The moon shone in the warm night, surrounded by an array of winking stars. The tops of the towering trees bobbed in the wind, and if one listened closely, the sound of crashing waves could be heard.
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Farther inland, Pine Hollow, a small seaside town with quaint houses and small shops, was nestled between the trees and hills. One would never guess it had been the scene of a dreadful crime. Two witnesses of the crime were waiting in a small newspaper publishing joint, preparing, once again, to go over the events of the night with another journalist.
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Crimes like the one that had transpired shouldn’t occur in boring little towns like Pine Hollow. That was the thought bouncing around in Errol Short’s head as he squirmed in an uncomfortable chair. Errol was a tall, stern-looking fellow, who owned a mildly successful pencil production company. But business issues were not on his mind right now. Dealing with the endless barrage of reporters, officers, employees, and nosy on-lookers from earlier had left him exhausted. Now he was trapped in yet another office and would have to recount his story again. The tiny room he sat in was dimly lit and devoid of any type of character or charm. The walls were bare, the floor was bare, even the table he sat at was bare (save for a pencil and an ash tray). He sighed. All he wanted to do was close his eyes for a thousand years and never see another lousy reporter for the rest of his life.
Errol stared at Preston. Yes, he knew the culprit. He had known the culprit quite well in fact. Looking away, Errol mumbled, “We worked together. At my company, Short Pencils.”
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“All right. Tell me all you know,” Preston ordered, still examining the pencil.
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Claudette and Errol exchanged a glance. The silence was broken by the tick-tick-tick of a broken clock.
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Preston’s gaze flicked to Claudette, to Errol, then back to Claudette. Preston squished his cigarette into the ash tray, causing some of the ash to spill over the sides. “Listen to me, and listen well,” he hissed. “This crime has happened only a few hours ago, and I can tell you that your situation looks bleak. There are toons that think you both are more involved then what you’re letting on. Don’t you want to tell Pine Hollow you’re innocent?” Preston opened a carton of cigarettes. “Or am I sitting in the presence of criminals?”
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Claudette rubbed her temples. “You tell him, Errol,” she sighed.
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Errol glared at her. “Okay, fine,” he growled through gritted teeth. “I’ll tell you everything.”
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Preston, lighting the next ciggy with surprising speed, whipped the notebook open. “Go on,” he said. He gripped the pencil and leaned forward, poised to write.
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Errol stared at the pencil for a minute. He sighed as he recognized the symbol on its side, an elongated “ESP.” It was a pencil from his company.
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Errol cleared his throat and rested his elbows on the table. “It’s a long story,” he began, hoping this would convince Preston to cancel the interrogation.
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“We’ve got all night,” Preston responded.
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Closing his eyes, Errol let out an exasperated sigh. “I had a swell team working for me,” he murmured. Errol paused to examine Preston as he scratched out notes. Good gravy, this sap’s hand writing is awful! Errol mused. He continued, “My best employees were some of my closest friends.”
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Claudette, with a small smile, nudged him a bit. “Hey, now. ‘Were’? Are you firing me after tonight?”
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Errol grinned at her. “Maybe.”
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“Get on with it!” Preston snapped, glowering at Errol.
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Errol sniffed, but relented. “Claudette Coyle is my book keeper,” he explained. “Marigold Wilt is…was my business partner. Othmer Wilt was my head designer. It all began on an average day; I was in a meeting with Othmer, discussing his latest designs….”
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As Errol unfurled his tale yet again, a soft rainfall started pecking at the windows. He was brought back to the events of a day that seemed very, very far away.
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The door behind him squeaked open as a well-dressed journalist marched in, notepad in hand and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Errol narrowed his eyes at the journalist and let out an exaggerated cough. He wasn’t in the mood for breathing in smoke at the moment.
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The journalist, a young fellow clad in a striped sweater under a plain jacket, sat down. He gazed for a moment at Errol, then at the other witness, Claudette Coyle. Claudette, a moth with long hair and lashes, happened to be one of Errol’s employees. Tapping her foot, she glared at the journalist and crossed her arms.
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The journalist extended a hand to Errol and mumbled around his cigarette, “The name’s Preston MacGee. I’m a reporter from The Daily Daisy.”
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Errol stared at Preston’s hand, then at Preston. After a pause, Preston glared at Errol, then shook his extended hand as if it had been stung. Setting the pad of paper on the table, Preston muttered, “You both have probably heard about The Daily Daisy, I’m sure. It’s one of Insecta’s largest newspaper publishing companies.”
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Claudette narrowed her eyes, murmuring, “Isn’t The Daily Daisy located all the way in Clement City?” She leaned forward on her elbows, glaring at Preston. “Why’d you come all the way down here to get a story? How’d you get here so fast?”
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Preston flicked his cigarette over the cracked ash tray. He tilted his head and answered, “For your information, doll, I was originally doing a story about Errol’s precious pencil palace before this incident happened.”
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“Nobody informed me about that,” Errol snapped.
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Preston’s upper lip twitched. “Well, somebody should have. Anyway, when a bigger and better story presents itself, you’ve got to follow what’ll make a more interesting headline. ‘Errol’s Terrific Deal on 2B Pencils’ or ‘Strange and Bloody Case with Killer on the Loose.’ What sounds more interesting?”
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I’d rather read about pencils, Errol thought, crossing his arms tighter.
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“Something bizarre has transpired here,” Preston grunted. He puffed on his cigarette. “Our readers deserve to know about it.”
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Claudette started to rise from her seat. “Hmph. Somebody else can tell you about it then.”
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Jabbing a finger in Claudette’s direction, Preston snapped, “Listen, moth, I’m getting this story outta you one way or the other! You both were witnesses. But that’s not the main reason I wanted to talk to you two.” He grabbed a pencil from the table and twirled it around, not taking his eyes off Errol or Claudette. Shaking the ash from his cigarette, he murmured, “You two knew the culprit. Personally.”
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