totally inconsequential things can come to drive you nuts. But what bothers me about this handshake is that it’s my hand that’s slick with moisture when it should be his. It’s my sweat that is wiped from the fat man’s hand onto the front of his cheap pants.
T EN
T he Murdoch Public Library is located across the street from the courthouse in what used to be the manse of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, a dour, cracked plaster affair that epitomizes the town’s no-nonsense Protestant aesthetic. Who knows where the minister lives today (perhaps tucked away in the basement and dusted off once a week to deliver a sermon to his diminishing, blue-rinsed congregation) but what used to be the dining room, sitting room and even the kitchen of his residence are now clotted with book stacks, a couple of study carrels next to the windows and, in the place where the stove and sink used to be, a bearded man with alarmingly dark eyes seated behind a wooden desk shuffling index cards. When I approach I note first that he and I are the only ones in the place, and second that he’s not seated at all but standing, and is a man who, given the benefit of the doubt, may be estimated to reach the height of four-foot-six.
“Can I help you?” he asks in a voice deeper than would seem possible for a man his size, plush and tranquilizing as a late-night d.j.
“Hope so. I understand that you have a newspaper here in town. A weekly?”
“ The Murdoch Phoenix .”
“Indeed. I was wondering if there’re back copies of it on microfilm, or if you have it on-line?”
“Neither, I’m afraid. But we do keep a pile of them in the Periodicals section. It’s the pantry to your left.”
A glance in that direction reveals a room the size of a walk-in closet off the kitchen with a foldaway table, battered oak chair, and on the shelves around them, yellowing editions of the local paper.
“I see. Well, would you mind if—?”
“Not at all.” He gestures a babyish hand at the chair. “Can I ask if you’re conducting any particular type of research?”
He has stepped out from behind the desk now and placed his hands on his hips in a let’s-get-down-to-business pose. Something in the bemused crinkle at the corners of his mouth communicates intelligence, and the directness with which he meets my eyes (head held back in a way that appears oddly natural, given the sharpness of the angle) leads me to suspect he’s not snooping, that his interests are wholly professional.
“What I’m interested in, to be precise, are news stories having to do with the lost girls.”
With this he remains perfectly still for a nearly uncomfortable length of time. Then, briefly, a smile appears and recedes into the fur of his beard.
“Then you’d be Bartholomew Crane,” he says. “I’m Doug Pittle. We ran a story on you in the last issue.”
“‘We’?”
“‘I,’ actually. Aside from being Head Librarian,I’m also Publisher, Sales Director and Editor-in-Chief of The Murdoch Phoenix . I hope you don’t mind the publicity, but it’s nothing too terribly inflammatory, I assure you. In fact, I think you’ll find that the Phoenix— that is, I —have taken a more balanced view of the case than even the Toronto papers and considerably more than the television news, needless to say.”
“A profile? Where did you get my bio? As far as I’m aware, I’m not yet listed in the Who’s Who .”
“I’m a researcher, Mr. Crane. It’s amazing the things you can find if you look in the right places.” As he speaks he guides me to the pantry and pushes the door half-closed to provide a level of privacy as well as a flow of oxygen into the tiny room. “If you need any help, I’ll be here until we close at six.”
“How did you—”
“It’s a small town,” he says flatly and retreats back to his desk.
Before I get started I wonder at how Doug Pittle so smoothly resisted a prolonged exchange and at the same time left me with the
T EN
T he Murdoch Public Library is located across the street from the courthouse in what used to be the manse of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, a dour, cracked plaster affair that epitomizes the town’s no-nonsense Protestant aesthetic. Who knows where the minister lives today (perhaps tucked away in the basement and dusted off once a week to deliver a sermon to his diminishing, blue-rinsed congregation) but what used to be the dining room, sitting room and even the kitchen of his residence are now clotted with book stacks, a couple of study carrels next to the windows and, in the place where the stove and sink used to be, a bearded man with alarmingly dark eyes seated behind a wooden desk shuffling index cards. When I approach I note first that he and I are the only ones in the place, and second that he’s not seated at all but standing, and is a man who, given the benefit of the doubt, may be estimated to reach the height of four-foot-six.
“Can I help you?” he asks in a voice deeper than would seem possible for a man his size, plush and tranquilizing as a late-night d.j.
“Hope so. I understand that you have a newspaper here in town. A weekly?”
“ The Murdoch Phoenix .”
“Indeed. I was wondering if there’re back copies of it on microfilm, or if you have it on-line?”
“Neither, I’m afraid. But we do keep a pile of them in the Periodicals section. It’s the pantry to your left.”
A glance in that direction reveals a room the size of a walk-in closet off the kitchen with a foldaway table, battered oak chair, and on the shelves around them, yellowing editions of the local paper.
“I see. Well, would you mind if—?”
“Not at all.” He gestures a babyish hand at the chair. “Can I ask if you’re conducting any particular type of research?”
He has stepped out from behind the desk now and placed his hands on his hips in a let’s-get-down-to-business pose. Something in the bemused crinkle at the corners of his mouth communicates intelligence, and the directness with which he meets my eyes (head held back in a way that appears oddly natural, given the sharpness of the angle) leads me to suspect he’s not snooping, that his interests are wholly professional.
“What I’m interested in, to be precise, are news stories having to do with the lost girls.”
With this he remains perfectly still for a nearly uncomfortable length of time. Then, briefly, a smile appears and recedes into the fur of his beard.
“Then you’d be Bartholomew Crane,” he says. “I’m Doug Pittle. We ran a story on you in the last issue.”
“‘We’?”
“‘I,’ actually. Aside from being Head Librarian,I’m also Publisher, Sales Director and Editor-in-Chief of The Murdoch Phoenix . I hope you don’t mind the publicity, but it’s nothing too terribly inflammatory, I assure you. In fact, I think you’ll find that the Phoenix— that is, I —have taken a more balanced view of the case than even the Toronto papers and considerably more than the television news, needless to say.”
“A profile? Where did you get my bio? As far as I’m aware, I’m not yet listed in the Who’s Who .”
“I’m a researcher, Mr. Crane. It’s amazing the things you can find if you look in the right places.” As he speaks he guides me to the pantry and pushes the door half-closed to provide a level of privacy as well as a flow of oxygen into the tiny room. “If you need any help, I’ll be here until we close at six.”
“How did you—”
“It’s a small town,” he says flatly and retreats back to his desk.
Before I get started I wonder at how Doug Pittle so smoothly resisted a prolonged exchange and at the same time left me with the
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