The Great Sand Fracas of Ames County (33 page)

“I didn't say I didn't believe you, but I do need evidence. It's the way we journalists work.”

“Okay, let's say I've got a piece of paper in my hand that came out of old Ambrose's wastebasket, and it's the beginning of one of them damnable Stony Field columns. Would that be the kind of evidence you'd like to see?”

“Where'd you get the piece of paper?”

“Well, that's privileged information.”

“So somebody broke into Ambrose Adler's house and rummaged through his wastepaper basket and stole a piece of paper from it.”

“Good God, Baxter. The piece of paper was in his wastebasket. He was gonna throw it away.”

“So you've got this piece of paper and you figure that's enough to prove that Ambrose is Stony Field.”

“I got lots more. Lots more. He has a secret office in that run-down old house he shares with a pet raccoon. He's got books piled everywhere, and newspapers and magazines, and awards hanging on the wall. He's Stony Field alright.”

“So you broke into his house and saw all this stuff ?”

“I swear on a stack of Bibles, I did not break into his house.”

“Then how did you learn about all this, about him having a secret office?”

“That is privileged information,” said Lucas Drake again. “Now you listen to me. We had a meeting of the Eagle Party last night, and we all agree that we've got old Ambrose Adler nailed on this one.”

“Well, it would make quite a story. Who else have you told?”

“I called the
Los Angeles Journal
and told them—that's the paper that sends that damn column all over the country, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Baxter.

“One more thing,” said Drake, his voice rising again. “The Eagle Party is adamant about this. We all agree that you must immediately stop running the Stony Field column, and if you don't, every one of us—and there are a bunch of Eagle Party members in Ames County—will cancel our subscriptions to your newspaper.”

“What?” said Baxter, incredulous at what he just heard.

“You heard me right, Baxter. Stony Field and his ilk are sending this country toward ruination. He's got to be stopped, and you are one of the people who can do it,” Drake said as he hung up.

Billy Baxter sat back in his chair. He wondered if Lucas Drake was right, that Stony Field has been living right here under their noses all these years. He sure sounded like he knew what he was talking about. And he sure didn't want to talk about how he got the information. That part sounded a little fishy. Then there's the fact that some Eagle Party members were quick to say things that when checked out weren't true. And the audacity of the Eagle Party to believe they can shut off somebody's writing by threatening to cancel subscriptions. He'd heard that one before.

Baxter's first inclination was to drive out to Ambrose Adler's farm and talk to him about what he just learned. But Baxter knew Adler and he also was well aware of the Eagle Party's reputation for sometimes going off half-cocked with rumors and innuendos. He thought he'd wait for a bit before doing anything more. After all, Ambrose Adler was one of the oldest residents of the community and he deserved some respect.

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D
o you have a minute?” asked Cassandra as she poked her head in Gloria's office.

“Sure, what's up?”

“Got a strange phone call from a place called Link Lake—I think the caller said it was in Wisconsin. Anyway, this gruff-sounding fellow said he had an important news tip. He said it was about Stony Field, and he wanted to talk with you. I told him you were busy.”

“Who was this guy?”

“He said his name was Lucas Drake. And the more he talked the angrier he sounded.”

“What'd he have to say?”

“Well, he thinks he knows who the real Stony Field is.”

“Really? Who does he think it is?”

“He said Stony Field is an old vegetable farmer named Ambrose Adler who lives near this place called Link Lake and that he stutters so bad most people couldn't understand him.”

The color drained from Gloria's face and she nearly dropped the cup of coffee she was holding.

“You all right?” asked Cassandra, surprised.

“Sure, sure, I'm okay.” Gloria set her coffee cup down on her desk. “Are you certain that's the name this Drake used, Ambrose Adler?”

“I'm certain. I wrote it down right here.” Cassandra showed her notepad to Gloria.

“Well, this is really something,” Gloria said after a brief pause. “People have been wondering for years who Stony Field really is. Did Drake say anything else?”

“Well, he was yelling something about how he is a founding member of the Eagle Party and we'd better quit running that liberal Stony Field column or we'll suffer the consequences.”

“I guess we've heard that before,” said Gloria. She was trying hard to keep her emotions under control, to not let Cassandra know how troubling this news was. She wondered how Lucas Drake had figured out the puzzle that had stumped people for more than four decades.

Cassandra closed her pad and returned to the receptionist desk, leaving Gloria thinking about how to handle the story. She knew the disclosure would cause a firestorm among the media. She also knew that as soon as the story broke, hundreds of newspeople would flock to little Link Lake and try to learn more about Stony Field—and Ambrose Adler.

She knew from Ambrose's recent note that he was thinking about revealing that he was Stony Field. But she wondered,
Will Ambrose be able to handle all of this attention, especially now that his health has been in decline?

She decided on a course of action. She would write a brief story explaining who the real Stony Field was and provide a little background information about Ambrose Adler and his longtime interest in nature and preserving the environment. She would also write about his lifelong speech impediment, and how some people dismissed those with problems such as Ambrose's as also being mentally incompetent. She would point out that Ambrose as Stony Field had won a national reputation for his clear thinking and creative writing about a variety of contemporary environmental issues and that having a speech impediment did not interfere with his thinking, his research, or his writing.

She would write the story right away so that it could get into the afternoon edition of the paper. She buzzed Cassandra and asked her to clear her calendar for the next three weeks and book a flight for tomorrow to Appleton, Wisconsin, as she had a meeting today she could not miss. She then turned to her computer and began writing the story. It was one of the hardest she had ever had to write.

When Gloria completed the story, she reached for her phone and punched in some numbers. After a few moments she said, “Good morning, Karl.”

“Mom, is something wrong?” Karl Adams said.

“I'm fine, Karl. But I need a favor. Would you pick me up at the Appleton airport tomorrow evening? My plane comes in at seven thirty.”

“Sure, but . . . but why are you going to Appleton?” Karl asked.

“I'm not. I'm coming to Link Lake.”

“Why?” was all Karl could think to say.

“I'll explain on the way from Appleton. See you tomorrow evening.”

58

T
he news that Ambrose Adler was the famous environmental writer Stony Field swept through the Link Lake community faster than a wildfire in California. Before any news had appeared in the media, it seemed everyone in the village and those living nearby knew about it, and every last person was totally amazed. The Eat Well Café discussion was about nothing else.

“Well, Fred, would you have ever guessed that our old fellow farmer was a writer?” asked Oscar Anderson.

“Nope, he sure had me fooled, and I've known the old bugger since he was a little kid,” said Fred Russo. “I just couldn't believe it when I heard the news. Just couldn't believe it.”

“How do you suspect old Ambrose feels about all this?” asked Oscar. “His health isn't all that good. Got a bad heart, you know.”

“Well, I can imagine he doesn't think much of the idea, after all these years of keeping it a secret,” said Fred. “Who would have guessed that Ambrose Adler is Stony Field—I mean who would have suspected that a guy who stutters was such a famous writer?”

“I heard the Drake kid who worked for him this summer stumbled onto his secret office,” said Oscar. “Kind of too bad it happened. What I know about Ambrose Adler is he tried to keep to himself, always did things the old way, bothered nobody, had only a handful of friends, and beyond having a big garden, he apparently did a whale of a lot of writing.”

“You know what, Oscar? When you think about it, he always came to the historical society meetings. He never missed any kind of community gatherings. He often stopped at the library. Those should have been clues that maybe old Ambrose was up to something beyond just sitting in the back row and never saying anything,” said Fred. “You never saw him sleeping at a meeting, and sometimes he even took some notes. Nobody else was doing that.”

“Fred, once you take a look at Ambrose with his mussed-up clothes, his long beard, and his old-fashioned way of living, and the fact that he had one helluva time spitting out even a handful of words, you would never guess he could write a sentence. And you know what? That old buzzard has written hundreds of columns and thousands of words—and has won awards besides, lots of awards. I just can't believe it,” said Oscar, shaking his head. “Just can't believe it.”

“Wonder what's gonna happen when everybody learns about this?” asked Fred. “Stony Field's column is one that everybody reads, but a goodly bunch of folks hated his guts. Every time they read one of his columns they seem to hate him more. We've got a bunch of people right here in Link Lake who have no time for Stony Field—Marilyn Jones, Mayor Jessup, the Reverend Ridley Ralston, most of the members of the Link Lake Economic Development Council, and every darn one of those crazy Eagle Party members, especially old Lucas Drake. I've heard Lucas Drake is just spittin' nails and trying to figure out a way of getting back at his neighbor.”

“I don't like it. Don't like how things are shaping up one bit. Here we've got this damn sand mining company that's already drilling test holes in our park. They plan to cut down the Trail Marker Oak and begin serious digging in a few weeks. And then this Stony Field thing. We're gonna have a circus around here when the country learns where Stony Field lives,” said Oscar.

“So whatta we gonna do about it?” asked Fred.

“Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna stop by Ambrose's place and offer to help him in any way I can. All hell's gonna break lose in a few days, and he'll need some help, no question about it. And I'm gonna suggest to Emily Higgins that the members of the historical society be prepared to give Ambrose a hand. Tell you the truth I really feel sorry for him,” said Oscar.

“Count me in to help out as well,” said Fred. “Ambrose Adler may be a tad different in his looks and actions, but he's a good old guy. A darn good old guy.”

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