Mayor Ollie Oelwein hoisted his rear onto the last empty stool at the counter in Rosemary's Delmonico Diner. He turned and mumbled, "Twelve citizens, not countin' you and me."

"You going?" Rosemary Allen asked.

"Of course," the mayor said. "Got to. Look at all these people. No doubt they's goin'. Best gathering I've seen in Fork for some time."

"I may run out of doughnuts," Rosemary said.

"What?" the mayor said. "Can't hear much above the chatter."

Rosemary leaned closer and repeated the statement. She pushed slender fingers through long, gleaming auburn hair, moved a strand from her forehead, sighed and glided from behind the counter. She interrupted and sometimes joined in conversations as she refilled coffee cups at the six ancient tables, their scars hidden by checkered red clothes.

The material of her white polyester waitress uniform moved with the flow of her legs and buttocks. Some male eyes focused higher where curves bounced and breathed.

She returned to behind the counter and said, "Everybody's talking about the snow storm again. Haven't heard a single rumor this morning about the murder. Kinda strange, people talking in July about a snow storm."

"Well," the mayor said, "there's principles involved here. No sir, Daniel Owens just can't get away with what he did. You goin' ain't ya?"

"No," Rosemary said. "Won't be any business, but I'm not going down there and watch Daniel make a fool of himself."

The mayor chewed the last bite of his third chocolate-covered doughnut, gulped the last drop of coffee, and slid off the stool.

"Serve him right if he makes a fool of himself. Got no business attacking a public official. If he gets away with that, why who knows what's next?"

He cleared his throat a couple of times and said, "Hey folks, we better git. It's thirty-five miles to Cleardale, ya know."

Gregory Lancaster, the garbage collector, who was sitting alone at a corner table, stood and said, "Hell, Ollie, we got two hours yet. Gonna pick up a couple blocks of garbage before I head down."

"Smells like ya already made some pickups," Fred Gilmore, the grocery store owner, shouted.

"Don't often see ya up this early," Gregory replied.

"Now, now boys, don't need discord on an important day like this. I'm headed for Cleardale."

The mayor hitched up his pants, waved like a departing candidate, and went outside. He stood in the morning sunlight on the cracked sidewalk in front of the diner beneath the Coca Cola sign, and looked south on Main Street. Dave Martin's Hick's Gasoline Station wasn't open yet. Three store fronts in that direction were boarded up. Weeds grew against the edge of the buildings.

Damned fool, the mayor thought. He could get some business if he'd get off his lazy ass. Probably still in bed with that wife of his. The mayor snickered at the idea.

To the north, Gilmore's Quick Stop Grocery was open. Fred's wife swept the front walk like every morning. Glenn's Hardware Store was closed. Probably wouldn't open until after he got back from Cleardale, if then. And beyond that, John Turner's apartment building stood out. Only four apartments, but the building front was brick. It looked out of place, being new and all. Made the rest of the buildings look even older than they were.

Except for Absalom's Tavern across the street, of course. Nothing could make it look any older than it already did with its faded Griesedieck Beer sign and its eroding stone walls.

Some wanted to publicize the fact that it was the first tavern built in Cleardale County, but Hester DeWitt, president of the historical society, forbid it. Said it made Fork look bad enough by just being there.

"Should be demolished," she insisted.

She hinted she wouldn't mind if the sagging building next to the tavern that housed Millie Pruitt's Knickknack Shop also was torn down.

"Imagine a young woman like that opening a shop right next to that horrid tavern," she often told her husband.

People thought Turner was nuts, building an apartment building in Fork. But all four of the apartments were rented. Brought three new people into town from Cleardale because of the low rent. Rosemary Allen lived in the fourth.

The mayor could remember when all the stores were open, the town was bustling, sort of. It never had been much, but at least it was more then.

"Is Buford scared because he has to testify?" Lard Herman asked as he came out of the diner picking his teeth.

"Claims he ain't," the mayor said.

A small crowd formed in front of the diner beside the mayor's ten-year-old Chrysler. Faded white letters spelled out "loading zone" on the sidewalk.

Lard leaned against the Chrysler as he continued to explore his teeth. The mayor wiped an imaginary smudge from the front fender and announced he was going to pick up Margaret and head for Cleardale.

"Damn fools," the mayor snorted an hour later as he drove on County Road 24R a few miles short of Cleardale. He leaned back and watched orderly fields of corn and soybeans drift by. The road had once been marked by farm houses and barnyards but now only a few remained. A corporation, Pork Products Incorporated, had bought up much of the land. He wrinkled his nose and was thankful the huge hog farm was nearer Cleardale than Fork. The folks in Cleardale had fought the project for years, but in the end the corporation won. Now it raised thousands of pigs and harvested corn and beans from the rest of the land.

Cars whizzed by. Many of them honked like berserk geese as they passed.

"Now, now, Ollie," Margaret said. "Don't let them upset you. You're the mayor, you must maintain your dignity. Sit up and watch the road."

She turned the rearview mirror and adjusted her hat.

The parking lot behind Cleardale County Court House, half taken up by spaces reserved for county officials, was full. Ollie swore under his breath so Margaret wouldn't hear. He backed out of the lot and parked a block away in the first empty street space he found.

He admired the clean sidewalk and the prosperous looking stores as he and Margaret walked back. Gregory Lancaster stood in front of the building smoking a bit of twisted cigar. Margaret walked around him as if he were a separate building.

"Seats all taken, I suppose," the mayor said.

"Nope. Not all. They saved a couple in the front row for you and Margaret," Gregory said.

They entered the one-hundred-year-old limestone building and trudged up wide, worn steps to the second floor. They leaned against the wall at the top to catch their breath before entering a large room where tall windows provided a view of the parking lot. Many of the folding chairs from the stack against the far wall were scattered about the room with bodies parked on them.

The mayor and Margaret made their way to the front and thanked Buford DeWitt who had put a coat on one chair and a camera on another. Buford, a small man with tiny hands and a bit of a mustache, said, "Saved 'em for ya."

"Thanks, Buford."

Buford's wife, Hester, sitting straight as a rake handle, nodded to the mayor and his wife.

"Damn fools," Buford whispered, when those behind repeated complaints about Hester's hat. She removing hat pins and whispered, "What's there to see, I'd like to know." She removed the hat and placed it on her lap. The imitation grapes, attached to the left side, tried to escape.

A large desk dominated the front of the room. A wooden chair sat beside it. The conversational buzz quieted as a bald man wearing rimless glasses and a gray pin-stripped suit entered the room. A manila folder was tucked under his arm. He settled onto the chair behind the desk. He squinted at the faces before him. He removed a white cloth from a drawer and dusted the top of the desk. From the same drawer he produced a large gavel and placed it near his right hand. He looked out at the crowd.

"Quiet, quiet."

A hush settled over the room.

"I'm Judge Homer Hopping. Now if you people don't be quiet I'll have you removed. By gum, we're going to have order. Hear me? Where is Mister Buford?"

Buford DeWitt stood and said, "Here, your honor."

"Well, you git up here and sit. We'll hear from you first."

Buford wiggled in the chair beside the judge.

"You comfortable yet?" the judge asked as he glared at Buford.

"Now I understand, Mister Buford, that you are alleging that this other fellow assaulted you and your wife."

"My last name is DeWitt. Buford DeWitt. That is correct, your honor."

Buford looked at his wife. Hester nodded her approval.

"Tell me what this thing is all about," the judge said.

Buford hemmed a little, hawed a little, and, after getting a stern look from Hester, said, "Well, your honor, he knocked me down. In a snow drift. When I tried to get up he knocked me down again. Then he knocked my wife down. Into the snow drift."

The judge studied papers from the folder, looked up and said, "Mister, what is it, Owens, Daniel Owens, what about that? Owens, you here?"

Daniel Owens rose from the middle of the crowd and said, "Here."

Daniel, in his usual denim jeans, jacket and scuffed boots, strode to in front of the judge and said, "I didn't knock him or Hester down. I shoved 'em. They just fell into the snow bank. I shoved Buford back down when he tried to get up. Was tired of him swinging at me. Hester socked me with her purse."

"How tall are you, Mister Owens?"

"About six two I guess," Daniel said.

"How tall is Mister Buford?"

"Don't know."

"Well," the judge said, "He's not much more than five feet, I'd guess. As I understand it, this happened in Mister Buford's driveway. Is that correct?"

"Mister DeWitt's driveway, yes," Daniel said.

"What were you doing there?"

"Plowin' snow into DeWitt's drive."

"Why were you doing that?"

Daniel pushed long, dark strands of unruly dark hair from his forehead.

"It's a long story," he said.

The judge picked up the gavel by the heavy end, pointed it at Daniel and said, "I don't care how long it is, I want to know the reason why you were blocking Mister Buford's drive. That is what you were doing, isn't it?"

"His last name is DeWitt. He's one of our councilmen."

"Fork has councilmen?"

"Yes, three."

"So?"

Daniel put his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans. He pushed his right boot around on the floor as if he were moving dirt.

"We elected 'em several years ago. Ollie's the mayor, Buford is the street commissioner, and Gregory collects the garbage."

"Yes, yes, go on."

Dan scuffed the floor with his right boot again.

"Well, ya see, we had this snow storm last February. Buford rents John Turner's truck, the one with the plow attachment, and plows our streets. That's his job. Gets paid fifty dollars when he has to plow. Plows every chance he gets. First time he ever had to work for the money."

The judge stood, shook his left leg, sat down again, and said, "Get to the point."

"Buford plows his own street, College Street, first," Daniel said.

"College Street? Does Fork have a college?"

"Gosh no. That's just the street's name."

"So?"

"Buford plowed his own street first, comes back and clears the plowed snow from his driveway entrance and then goes about the rest of the town plowin' streets and blockin' everyone else's driveway."

Buford stood from his seat beside the judge and said, "I can explain that, your honor."

"Explain it," the judge said.

"No way could I plow all the streets if I'da stopped to clear every driveway. I cleared mine because Hester, well she said I had to because of the historical society meeting."

"The complaint says you pushed four feet of snow into Mister Buford's drive. Is that correct, Mister Owens?"

"Correct, your honor," Buford DeWitt said.

"I was asking Mister Owens"

"Correct, your honor," Daniel said, mimicking Buford.

"This is dumb. I've got several other hearings scheduled this morning. How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Push four feet of snow onto this fellow, Buford's driveway, what else?"

"I used the same plow he used," Daniel Owens said.

"Mister, what is it?" The judge shuffled the papers in front of him and added, "Mister Turner's truck and plow, is that it?"

"Yes, your honor."

The judge shook his head, glared at Buford DeWitt, then Daniel Owens and said, "You're fined five dollars, Mister Owens. It's because of nonsense like this that I haven't played golf in a week."

Hester DeWitt sat at the head of joined tables in the northwest corner of Rosemary's Delmonico Diner. She had called another special meeting of the Fork Historical Society. Millie Pruitt rushed in, plopped her purse on one of the tables and sat down.

"Had a customer," she said. "Ray whatshisname, you know, that deputy, couldn't make up his mind. Oh, I smell bacon and eggs."

Millie, a woman of "about thirty-five," pulled a comb from her purse and ran it through her thick, shining brown hair. Her eyes were large and brown, almost matching her hair. Her upper middle tooth was missing.

"No breakfast now, Millie. This meeting will come to order," Hester said.

Rosemary, from behind the counter, said, "I'll turn on the fan. It'll carry the odor right otta here."

The large fan hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room.

"I didn't mind the smell," Millie said. "Made me hungry for breakfast again, that's all."

Rosemary came from behind the counter and said, "What did Deputy Radley buy?"

"Not saying," Millie said.

"If you're attending this meeting, please sit down," Hester said.

"Might as well," Rosemary said. "Unless anyone wants something."

She sat next to Agnes Morgan, wife of the gasoline station owner.

"Later, later," Hester said. "Now Agnes, what's all this nonsense you and your husband are talking about again. Glorifying that eyesore of a tavern. It's a blemish on our town's reputation."

"What reputation?" Rosemary said.

Agnes, long of limb with large knuckled hands and a face like a ripped softball, as Fred Gilmore had once said, stood and opened her purse. She unfolded a sheet of paper, examined it, and read, "Our town is dying, has been for years, and nobody's doin' nothin' about it. Why it hardly pays Dave to open some days. The most thing we got, publicity wise, is that old tavern. We know it's the oldest one in the county. Nobody else does, or if they do, they don't care. We should use it to promote our town."

She sat down, folded the paper, and returned it to her purse.

Hester stood, glared at Agnes, and said, "Now Agnes, this has been brought up before and it's always been decided that we don't want that, that den of iniquity to represent our town."

"Hardly a den of iniquity," Rosemary said.

"What about the murder?" Hester said.

"You blamin' that on the tavern?"

"Why not, Rosemary? That woman was drinkin' there. Last anybody says they seen her, from what I hear."

Deputy Ray Radley opened the door and marched to the counter. Rosemary scraped her chair getting up, breaking the silence, and went behind the counter. Ray placed his wide-brimmed hat in front of her and ordered coffee. The women at the Historical Society meeting could see he was holding a gift-wrapped package behind his back. He sat at the counter, sipped coffee, holding the cup with one hand and still holding the package behind his back.

"How ya been?" he said.

"I've been fine."

Ray moved the package toward Rosemary and said, "Bought you a little present."

He put the package on the counter when Rosemary didn't take it.

"Now what's this, Ray Radley? Don't want you giving me stuff."

"No matter," Ray said, "I'm givin' it to ya."

"What is it?"

"Go ahead, open it," Ray said.

Rosemary glanced at Hester and the others. She leaned over the counter and whispered to Ray, "I'm not opening it now. With all those old biddies watching."

"It's my best chocolates," Millie said. "You should open it, and we could all have some."

Rosemary sighed and tore opened the flowery wrappings paper. She put the box in front of Ray. He took a rounded piece with a nut on top. Rosemary scooped about half the pieces from the box, placed them on the counter in front of Ray. She went to the tables, slid the box in front of Millie and returned to the counter.

She pushed another piece toward Ray, daintily bit into a cherry-filled one herself, wrapped the rest in a paper napkin and put them under the counter. Ray said, "Gotta go, talk to ya later."

Rosemary moved her lips as though she was going to say something, but it was too late, Ray was gone.

Millie said, her mouth filled with candy, "I knew these was good. Always order extra so I can have some. Talking bout the tavern. It's nice and clean, as old as it is. The candy salesman always gets here late in the afternoon and when we're done I close up and he buys me a glass of wine. We oughta go over there right now and continue this meeting. You could see for yourself, Hester."

Hester wiped chocolate from her fingers with a paper napkin and said, "I wouldn't be caught dead in that, that place."

Agnes said, "I'll go. For research. How else would we know?"

"You might as well close up and join us, Rosemary," Millie said. "No business now anyway."

"Yeah, if we sat by the window I could see if anyone came in here."

"Well, I never," Hester said. "You can't hold a meeting without me. I'll go, but I'm sitting back from the window. Someone might see me. What would they think?"

"I'll bet Buford's been in there?" Rosemary said.

"Certainly not," Hester said.

Millie stood, Agnes stood, and finally Hester stood.

"Let's go," Millie said.

They paraded out of the diner. Rosemary brought up the rear after locking the cash register. The morning sun beat down, forecasting the heat to come. Agnes tripped on a crack in the street and nearly fell.

Inside the tavern, Matt Dillon, the bartender, an ex-boxer with a crushed nose, little hair and a too-small derby on the back of his head, said, "Oh, shit." He nudged Absalom Teasdale, the owner, who was sitting at the bar with his head resting on it, an empty shot glass in front of him. Behind the bar, rows of shelves held a variety of dusty bottles filled with various liquors.

Teasdale sat up, looked at Dillon's face, and turned in time to see the women come through the door. Millie led them to a table near the front window.

Dillon--his real first name was Joe, but everyone called him Matt--grabbed a soiled rag and wiped the bar vigorously.

Millie shouted, "C'mon Matt, wait on us. Won't hurt you to get out from behind that bar once."

Matt hurriedly placed a spattered apron over his shorts and approached the table in his bare feet.

"How may I serve you, ladies?" he said in a voice as low as a bear's warning.

"I'll have some of that homemade grape wine, a big glass," Millie said.

"Is it good?" Agnes said.

"You'll see," Millie said.

Matt went behind the bar, stooped and came up with a milk bottle filled with dark liquid. He fetched four glasses from the counter behind the bar, held them up to the light, replaced one, and put the bottle and glasses on a round, dented tray. Gray, curly hair covered his chest and arms. Red, white and blue suspenders disappeared under the apron.

Hester said, "Well, I never," as he leaned over her and put the tray on the table.

As Matt retreated, Millie filled the four glasses. Light from the window danced on the purple hue of the liquid. Millie downed hers, filled the glass again. Agnes sipped at it, sipped again and said, "Tastes like grape juice."

"Yeah, grape juice with a kick," Rosemary said. She pushed her still full glass toward Millie.

"Well Hester, you ought to at least taste it," Millie said.

Hester snorted, picked up the glass in front of her, held it to the light, and wet her lips. She tasted the liquid with the tip of her tongue and sat the glass down.

She said, "So the tavern does look better inside, but we don't want this place to be the focal point of our town."

"What else have we got for a focal point?" Millie said as she got Matt's attention and pointed at the empty milk bottle.

While she was looking at Matt, Hester downed the contents of her glass and smacked her lips. Rosemary smiled and winked at Agnes.

"How do we know this is the oldest tavern in Cleardale County?" Hester said.

Absalom Teasdale slid off his stool, staggered over to the table, leaned toward Hester's face, and said, "Cause the official history of the county says my great, great, goes way back, granddaddy built this place. Absalom was his name. That's why it's call Absalom, don't ya see."

Hester leaned away from Absalom and waved at the air in front of her face. Matt appeared at Absalom's side, wrapped his big paw around Absalom's skinny upper arm, and said, "C'mon pop, ya shouldn't oughta horn in on the ladies."

He led the older man back to the bar.

Rosemary smiled. "What?" Millie said. Rosemary's eyes darted toward Hester's glass. It was empty. Agnes shielded her mouth with her hand, leaned toward Rosemary, and whispered, "Shouldn't we warn her?"

After the third glass, except for Agnes who still was nursing her second and Rosemary, who wasn't drinking, the Fork Historical Society meeting lost its focus.

Agnes said, "I ought to be gettin' back to the station. Dave might be busy."

"Yeah, busy," Millie said. She slapped her hand on the table and laughed. "Busy." She pointed at Rosemary and said, "Busy, you been busy?"

"Gosh," Rosemary said. "Haven't been watching. Don't see nobody over there."

Hester stood, nearly knocked over the table, and said, "I don't care what anybody says."

She raised her glass, swayed, and sat down.

"I suppose we should get back," Millie said.

Hester attempted to stand again, failed, and said, "I think we should stay, decide. Fork must never depend on a tavern for publicity. Is there any more of this stuff?"

She held up her empty glass and turned it over. A lonely purple drop escaped and fell to the table.

"Hester, we better go," Rosemary said.

"Go? Why? I'm not going."

Mrs. Hester DeWitt, wife of the councilman and road commissioner, steadied herself by leaning heavily on the table, finally reaching her full height.

She smiled. "I feel good. Like singing. I sang in high school, you know."

She was into the second verse of a sort of hymn, when Matt took Millie aside and said, "Now look what ya done. My regulars will be driftin' in soon. You want them to see her like this?"

Hester had climbed on a chair and was attempting to climb on the table.

Matt lifted her down. She put her hand on his bare chest and said, "Let me give you a bath."

"Call Buford, tell him to come and get her," Millie said. Hester followed Matt toward the bar. Millie spun her around and headed her for the door.

Fifteen minutes later Buford parked in front of the tavern. He got out, said, "Now what's all this nonsense?"

Hester giggled and said, "Buford! How the hell are you?"

Matt carried Hester to the front seat, unwrapped her arms from around his neck, and placed her in the car.