, sonny?” the one called Elvira asked. “Sally told me, but my memory’s not what it used to be.”

“Jack Gold. I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m awfully late…”

She drew a sharp breath. “Gold. What an interesting name. We’ve got a cousin, Goldfisher Elmont Jackson, but everyone calls him Goldy. That’s what’s we’ll call you. Won’t we, Elsa.”

“Oh yes, indeed. Goldy. Yes indeed.”

“Ah, actually, I prefer Jack. And I really do have to move along.”

“We’re the Jackson sisters,” Elvira said without missing a beat. “Our granddaddy, Elmont Jackson, founded this town. Didn’t he, Elsa?” Her grip on Jack’s arm tightened.

“Oh yes, he did, Elvira. He certainly did.”

“You’re here to get the big scoop, aren’t you?” Elvira looked at Elsa for confirmation of her comic genius, and together they cackled like two tipsy hens at a barnyard bash.

Jack’s arm went numb. “Yes ma’am, I am.”

“Well, you must come to dinner. Mustn’t he, Elsa?”

“Yes, he absolutely must.”

Dinner? Not likely. Jack was getting his car, he was getting what he’d come here to get and he was getting out. “Thank you, ladies, but I’m only in town for a couple of hours.”

Elvira snickered. “A couple of hours. Now isn’t that funny? That was what Charlie said, wasn’t it, Elsa?”

“Oh yes, Elvira. Two hours. Those were his exact words.”

Jack smiled politely. Like everyone else in the Vancouver news world, he knew all about Charlie Sacks. Back in the seventies, the once venerable editor of the Satellite had tried to pass through Peachtown but somehow got stuck here. Before Charlie knew what had hit him, the poor guy was hitched to that year’s Peach Pit Princess and chained to a desk at the Peachtown Post, a cheesy little weekly with a circulation no bigger than his wedding invitation list. Around the Satellite he was known as Sad Sacks, the fool who squandered a promising career for love.

Nothing could persuade Jack to stick around this sleepy little orchard town in the Okanagan Valley—not love or money or, even famished as he was, a good home-cooked meal. In fact, he couldn’t imagine living in any small town. Vancouver was it for him. Or, New York. Maybe even Paris, where his father had once been stationed. The cafés and clubs and shops. The sidewalks that vibrated under your feet. The beautiful women on those sidewalks, looking good just for him.

And the stories—a million of them, all waiting for his magic keyboard.

“I appreciate the invitation,” he told the women honestly. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check. I must get back to work.” Real work, that is.

“Is that so?” Elvira sounded just like his mother. “Well, it can wait. Sunday dinner. Tomorrow. Seven sharp. We’ll make all your favorites.”

“I’d love to, ma’am, but…ah, my favorites?”

“Yes, your favorites. Seven sharp. In the meantime, have a flower on us, and have a nice day.” She thrust a long-stemmed pink rose into Jack’s free hand, the one that still had a functioning circulatory system, and released him.

“Listen, I really can’t…”

“Seven sharp,” Elvira snapped over her shoulder as the sisters waltzed away. “Twenty-nine Silver Creek Road. Don’t be late.”

Shaking his head, Jack set off in the opposite direction. He’d forgotten how friendly people were in these little towns. Regardless, he hoped the women wouldn’t be too disappointed when he failed to show. It was nice of them to extend the invitation, especially to a stranger, but tomorrow night he’d be far from here, in every sense.

Still, there was no reason to hurt their feelings…What the hell, he’d look them up later today and at least beg off nicely.

As he strode toward the dairy bar, his eyes recorded every detail of Main Street. The dressmaker’s shop with the vintage Singer sewing machine in the window. The hardware store that, according to its hand-painted marquee, doubled as the town’s pizza delivery outlet. The drugstore, the barbershop, the Peachtown Post.

And, of course, Cora’s Café, scene of the crime.

Glancing through the window, Jack saw that the restaurant was now empty. For that matter the whole town seemed deserted. Curious, that. Next to fruit and wine, tourism was the valley’s biggest industry. On a hot Saturday afternoon in late July, Peachtown should have been jammed with sightseers.

It was a pretty place, he’d give it that. Of course, all these little valley towns were picturesque. On the drive in, he’d been blown away by the expansive beauty of the region. The sprawling farms and orchards, the vineyards nestled into the hillsides rising up from the shores of Lake Okanagan, the big country houses with white clapboard siding and dormer windows. It was nice—in a quaint, countrified sort of way. There were none of the usual strip malls and gourmet coffee shops that marred the landscape between Vancouver and the province’s interior. Time seemed to have stood still here.

Nobody seemed in a hurry—that was for sure. A pickup truck cruising well below the posted speed limit had tested his patience for nearly fifty miles. Then, a herd of cows had held him up for what felt like a year while they clomped across the asphalt at a snail’s pace. A chicken strutting jauntily down the road by itself had given him a good laugh, though.

Somewhere between here and there his own feathers had settled down. He wasn’t bitter about this assignment—not exactly. Humiliated was more like it. Imagine a Gobey winner being assigned to write about a brand of ice cream that people said was the best they’d ever tasted. Imagine any reporter with ten years experience getting stuck with covering the story.

For one thing, it wasn’t news—it was a classic grab for free publicity. Jack’s editor, Marty McNab, had gotten the story lead from a Darville Dairy news release. Little companies like Darville were always trying to get free promotional space in the Satellite. Normally Marty ignored them.

For another thing, even if it were news, it would be regional news. Who among the Satellite’s sophisticated urban readers would give a tinker’s damn about it? Nobody, including Jack himself.

Our subscribers are complaining that all the news we print is bad, Marty had tried to tell him. We need something light, something fun.

Yeah, well, he could call it light. He could call it fun. He could call it whatever he wanted, but Jack knew it by its real name: punishment. He didn’t think he’d acted badly after winning the award. Apparently others disagreed. He cringed, recalling the banter around the Satellite newsroom these past few weeks. Hey, did you hear about the Gobey? They’re renaming it the Goldby. Marty had joked: You must be exhausted from carrying that ego around. Think of this assignment as a vacation.

Oh well, at least it wouldn’t take long to bang the piece off. A quick interview with Sally Darville. Four hours back to the west coast. An hour on the laptop. End of punishment.

The shops along Main Street eventually gave way to little A-framed houses with big side-yards, every one chafing under the brutal midafternoon sun. Jack squinted up the street. Just ahead was the sign announcing the dairy bar. People were lined up three deep for at least a block beyond the small white building. No wonder the town’s other streets were deserted.

Beyond the crowd, something glinted bright red under the sun. The Mustang! Jack took off. Soon the car was in plain sight. Two men were hunched over it, doing God only knew what while a cluster of people watched. Jack’s heart started to pound, and not just from the running.

“Hey you!” he hollered when the men were within earshot. They straightened and casually turned to face him. A few feet shy of the car, Jack ground to a halt. Reeling from shock, he glanced from face to identical face. The little thieves were barely five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds each. Could they be dwarves? Identical, car-napping dwarves?

“How old are you?” he demanded, dripping sweat and gasping for air.

“We’re twelve, but we’ll be thirteen next week,” one of the boys replied with obvious pride.

Flabbergasted, Jack took a moment to absorb that. “Twelve? But…you’re not even old enough to drive!”

“We drive very responsibly, sir,” the other boy assured him.

“He’s right. They do,” a man in the group said. Peach-colored ice cream circled his mouth and dripped off his chin onto a dark blue mechanic’s uniform with the name Ted stitched across one breast pocket.

“Which one are you?” Jack asked the boy who’d just spoken. The twins had matching dark hair, matching Jughead ears, matching everything.

“Terry, sir.”

“I’m Tommy,” the other one said. “Nice to meet you.”

It was then that Jack spotted the yellow chamois resting atop the Mustang’s shiny hood. The boys hadn’t been vandalizing his car—they’d been buffing it to a fine polish. Helpless to do anything else, Jack burst out laughing. While the little thieves exchanged frowns, he tossed his head back and laughed until he couldn’t laugh anymore.

Sobering, he trained a stern eye on them. “Listen, boys, you can’t just go around relocating people’s cars.”

“Why not?” they asked.

“Never mind.” Jack opened the driver’s side door and tossed Elvira Jackson’s tea rose onto the passenger seat. His cellphone was still there, along with his leather satchel and laptop computer. There was cash lying around, too, but the boys hadn’t touched it.

“Hummer car,” the man with the messy face said as the twins stepped away from the Mustang, giving it one last, reverent look. “Is that the original paint job?”

Jack ignored him. “Listen, I don’t suppose either of you know the way to Darville Dairy?” he asked the twins.

“I do,” Tommy answered. “Just take highway seven to…”

“No way!” Terry cut in. “It’s a lot faster if you follow Main Street to county road nineteen…”