Walt Fricker had a successful accounting practice. His clients were many of the wealthy elites living in the retirement community of Blissful Breeze, Florida. He made a name for himself as being focused on the smallest of details. It was this tenacity that earned him the nickname “Fricker the Stickler”.

One of his favorite clients was Allen Foster and his wife, Bonnie. They moved to Blissful Breeze from a small town tucked deep in the mountains out in the Midwest somewhere. He didn’t know exactly where Jordan’s Bend was, but the way the Fosters describe it, a vacation just might be in the works. But Fricker the Stickler had a better idea.

Allen and Bonnie lived in Jordan’s Bend until Bonnie’s parents passed away. She inherited a small fortune, by Blissful Breeze standards. By Jordan’s Bend measures, the Fosters were the richest people in town. Even more than Nathaniel Bitterman, president of the only bank in town.

They owned “The Herald”, Jordan’s Bend one and only newspaper. With their windfall of riches, the time was right. They shut down the paper, packed their bags and began the next adventure of their lives. The timing was perfect. Readership was down. Revenue was dropping. That was two years ago.

A full decade after earning his master’s degree, Walt was restless. The sameness of the weather, the narrowness of his career path and the ease by which he navigated tax regulations had become boring and a bit exhausting. It was time for a change.

*****

Cloyd Caple leaned over to look through the window of “The Herald”. He did this everyday. It was part of his routine. College was not in the cards for him. Since graduating high school the previous spring, he continued to do odd jobs and handyman services for the local residents of Jordan’s Bend. Small jobs. Small pay. Everything in cash. Simple.

Cloyd wished the Fosters hadn’t moved. They were one of the few people who didn’t point at him and snicker. He knew his clothes were dirty at times. He knew he could use a haircut every now and then. He knew that his dog, Charlie, stank to high heaven. But none of that mattered to the Fosters. And he liked that.

He helped around the newspaper by carrying out trash, folding the daily edition for the carriers, unloading trucks and collecting the coins from the twenty-five or so paper boxes located around town. In return, he was given a key to the back door to use whenever things at home with his mother, Edna, were difficult. He didn’t mind not getting paid. He enjoyed their company.

*****

Two days had passed since Walt left Blissful Breeze. He stood on the corner in downtown Jordan’s Bend with his future in front of him. The Herald office was now his.

The door knob squeaked as Walt gave it a twist and pushed open the wooden door. A small bell clanked against the top and again as the door was shut. Walt reached for the light switch and gave it a flip. Nothing. He wasn’t surprised. The Fosters told him they turned off the utilities when they closed down the newspaper two years ago.

Even though it was mid-day and sunny on this late spring day, the layer of dust and grime on the storefront windows filtered the rays into a smokey hue reminiscent of an old film noir movie. The scent in the air was heavy, like a grandmother’s house with no air-conditioning during a late summer heat wave.

The front office had racks of old newspapers and walls covered in framed front pages from years and decades past. The glory days, as it seems. A counter divided the building entrance from several wooden desks. Some still had typewriters in place, silent since closing. Walt imagined the stories that grew from them and the “tap, tap, tap” of the keys as they struck the roller.

Walt heard a noise coming from the back of the room. No doubt a family of rats had built a mansion of paper among the many shelves. As he walked toward the noise, the smell in the air shifted to one much more unpleasant. Mud. Pollen. Decay. Manure.

Charlie barked.

“Who’s there?”, Walt said with authority.

“Cloyd. Cloyd Caple, sir. That’s my dog, Charlie. He don’t mean any harm.He’s just a bit nervous at times.”

“Cloyd. Interesting name.”, said Walt. “I can’t say I’ve known anyone else by that prenomen. Let’s step outside. That dog of yours is making my eyes water. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

*****

“Mayor Anderson, your wife is on line two.”, announced Sandra, his secretary. Cliff immediately snapped up the phone and put it to his ear. “Yes, dear.”

“Cliff, there’s something going on at the old Herald office. You better get going. There’s a man scraping the window’s. We can’t have that.” Claire’s voice left doubt in Cliff’s mind what his appropriate response should be.

“Yes, dear. I’ll get right on it.”

(To be continued.)