The facts were that Delacamp was a dealer who bought and sold estate jewelry, making periodic visits to remote areas with a history of affluence. In such communities the descendants of old moneyed families might be willing to part with an heirloom necklace of rubies and emeralds, or a diamond tiara, in order to finance a new car or a college education or an extravagant cruise. Artisans in Delacamp’s Chicago firm could break up such outdated items and remount them in rings, pendants, earrings, and so forth for sale to a new generation – as an investment or status symbol.
Moose County fitted the picture, and Delacamp apparently had found his visits worthwhile. It had been the richest county in the state in the nineteenth century, when natural resources were being exploited and there was no income tax to pay. The old mining tycoons and lumber barons had built themselves mansions with large vaults in the basement. They had sent their offspring to eastern colleges and had taken their wives to Paris, where they bought them jewels that would appreciate in value. When the mines closed in the early twentieth century, the economy collapsed and most families fled to the big cities. Others elected to stay and live quietly on their private means, going into business or the professions – even bootlegging during Prohibition.
All of this convinced Qwilleran that Old Campo had a good thing going, and he enjoyed listening to gossip in the coffee shops. Blue-collar and white-collar opinions were freely expressed:
“He’ll be puttin’ on the dog and gettin’ the old gals all het up.”
“They say he drinks nothin’ but tea, but ten to one he puts a little somethin’ in it.”
“Yeah, I was night porter at the hotel a few years ago, and he used to send out for rum. He was a big tipper, I’ll say that for him.”
“I know a guy – his wife drew ten thousand from their joint account and bought a diamond pin.”
“I’m glad my wife’s not on his list. Women go to that tea party of his and they’re pushovers!”
“He always brings a female assistant, and she always happens to be young and sexy. She’s supposed to be his cousin or niece or something, but you never notice any family resemblance, if you know what I mean.”
Gossip was the mainstay of Moose County culture, although it was called “caring and sharing.” Men had their coffee shops; women had their afternoon circles.
Qwilleran listened to it and nodded and chuckled. He himself had been the subject of gossip. He was a bachelor who lived simply, and yet he was the richest man in the northeast central United States. Through a twist of fate he had fallen heir to the vast Klingenschoen fortune based in Moose County. Previously he had managed on a reporter’s salary without any particular interest in wealth; in financial matters, moreover, he felt like a simpleton. He handled the situation by establishing the Klingenschoen Foundation with a mandate to give the money away judiciously to benefit the community.
Needless to say, “Mr. Q” had become an icon in the north country, not only because of his generosity. He wrote a twice-weekly column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen,” that was the most popular feature in the newspaper. He had a genial disposition and a sense of humor, even though his brooding eyes gave him a look of meIancholy And he was his own man.
Pioneer blood had made the natives into a race of determined individualists, as a glance at the map would confirm. There were places like Squunk Corners, Little Hope, Sawdust City, Chipmunk, and Ugley Gardens. Qwilleran belonged in this environment. He spelled his name with a QW, lived in a barn with two cats, sported an enormous pepper-and-salt moustache, and rode a recumbent bicycle which required him to pedal with feet elevated.
There were other characteristics in his favor. Being tall and well-built, he had a distinct aura of authority. Being a journalist, he had trained himself to listen. Strangers felt they could confide in him, air their dreams, relate their woes. He always listened sympathetically.
One of Qwilleran’s quirks was his desire for privacy.
He needed solitude for thinking, writing, and reading, and his converted barn was effectively secluded. Though within the city limits and not far from Main Street, it had acreage. It had once been a strip farm extending from Main Street to Trevelyan Road, which was a half-mile to the east. Paving was unknown in those days.
Now Main Street divided into northbound and southbound traffic lanes, called Park Circle. Around the rim were two churches, the courthouse, a majestic old public library, and the original Klingenschoen mansion, now functioning as a small theatre for stage productions. To the rear of the mansion was a four-stall carriage house with servants’ quarters upstairs. From there a rustic wagon trail wound its way through evergreen woods, ending in a barnyard.
