LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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