\u201cI talked to Verdon Arbogast today,\u201d said Mr. Crockett to Mabel, as she dropped her backpack in the press office after school. \u201cI told him who I was, and he laughed and said it was a big mistake. He had mistaken you for the daughter of an old school-mate.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr. Crockett was drinking coffee and flipping through an atlas.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you give him back the picture?\u201d asked Mabel.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d responded her father, zeroing in on a map page showing parts of Northern Europe. \u201cHe says the man in the picture is the school friend he\u2019s looking for. Seems like a nice enough guy. He says he\u2019d be glad to help you find some history information if you need it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d said Mabel, \u201cbut I\u2019m planning to do some research this afternoon, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n
She felt somewhat relieved. Mr. Arbogast had had a strange way of turning up in odd places, and she was just as glad not to be of interest to him.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m thinking about the retreats article,\u201d said Mr. Crockett,\u201dand wondering just how much ground we should cover.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mabel looked at the map page. Her father\u2019s finger was underneath a group of little islands, jutting out into a body of water called the Barents Sea.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s a place,\u201d he said, \u201chere in the Vestfjorden area, that\u2019s supposed to be really neat. Well, we\u2019ll think about it.\u201d He closed the book. \u201cYou\u2019d have to wear plenty of long undies there.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mabel gave him a quick hug, and went back outside. She and Ivy had agreed to meet Van at the co-op, then walk to the library. She crossed the street, and waved at the Fairweathers who, at present, had more roof than yesterday, but less front wall. Mrs. Fairweather, working at a desktop computer, waved back while the younger Fairweathers wrestled in a heap in the living room.<\/p>\n
Mabel squeezed between displays of fruit and flowers, stacked high in front of the grocery store, and skipped by Jackman\u2019s Drugs, which was enthusiastically promoting a product called WIPE-OUT<\/em> which promised to \u201celiminate river mud in one application.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n A wooden porch, loaded with rocking chairs, ran the length of Franklin\u2019s Guest House to Mabel\u2019s left. It was a more interesting route to detour from the sidewalk by heading up the steps at one end of Franklin\u2019s porch, and down the steps at the other.<\/p>\n Smaller children enjoyed sticking their noses against the glass to get a look at who might be staying in a first floor bedroom. Mabel had outgrown brazen spying and preferred a discreet sideways glance.<\/p>\n Today\u2019s downstairs activities seemed to be routine and uninteresting. Nothing better than an old man rummaging through a dresser drawer in front of a mirror…then Mabel froze. Something was so horribly wrong with the mirror reflection that she forgot to be discreet at all, and stared.<\/p>\n This was not an old man. Old people were supposed to look like Norton Halfslip or Miss Penny, not like…that. The person\u2019s leathery skin looked greenish and moldy, and was tightly stretched, displaying the contours of his skull. The full length of his yellow teeth showed in a nearly lipless mouth, and the only loose skin on his face sagged in layers under his eyes. A few wispy curls of gray hair still clung to his head, and whatever flesh might have existed on his bones had shrunk, so that his clothes hung on nothing but a bent and bony frame.<\/p>\n Mabel pivoted in a split second, and stood with her back flat against the wall next to the window. Had the…man…merely glanced in the mirror he would have seen her. Maybe it was someone with a terrible debilitating disease.<\/p>\n She hoped no-one else had noticed her, and resolved to walk calmly off the porch at the far end as if nothing unusual had happened.<\/p>\n The north side of Franklin\u2019s Guest House faced the Willibunk River Bridge. Slowly, and not entirely steadily, Mabel descended the steps and approached the crosswalk at the base of the bridge.<\/p>\n Behind her the spring of a screen door creaked, and she spun with the gut-wrenching expectation that she would be looking at something grotesque and deathly. This was the first time she had ever been relieved to see Verdon Arbogast. He smiled at her.<\/p>\n \u201cAh, Miss Crockett,\u201d he said. \u201cI was just thinking about you. Your father came and spoke to me today.\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d replied Mabel, \u201che told me.\u201d<\/p>\n Arbogast gestured to indicate that he too intended to cross the street, then followed Mabel as she approached Mona Lisa\u2019s on the other side.<\/p>\n \u201cJust a minute,\u201d said Arbogast. \u201cI\u2019d like to talk to you.\u201d He stopped on the street corner and leaned against a lamppost.<\/p>\n Mabel glanced at the co-op and thought for a second about ignoring him and running inside, but she waited a moment, and looked at Arbogast questioningly.<\/p>\n \u201cSo,\u201d said Arbogast, \u201cthey\u2019ve never told you.\u201d A knowing grin crept onto his face.<\/p>\n \u201cTold me what?\u201d asked Mabel. She had the distinctly uneasy feeling that she was the prey in a cat and mouse game.<\/p>\n Arbogast shook his head in amusement, and lit a cigarette. \u201cYou\u2019re adopted. You didn\u2019t know that?\u201d<\/p>\n Okay,<\/em> thought Mabel. We were right all along. This guy\u2019s a flake. <\/em>She forced her face into an obviously fake smile, said, \u201cOh, okay. Bye,\u201d and reached for the door of the restaurant.<\/p>\n \u201cThe picture I gave you,\u201d called out Arbogast, before Mabel disappeared inside, \u201cis of your real father!\u201d<\/p>\n Never had the co-op\u2019s gallery been so warmly welcoming. Mabel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Water gurgled in Hippocrates\u2019 fountain, and the plants lent the air a moist richness. Delicate scents wafted from the kitchen, and down the hall someone was playing quiet violin music.<\/p>\n \u201cOne for dinner Miss?\u201d said a deep, rich baritone.<\/p>\n Mabel opened her eyes, and looked up. Way up. Noah Peale smiled at her and pointed down the hall.<\/p>\n \u201cVan and Ivy are in the studio,\u201d he said. \u201cThe Doc came by to see how Patience is settling in.\u201d<\/p>\n Mabel nodded in thanks, and started down the hallway. A stairway on the left led to second level studios and apartments. Easels were scattered about haphazardly, as were an assortment of drawing and painting tools. Patience, wearing a denim overall dress, was conversing with her visitors near a back window which overlooked the Willibunk River. Her hair was pinned, loosely and charmingly, on top of her head, and on a pad in front of her she had started a striking watercolor study of the riverfront.<\/p>\n \u201cWell honey,\u201d said Dr. Rotter. \u201cIt\u2019s good to see things are going so great for you over here.\u201d<\/p>\n Mabel smiled at the scene. It was clear that the doctor was still besotted with his latest creation. In her presence his gruff demeanor dissolved into puppy-dog sweetness.<\/p>\n Mabel sat down next to Ivy, who whispered in her ear, \u201cLook at Van. He\u2019s in love.\u201d<\/p>\n Indeed, it seemed so. As Patience expressed her delight over the colors outside the window, Van seemed actually fascinated. Ivy and Mabel giggled as two science-loving guys were held spellbound by a conversation about burnt umber.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a color of such depth,\u201d continued Patience, turning her attention toward the girls. \u201cLike your hair Mabel, it\u2019s exquisite.\u201d<\/p>\n Her expression changed from rapturous to concerned. \u201cBut you look pale today Mabel, and tense. Is something wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n Mabel was startled that Patience had detected her mood so accurately. \u201cI just had a really weird conversation on my way over here,\u201d she said thoughtfully. \u201cVan can probably guess who it was with.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cArbogast?\u201d asked Van.<\/p>\n Mabel nodded. \u201cYeah. Now he\u2019s telling me I\u2019m adopted, and that guy in the picture he showed us is my real father.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI told you he looked like you,\u201d said Van.<\/p>\n Dr. Rotter chuckled and leaned back in his chair. \u201cI don\u2019t know this Arbogast fellow, but I can verify that that\u2019s not the case,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n All eyes turned toward him, and he continued. \u201cBefore they took my medical license, I was a family doctor. Right here in Logjam, before they opened up that clinic across the river.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd?\u201d prompted Ivy.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd,\u201d responded the doctor, looking at Mabel. \u201cI was there when you were born, I delivered you, and can thereby assure you that you are NOT adopted.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, like I said,\u201d responded Van. \u201cArbogast is nuts.\u201d<\/p>\n *******<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s your essay coming?\u201d Mabel asked Ivy, as they crossed the street with Van, and headed up the block toward the Logjam Public Library.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m going to write about the logging operation,\u201d answered Ivy. \u201cAccording to my grandfather, there used to be a road running through the woods behind Dr. Rotter\u2019s, to the mill. This doesn\u2019t have to be a very long essay, anyway. I\u2019m sure I can dig up enough information.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t need to do much digging at all,\u201d volunteered Van. \u201cI\u2019m interviewing Dr. Rotter about his days as the only physician in town, before they built the medical center.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSounds like you have it nailed,\u201d said Mabel, as they climbed the broad brick stairway to the library\u2019s front door. \u201cI\u2019m hoping I can find something about that empty lot, without having to talk to you-know-who.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo, how come I haven\u2019t met this guy?\u201d asked Ivy.<\/p>\n \u201cConsider yourself lucky,\u201d said Van. \u201cHe\u2019s obviously delusional.\u201d<\/p>\n The library building was a two-story square house, similar in design to Dr. Rotter\u2019s, but less ornate, and in considerably better repair. Its stucco covered exterior was freshly painted daffodil yellow, and a parking area beside it had recently been spread with a new layer of gravel.<\/p>\n Once inside, Mabel stopped and noticed the smell. It was one of her favorites–a combination of old books and the furniture wax used to keep the blond wood tables and chairs buffed. Mr. Fu, the twig-like reference librarian, smiled at her and peered over his reading glasses as she approached the information desk.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m doing an essay for school,\u201d began Mabel.<\/p>\n \u201cThe infamous eighth grade Logjam history essay?\u201d asked Mr. Fu, standing up.<\/p>\n Mabel smiled and nodded, as Mr. Fu motioned for her to follow him into a room to her left. An enclosed porch in its former life, it now stood packed with shelves full of reference volumes, Dewey Decimal files, and several computers.<\/p>\n \u201cOn the computer files,\u201d began Mr. Fu, \u201cyou can find many issues of \u2018The Weekly Willibunk,\u2019<\/em> which was published in the years before \u2018The Willibunk Journal\u2019<\/em> became popular.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s an empty lot across the street, and down a block, with nothing on it but a chimney,\u201d said Mabel. \u201cI\u2019d like to find out what stood there.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI believe it was a house,\u201d said Mr. Fu, pausing to consider. \u201cBut let\u2019s look at a plat of River Street from the time of the fire, to see what it says.\u201d He pulled a black footstool toward the back of the room where a series of wooden boxes stood on a high shelf. He glanced at several rolls of paper before giving a satisfied nod, and climbing down with one.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Town of Logjam, circa 1912,\u201d read Mr. Fu, as he unrolled a poster sized paper on the table. \u201cHere is River Street,\u201d he said, pointing at the chart. \u201cNow, if you look, you will see that there is a border drawn around each lot along the street, and at the edge of the border you will find a name. The name tells you who owned a particular lot at the time this plat was drawn.\u201d<\/p>\n The plat smelled of old musty paper, and was splotched with yellow and brown stains. Mabel ran her finger in a northerly direction along River Street, but rather than the circle which now existed in front of Dr. Rotter\u2019s house, the plat indicated a dogleg in that portion of the street, where the road narrowed and continued to parallel the river until it ran off the map. A notation on the narrower part of the road read \u201cMill Road.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIvy was right about the mill,\u201d she said, scanning the plat for lots she might recognize. Several lots south of the dogleg, she read the words, \u201cSt. Apple Parish.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d said Mabel, \u201chere\u2019s the little brown church, and next door, where the fireplace is left is…C. Wickers.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWickers,\u201d said Mr. Fu, thoughtfully. \u201cColleen Wickers. As I recall, I\u2019ve encountered that name in articles about the fire of 1915. In fact, I will leave you to it. Checking that name on the computer\u2019s search engine might be a good place to start.\u201d<\/p>\n Mr. Fu gave Mabel a pat on the back, and headed across the room to assist a man who was trying to flip through an encyclopedia while he balanced a wriggling baby on his arm.<\/p>\n Van pulled up a second chair as Mabel situated herself in front of a computer monitor.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve got everything I need,\u201d said Van. \u201cI\u2019ll have to get a little more information from Dr. Rotter, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLucky you,\u201d said Mabel. \u201cI\u2019m about to do a search on somebody named Colleen Wickers, who used to own that lot.\u201d<\/p>\n Mabel typed the name into a box on the screen titled \u201csearch articles\u201d and hit the \u201cgo\u201d button.<\/p>\n The computer hummed, the word \u201csearching\u201d flashed on the screen, and in a few more seconds a list of five articles materialized, in chronological order.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay!\u201d exclaimed Mabel, pleased and surprised at the results. \u201cLet\u2019s see what we\u2019ve got.\u201d<\/p>\n The first listing read: \u201cNew Science Teacher at Logjam has Special Interest in Healing–Weekly Willibunk, September 24, 1912.\u201d<\/em> Mabel double-clicked on the heading, opening a copy of the article:<\/p>\n Colleen Wickers, newly hired to teach the sciences \u201cCool,\u201d said Van, approvingly. \u201cShe was a science teacher.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEven cooler,\u201d added Mabel, \u201cshe was an herbalist.\u201d<\/p>\n She double-clicked the next reference: \u201cEnvironmental Controversy at the Logjam Mill–Weekly Willibunk, August 19, 1913.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Management practices at the Logjam Mill have begun \u201cThis is really neat,\u201d said Mabel, grinning at the computer. \u201cMaybe my essay can be about Colleen Wickers, even if nothing interesting happened on that lot.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCheck out the next one,\u201d prompted Van. \u201cIt\u2019s about a doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n Mabel clicked the heading: \u201cLocal Physician Warns Against Danger of Unscientific Therapies–Weekly Willibunk, April 11, 1914.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Logjam physician, Dr. Angus Cordish, has suggested that \u201cWow,\u201d said Mabel, \u201che was a jerk.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, you can\u2019t be too careful,\u201d countered Van. \u201cThere were a lot of quacks back then. Still are.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cColleen wasn\u2019t a quack,\u201d said Mabel. \u201cShe was a healer.\u201d<\/p>\n Van pushed his glasses up, and said, \u201cyou\u2019re acting like you know her or something. Let\u2019s get real.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNext article,\u201d said Mabel, clicking on a heading, which read: \u201cMysterious Disappearance of Logs Follows Protest–Weekly Willibunk, October 15, 1915.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n A mysterious and seemingly inexplicable event occurred \u201cYou know what, I\u2019ve heard that story before,\u201d said Mabel. \u201cBut I hadn\u2019t heard the particulars about who was involved.\u201d<\/p>\n Sensing that someone was reading over her shoulder, she turned to find Ivy\u2019s large hazel eyes peering at the screen.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d said Ivy. \u201cIt\u2019s kind of a town legend. What my grandpa says is that lots of people blame Colleen Wickers. They thought it was some kind of witchcraft.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d said Van, \u201cso she may not have been a quack, but she was a witch.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cVan,\u201d said Mabel, whacking him with her notebook, \u201cwhat is your problem? People can be stupid and jump to stupid conclusions. It\u2019s called mob mentality.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d agreed Ivy, \u201cand I know what that last article is going to be about. My grandpa calls it the skeleton in Logjam\u2019s closet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYuck,\u201d said Mabel. \u201cJust where is this closet, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n Van whacked her back. \u201cA skeleton in the closet,\u201d he said, \u201cis a secret that people don\u2019t like to talk about.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI knew that,\u201d said Mabel, clicking on the last heading: \u201cFire Severely Damages Town, Leaves 3 Dead–Weekly Willibunk, October 25, 1915.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n A fire of undetermined origin broke out in Logjam last The fire is presumed to have originated at the Also presumed lost in the fire are Jonah and Laura \u201cThat\u2019s not true!\u201d shouted Mabel, rising to her feet in such haste that her chair fell over backwards.<\/p>\n Van put his hand on her shoulder and eased her back into her chair which Ivy had picked up. \u201cLet\u2019s remain calm,\u201d he said. \u201cNow, just what is it that\u2019s not true?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d answered Mabel. She felt crushed, and yet bewildered by the emotional involvement she was feeling with the news stories. \u201cI do not believe,\u201d Mabel continued, in a measured voice, \u201cthat Colleen did anything bad, or that Jonah Crockett, whoever he is, was a drunk.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ve never heard of this guy?\u201d asked Van. \u201cHe\u2019s probably one of your relatives, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d replied Mabel. \u201cMy parents moved to Logjam when they inherited their property from a great-aunt somebody, but it wasn\u2019t Jonah or Laura.\u201d<\/p>\n Mr. Fu returned from the far side of the room. The man with the fussy baby had completed his business and left. \u201cThis might be of interest to you,\u201d said Mr. Fu, handing Mabel a musty and water-damaged book.<\/p>\n The book was dark blue, with a title embossed in worn gold leaf. It read, \u201cLogjam School 1912-1913.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cIt looks like a yearbook,\u201d said Ivy.<\/p>\n Mabel gently laid the book on the desk, and opened it. She flipped through the first several pages, which contained black and white photographs interspersed with poetry. Then a section labeled \u201cFaculty.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cThis guy was the principal,\u201d said Van, pointing to a picture of a man with a dark moustache.<\/p>\n \u201cLook,\u201d whispered Mabel. She pointed to a photograph at the bottom of the page. A young woman with pale, kinky hair, pulled into a loose ponytail, had smiled for the camera, unlike many photographic subjects of her era. She had strong cheekbones and dark eyes. The caption under the picture read, \u201cMiss Colleen Wickers, Science.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cDoesn\u2019t she look like a witch to you?\u201d asked Van. In response, both Mabel and Ivy whacked him with their notebooks.<\/p>\n Mabel continued to flip casually through the remainder of the yearbook, pausing periodically to look at the peculiar clothing students wore at the beginning of the 20th Century. Suddenly she stopped, and quietly said, \u201cwhoa.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhoa what?\u201d asked Van.<\/p>\n Slowly, Mabel reversed direction, and opened to the previous page. Van\u2019s eyes grew large behind his glasses.<\/p>\n \u201cWhoa,\u201d he echoed.<\/p>\n There, on page 33 of the eighty-seven year old Logjam School yearbook was, unmistakably, a copy of the photograph Mr. Crockett had returned just that day to Verdon Arbogast. Two young men, working at a table. Under the photograph, the caption read: \u201cVerdon Arbogast and Jonah Crockett.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u201cI talked to Verdon Arbogast today,\u201d said Mr. Crockett to Mabel, as she dropped her backpack in the press office after school. \u201cI told him who I was, and he laughed and said it was a big mistake. He had mistaken you for the daughter of an old school-mate.\u201d Mr. Crockett was drinking coffee and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[8],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/268"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=268"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/268\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":272,"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/268\/revisions\/272"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=268"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=268"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.emilygillespieclement.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=268"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nHe put an odd inflection on the word \u201cfather,\u201d as if he found it a strange word to say.<\/p>\n
\nShe ran up and entered a spacious, light-flooded studio.<\/p>\n
\nto Logjam students, brings another talent which she
\nhopes to share with the town. Extensively trained
\nand experienced in the use of herbal medicinals, Miss
\nWickers feels that the Logjam Basin area is a rich
\nsource of naturally occurring products which residents
\nof our town can learn to use to their own benefit.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nto generate controversy between the Mill\u2019s management
\nand a local environmental movement. Environmental
\nspokeswoman and Logjam teacher, Colleen Wickers, is
\nleading a group of protesters determined to discourage
\nthe logging operation\u2019s practice of clearcutting the
\nextensive forests north of town. Miss Wickers argues
\nthat clearcutting creates erosion along the riverbank
\nwhich leads to pollution of the river, and threatens
\nthe health of fish and other animals which depend on
\nthe river for subsistence.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nresidents of Logjam may be endangering their health by
\nnot seeking the ministrations of a doctor trained in
\nscientific medicine in the early stages of illness. When
\nasked about the herbal therapies many residents have
\nsought from local teacher and herbalist Colleen Wickers,
\nDr. Cordish expressed the opinion that such measures
\nare \u201cat best nonsense, and at worst witchcraft,\u201d and
\ncould not be relied upon to better the human condition.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nyesterday in Logjam. In defiance of a demonstration
\nled by schoolteacher and herbalist Colleen Wickers,
\nLogjam Mill foreman Henry Stumpworth ordered a large
\nsection of forest bordering the Willibunk River, three
\nmiles north of Logjam, to be clearcut and the logs sent
\ndownriver to be milled. Mr. Stumpworth has previously
\nstated that bowing to the demands of protestors would
\nruin the town\u2019s main industry, and referred to Miss
\nWickers as a \u201crabble-rouser\u201d and a \u201cwitch.\u201d Although
\nmany loggers attest that the trees were cut and sent
\ndownriver, they never arrived. Instead, witnesses in
\ntown state that the river was soon clogged with a
\nprofusion of useless sticks, rather than the expected
\nlogs.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nWednesday, destroying an estimated 75% of the town.
\nThere has been much suspicious speculation amongst
\nLogjam residents, in light of last week\u2019s mysterious
\ndisappearance of a large number of logs which disappeared
\nsomewhere between the upriver site from which they were
\ncut, and the Logjam Mill, which received only a great
\ntangle of useless sticks.<\/p>\n
\nnorth end of River Street where the damage was most
\nsevere. Although most residents evacuated their homes
\nwithout injury, there were three apparent casualties in
\nthe blaze. Among the missing and presumed dead is Colleen
\nWickers, a Logjam schoolteacher, recently involved in an
\neffort to impose environmental restrictions of the town\u2019s
\nlogging industry. Preliminary evidence suggests that the
\nfire may have started at Miss Wickers\u2019 residence at 9
\nRiver Street.<\/p>\n
\nCrockett, a young married couple who lived in the upstairs
\napartment at 9 River Street. Mr. Crockett has been described
\nby several town residents as a former student of Miss
\nWickers, who of late had developed an apparent addiction
\nto alcohol and was often seen in town exhibiting signs
\nof intoxication. It has been suggested that drunken
\nbehavior on the part of Mr. Crockett may have been responsible
\nfor the blaze.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n