he shouted. “Where’s that slimy little two-bit reporter who can’t get his facts straight? Where is he? I want to see him right now!” I froze, and the receptionist, who had been talking quietly to someone on the phone, muttered something into the receiver and rose slowly to her full height, which must have been close to six feet.
“Archie Watson,” she said, in a cold voice, “that ain’t the right way to behave in a newspaper office. Have some respect.”
“It’s Grigsby who oughta have some respect, Bonnie,” the man called Archie Watson said. “You see what he wrote about me in this week’s rag?” He looked vaguely familiar—I knew I’d met him somewhere before, or maybe I’d just seen his picture in the paper.
“I never read the Gazette,” Bonnie said, primly. “Too much to do around here to waste my time reading. Now if you sit nice and quiet over there, I’ll see if Cal is in and if he’s free, though I don’t see why he’d want to talk to you when you’re acting like such a maniac.”
“He wanted to talk to me bad enough last week,” Watson said. “Begged me to return his calls. So I talk to him and then he twists everything around and makes me look like an eejit.” Bonnie gave him the kind of look that suggested that an idiot was exactly what he was. She picked up the phone, punched out a number and kept her eye on Watson, who had not obeyed her instructions to sit down.
“Cal? Archie Watson’s here to see you and he’s loaded for bear, dear. Shall I tell him to get lost?” Bonnie listened to the response, nodded to herself and placed the receiver gently back in its cradle. Then she turned to me with a smile.
“How’s that ad comin’, sweetheart? You got your words figured out?”
“Well?” Archie Watson said, leaning over my shoulder.
“You wait your turn,” Bonnie said.
“I’m a busy man,” Watson said.
“I’m sure this here young lady is a busy person, too, Archie. Didn’t Selma teach you no manners at all?” Watson let out an exasperated breath right behind me, and I resisted the urge to wipe my neck.
“I, uh, I’m not quite finished,” I said. Bonnie, determined to torture the man, flicked the form around to her side so she could read it.
“Weird Art of Kuskawa, eh? I like that. Got any nude paintings? Maybe you could get Archie here to pose for you. That’d be weird.” She chuckled at her joke. I could feel Watson vibrating with frustration behind me. “Have a seat, Archie,” she said. “Cal’s on his way down.” But he didn’t have time to sit because the door marked “Editorial/Sales” opened, and a young man stepped into the reception area.
“Archie,” he said, striding towards the big man, who was one stage away from hyperventilation. “Good to see you.” The young man, Calvin Grigsby, I assumed, held out his hand in such a natural manner that Watson shook it automatically before thinking better of it and snatching his away.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” Watson growled.
“Of course you do. Everybody does, sooner or later,” Grigsby said. “Come on back, and we’ll talk about it.” Grigsby’s easy manner put Watson completely off his stride. I’ve never seen anyone turn the other cheek quite so effectively before. It was impressive. Watson followed the young newspaperman meekly and even turned to close the door behind him.
“Wow,” I said.
“Cal’s a people person,” Bonnie said with pride. “The sales people call him in if a client’s getting into a tizzy about a mistake or something. He’s like human Valium.”
“Useful trait in the business you’re in, I guess. What was that guy so upset about, anyway?”
“Oh, Archie’s hopping mad about that new store going in,” Bonnie said. “His family has run Watson’s General Store since the town was born, and he thinks he’s going to lose all his customers. Cal probably quoted something stupid he said.” Watson’s General Store was up at the top of Main Street, a handsome brick building with the original wood and glass counters in the front—a big tourist attraction. The front of the store featured hand-scooped ice cream and candy displayed in big glass jars. It also sold groceries, bread and fresh produce and had an excellent meat counter at the back.
I remembered where I’d seen him before, wearing a big white apron and smiling cheerfully as he handed over a slab of steak wrapped in butcher’s paper. Watson’s wasn’t cheap, but it was family-run, and the service was great. Remembering the array of cleavers and knives behind Archie’s counter, I thought privately that having him mad at you could be dangerous. Better Calvin Grigsby than me, I thought. Fortunately, the work I was doing for the Kountry Pantree was behind the scenes. Nobody ever looks at a person dressed as a cow and wonders who designed the costume. In the mind of the average Joe, store mascots just are; they’re a given, a fact of life, like those little plastic forks you get with Kentucky Fried Chicken. There was no point in worrying about Watson coming at me from behind his meat counter, waving a chopper and calling me a slimy little two-bit puppet maker.
I paid for the art show ad and grabbed a copy of the Gazette on my way out. If I was working for the Kountry Pantree people, it would probably be a good idea to keep abreast of the situation. I had a nasty feeling that this mascot-gig was going to turn out to be trouble.
Three
Why waste your money at a flower shop? Kountry Pantree’s prices won’t make you drop! Make our Bouquet Boutique your fresh flower stop!
—A full-colour ad in the Laingford Gazette summer supplement
The midsummer evening light had ripened into that particular golden colour which makes everything touched by it impossibly beautiful. From the top of the hill leading down into George’s valley, the big old brick farm house, weathered barn and outbuildings looked like they’d had warm honey poured over them. Curve after gentle curve of meadow, in diminishing shades of tender green and bronze, receded into a horizon wreathed in mist. Near the house, I could see the stooped figure of George, in a bright red shirt and straw hat, tending his vegetable garden, watched over by a scarecrow that looked more than a little like him. I’d made the scarecrow that spring, borrowing an old barn coat and hat from the mud room and using a mop head for the hair. Poe, George’s tame raven, perched on the scarecrow’s shoulder. (Nothing scared Poe except thunderstorms.)
Off in the distance, in the apple orchard, George’s goats were snacking on windfalls and grass, and could easily be mistaken for a herd of deer, if you didn’t know better. There was no sign of Susan or Eddie, but I figured they were probably in the barn, preparing for the evening milking.
I drove slowly down the driveway, savouring the scene. After the bustle of Laingford, this profound peace was reassuring. There really are some quiet places left in the world, I reminded myself, then wondered (as I often do) how on earth I had managed to live in Toronto for so long without going completely bonkers.
George straightened up and came over to greet me as I clambered out of the old Ford pickup. Luggy and Rosencrantz met him halfway, Luggy sniffing politely at his boots and Rosie trying as usual to climb up his body so she could lie like an infant in his arms.
“Off, Rosie,” I said in my best “I mean business” voice. She ignored me. George crouched to her level, gently squeezed her paws and placed them on the
