Archie told them to get off his land. Hardly a rational excuse for burning down the barn, but then “rational” isn’t a word you’d associate with Joel Pickett, and his boys appear to take after him.
That’s the problem, of course—if something of a criminal nature takes place in this town, Joel or his sons are always the prime suspects. I could see that Gerry didn’t want to be too quick to point the finger for that very reason. Gerry’s a redneck and has some backward views but he takes his duties seriously and he’s not a fool.
“Archie’s a nice guy,” I said at last. “Hard to imagine anyone—” I nearly said “anyone
else
” but caught myself in time—“having it in for him.”
“Archie didn’t say anythin’ ’bout having suspicions?”
“No. I didn’t know he was thinking along those lines.”
Gerry nodded. We looked at each other in silence for a minute or two and then he sighed and got to his feet.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind,” I said. I stood up and opened the door for him and he made a sort of salute and left.
After he’d gone I sat for some time thinking about Joel Pickett. He and I have a history, you might say. That’s why Gerry Moynihan came to see me, of course. He’s guessing that the affairs of the Pickett family are still of some interest to me and that I will have my ear to the ground where they are concerned.
In fact Joel’s and my history isn’t particularly long or complicated, although the repercussions were. A few years ago he appliedto the bank for a loan and I turned him down. That was all there was to it. In the course of my work I make such decisions all the time and no doubt I sometimes get it wrong, but in Joel Pickett’s case I was unquestionably right. He had a well-earned reputation as a drinker, a gambler and a fool. Even if his proposal had been a good one, no bank manager in the country would have felt confident about giving him a loan.
I’d had no direct dealings with Joel before that day but when he walked into my office I confess I disliked him on sight. There was something about him, a glibness, an oiliness in his smile. Nonetheless, it is in the bank’s interest as well as the town’s to encourage new business and investment in the area, so I invited Joel to take a chair and listened to what he had to say. Put simply, he wanted the bank to cover the cost of converting the old mill down at Beller’s Creek into a hunting lodge. Struan could do with another hotel, he said, something “swanky,” something with a little “class.”
As a matter of fact, he was right about that; our only hotel, Fitzpatrick’s, was, to put it kindly, a little rough, and we did need something to cater to the top end of the tourist market. That was why the building firm Waller and Sons was, even as Joel Pickett sat in my office smiling his oily smile, engaged in negotiations to buy a plot of land with lake frontage a mile or so north of the town. (Their bid was successful. The new lodge is scheduled to open this summer. It looks very nice and will provide a good deal of employment for the town.)
I mentioned this other proposal to Joel and although it was common knowledge it was clearly news to him. It didn’t faze him though. “Plenty of room for both,” he said, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. Something about his manner bothered me and I couldn’t figure out what it was.
I agreed that there might be room for both but said that in my opinion his plan had a serious weakness, namely that the Beller’s Creek site wasn’t on, or even near, the lake.
I should say here that the lake is our biggest asset—in fact, the lakes in general are the North’s biggest asset. They are beautiful and tranquil and clear as glass and full of fish; every year thousands of people come hundreds of miles to enjoy them. To build a hotel or hunting lodge up here and site it anywhere but on a lake is utter foolishness.
But Joel brushed
That’s the problem, of course—if something of a criminal nature takes place in this town, Joel or his sons are always the prime suspects. I could see that Gerry didn’t want to be too quick to point the finger for that very reason. Gerry’s a redneck and has some backward views but he takes his duties seriously and he’s not a fool.
“Archie’s a nice guy,” I said at last. “Hard to imagine anyone—” I nearly said “anyone
else
” but caught myself in time—“having it in for him.”
“Archie didn’t say anythin’ ’bout having suspicions?”
“No. I didn’t know he was thinking along those lines.”
Gerry nodded. We looked at each other in silence for a minute or two and then he sighed and got to his feet.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind,” I said. I stood up and opened the door for him and he made a sort of salute and left.
After he’d gone I sat for some time thinking about Joel Pickett. He and I have a history, you might say. That’s why Gerry Moynihan came to see me, of course. He’s guessing that the affairs of the Pickett family are still of some interest to me and that I will have my ear to the ground where they are concerned.
In fact Joel’s and my history isn’t particularly long or complicated, although the repercussions were. A few years ago he appliedto the bank for a loan and I turned him down. That was all there was to it. In the course of my work I make such decisions all the time and no doubt I sometimes get it wrong, but in Joel Pickett’s case I was unquestionably right. He had a well-earned reputation as a drinker, a gambler and a fool. Even if his proposal had been a good one, no bank manager in the country would have felt confident about giving him a loan.
I’d had no direct dealings with Joel before that day but when he walked into my office I confess I disliked him on sight. There was something about him, a glibness, an oiliness in his smile. Nonetheless, it is in the bank’s interest as well as the town’s to encourage new business and investment in the area, so I invited Joel to take a chair and listened to what he had to say. Put simply, he wanted the bank to cover the cost of converting the old mill down at Beller’s Creek into a hunting lodge. Struan could do with another hotel, he said, something “swanky,” something with a little “class.”
As a matter of fact, he was right about that; our only hotel, Fitzpatrick’s, was, to put it kindly, a little rough, and we did need something to cater to the top end of the tourist market. That was why the building firm Waller and Sons was, even as Joel Pickett sat in my office smiling his oily smile, engaged in negotiations to buy a plot of land with lake frontage a mile or so north of the town. (Their bid was successful. The new lodge is scheduled to open this summer. It looks very nice and will provide a good deal of employment for the town.)
I mentioned this other proposal to Joel and although it was common knowledge it was clearly news to him. It didn’t faze him though. “Plenty of room for both,” he said, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. Something about his manner bothered me and I couldn’t figure out what it was.
I agreed that there might be room for both but said that in my opinion his plan had a serious weakness, namely that the Beller’s Creek site wasn’t on, or even near, the lake.
I should say here that the lake is our biggest asset—in fact, the lakes in general are the North’s biggest asset. They are beautiful and tranquil and clear as glass and full of fish; every year thousands of people come hundreds of miles to enjoy them. To build a hotel or hunting lodge up here and site it anywhere but on a lake is utter foolishness.
But Joel brushed
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