Will stewed over the slowness of the fire investigation. “Mary, I want to get that stable rebuilt before the snow flies. The Mangardis say they’ll start when I give them the word. I want Fanny in her new stall before winter.”
“What’s the holdup?”
“The sheriff suspects foul play, and the insurance company won’t pay until the cause is known.”
“Your dad said it looked a bit fishy.”
“He questions why green wood burned to ashes when dry wood didn’t. I suppose the sheriff wonders the same.”
“Didn’t he say?”
“He’s bringing someone in from Madison to investigate a bit. I want to get that building going.”
Two days passed, then another week, and still there was no word. So Will stopped in Stover’s office on the way home from the shop. “Sheriff, have you heard anything from the investigator?”
“I haven’t got to yesterday’s mail yet. Bunch of young shenanigan’s raising havoc at the farms. Hazing the cattle. This younger generation.” He thumbed through the mail on his desk. He held up an envelope, grabbed a scissors, and snipped off the end. “It’s from the state fire warden’s office. Probably what you’re looking for. Let’s see.” He read for a couple minutes. “Yep, just as I thought.”
“What is it?”
“It’s not clear from the evidence but it might be arson. They found a kerosene can in the lot behind. Of course, it could have been thrown there by anyone.”
“What about Schmidt’s house?”
“They don’t think it was lightening. The fire’s updraft probably carried embers downwind to the widow’s house, and they set her roof on fire. They believe hers started from sparks thrown off yours. Your stable may have burned a while before the storm hit. Hers, not so long.”
“Poor lady.” Will felt responsible. “A kerosene can, you say?”
“It could be tied to the fire.”
Will remembered his father saying that Jesse had been seen in town about that time.
* * *
Business had languished throughout the summer, but now in September and early October, sales were dismal. While Will worried about the plight of his income, an unexpected obstacle threatened his economic well being. For the first time, he would have competition in town. A stranger to the area, Brock McDougal, opened an Oldsmobile dealership up the street. When he heard, Will rushed to the bank to see George Tyler. The bank was empty and George sat alone in his office. Apparently his business suffered, too.
“George, what do you know about this new Olds agency, about this McDougal fella?”
“Not much. He doesn’t bank here, but rumor has it that he’s got a good business head. He came up from Chicago. They say he wanted to get away from the city with all its problems. I’m told that he sold a prosperous dealership there. Said to have made big money.”
“It doesn’t seem like the time to be opening a new dealership.”
“Probably got the Larsen building cheap. It’s been sitting vacant a long time. I hear that he plans to redo it throughout.”
“I wouldn’t put new money into my business, not now. But maybe he knows something that I don’t.”
* * *
On Thursday, October 24, 1929, Will sat staring at his ledger. Car sales were down again, the eighth month in a row with sales fewer than the month before. Repair receipts lagged, too. How long would this continue? Will couldn’t understand it: the stock market still boomed, probably still propped up by bankers’ dollars. But he was thankful he no longer had mortgage payments and had a tidy sum in the Iowa County Savings Bank. He could get by for a while, but he didn’t know how long he could keep his employees.
Will heard shouting in the streets, but being deep in thought, he ignored it. Then his door flew open and Silas Murrish burst through. “The market’s in freefall. People are panicked.”
Will bolted from his chair.
“The radio says it’s the worst crash ever.”
“Oh, my God.” Will hollered into the garage, “Watch the shop, Ed. I’ll be out for a while.” He rushed toward David Tate’s office in the Ashley Springs Community Bank building.
But when he arrived, he couldn’t get through the door. The office was full and people pressed to get David’s attention. David stood on his desk and tried to quiet the throng. “I can’t sell your stocks, not now. The New York ticker is running way behind, but don’t panic fellas, remember last spring. Mitchell stemmed the tide. Mark my word, the bankers will step in again.”
And David was right. By that afternoon, a group of bankers pooled their money and invested in the market, calming the fears. If those insiders invested their own money, many said, then there’s no reason to panic.
Will met Tommy Burns on the street that afternoon, and Tommy was cheerful. “It had me worried for a while,” Tommy said. “Not so that I wanted to sell, but, I’ll admit, I was a bit nervous.”
“I’m glad I’m outa the market,” Will said.
“Now’s the time to jump back in. Bargain prices. I’m heading to David’s now. Gonna double up on Bethlehem Steel and Postum.”
Will watched Tommy race to double his risk, and he shuddered. He wasn’t so sure it was fixed, but the market thought otherwise. People bought again.