Most of the front-page news was about the 1988 Democratic Party primary campaign to decide who would be going up against President Reagan’s two-term vice president, George Bush, in November. For those of you whose memories have dimmed, the Democrats’ clear front runner early on had been Gary Hart, the extremely charismatic, extremely married Colorado senator who had to withdraw from the race after the Miami Herald reported he’d taken an overnight cruise to Bimini with a sexy young model named Donna Rice on a yacht aptly named Monkey Business. Once Hart dropped out, all that was left was the usual cast of uninspiring characters – Dick Gephardt, Al Gore, Joe Biden. Somehow, the nomination eventually landed in the lap of Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis, a height-challenged man who seemed to have the word schnook tattooed across his forehead. He was slaughtered in November, leaving us with George Bush and his young, exceedingly dim vice president, Indiana Senator Dan Quayle, who became best known for getting into a raging battle with a fictional TV sitcom character named Murphy Brown and for his inability to spell the plural of the word potato.
But as absorbing as I found the campaign coverage it was the local police news that was my reason for being there. And the story I was searching for eluded me, week after week, month after month. After two hours of watching the microfilm pages go whizzing by, I’d arrived at June and had nothing, aside from a slight case of dizziness – which had nothing to do with my concussion. Those damned machines always make me dizzy if I stare at them for too long. I got up and went outside, Lulu following along. Sat on the library’s front steps with my hands in the pockets of my flight jacket and soaked up some fresh, cool air and autumn sunshine.
One of the librarians followed us out there. She was a slender woman in her fifties with a blunt, chin-length haircut who was wearing a navy-blue wool dress, tights and woolen clogs that looked vaguely Scandinavian. ‘I don’t mean to be forward, but are you Stewart Hoag?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I thought I recognized you from your book jacket photo. I’m Judy, the head librarian. It’s such an honor to have you here with us. I loved your novel.’
‘Thank you. I hope you’ll have reason to love my next one.’
‘So you’re at work on another?’ she asked with keen interest.
‘I am.’
‘Is our microfilm part of your research?’
‘As a matter of fact it is,’ I said, knowing it would make her day.
‘Well, I won’t interrupt your creative process any further. I just wanted to say hello. If you need any help at all, please holler.’
‘Thank you, I shall.’
She went back inside. I stayed out there a few more minutes, long enough to smoke a Chesterfield, then led Lulu back inside to the Genealogy Room and that microfilm machine. It took me another hour of staring at those whirring pages of the New London Day before I finally found the story that I was looking for. It was dated Monday, July 16, 1988. I carefully jotted down the particulars, then unspooled the microfilm, packed it up in its box and returned the boxes to the attic. Paused to thank Judy for her help. Went back outside and steered the Jag up Route 156 back to the farm, bleary-eyed and starving for lunch.
The Hardy Boys were still there, working away. I waved hello as I headed straight for the kitchen, where I fed Lulu a half-can of 9Lives mackerel and myself a fat sandwich of crusty bread filled with sliced sausage, fresh mozzarella and roasted peppers. Then I went into the master bedroom, took off my Chippewas and stretched out on the bed with a blanket over me. My intention was simply to rest my tired eyes for a few minutes. I woke up more than an hour later with Lulu curled up next to me, snoring softly.
I still wasn’t a hundred percent, much as I hated to admit to myself.
By then, it was two thirty. I splashed some cold water on my face and put my Chippewas and flight jacket back on. Lulu stirred and followed me as I headed out to the Jag, waved goodbye to the Hardy Boys and drove to the Old Lyme A&P, which, sad to say, was the one place in town where Lulu was forbidden to join me. She had to wait glumly in the car.
I spotted Joanie at her usual post at the courtesy desk. She was in her late forties and built like a refrigerator with frizzy blond hair. She’d been working at the A&P ever since high school along with her best friend, Sandy, a cashier who was built like a refrigerator with frizzy black hair. Both were grandmothers who’d married their high-school sweethearts and started having kids before they were twenty. I’d shopped regularly at the A&P over the summer and discovered that they were major founts of gossip, not to mention smart. Not book smart. People smart. Plus they were fun to flirt with, although Joanie was a swatter. If I spent more than five minutes with her I came away with a welt on my shoulder.
‘Hoagy!’ She lit right up when she spotted me. Came out from behind the courtesy desk and put me in a bear hug. ‘You poor, poor man. That lunatic almost split your
