Quabbin - 5. Chapter 5

Cameron was full of all kinds of news when I got to work on Wednesday. The Mill was still mainly closed, with customers and clients, on the phones and the Internet, being greeted by, “Since we primarily like to think of ourselves as a family business, it seems only right, at this difficult time, that we take care of family first.”

The heavy words sounded like Grenon’s. Denny Parnell would’ve said, “The Big Guy’s dead. Bad times. Party at six.”

I’d barely walked into the office before Cameron was spinning his finger at me, meaning “turn around and go back.” I didn’t want to go anywhere. I’d slept maybe three hours before calling in to see if I could stay in bed till noon.

“Where we going?” I finally asked, tailing him through the Mill.

“Grenon wants to see us.”

Just how I wanted to start my day.

When I first began at Waldron, the summer before 10th grade, Cameron had warned me to be careful around certain people, a big one being Bill Grenon. Now there were folks who argued that Grenon spent all his time playing with himself, and others who felt there was nothing there to play with. Cameron thought a lot of the problem was Julia Finnerty, Grenon’s secretary.

“She just never gives anyone enough time to be with him. So almost no one ever gets what they want.”

A lot of people considered that Grenon’s main strength, and the one time Cameron said he managed to change the vice president’s mind, he did it by endlessly repeating a memo Grenon had just sent.

“I got my raise, but I couldn’t feel very good about it. I knew I’d just spent two hours trapping a very stupid man.”

“If he’s so stupid, why’s he’s still here?” I’d asked. That had surprised Cameron, who’d mainly shrugged.

“I don’t know. Kohler’s no fool, and this place makes a small enough profit. So Grenon must be good at something.”

When Cameron and I entered Julia’s office, she smiled at us with the warmth you give sex offenders. Then she glanced at her appointment book as if to confirm our existence.

“Bill just called,” Cameron said, grinning. “Told me ‘to get here as soon as we could.’”

Julia didn’t react. She merely stared past us at a pair of studded leather chairs. She didn’t say, “Sit!” just acknowledged they existed, should we possibly be bright enough to understand their use.

Cameron continued standing, kinda cockily, and so did I, only without his grin. To an outsider, Cameron could’ve looked like he was trying to hit on Julia, who might’ve been very pretty ninety years ago, though she also looked like she never could’ve enjoyed that. As she buzzed Grenon, she barely stopped watching us, and when the vice president came out of his office, she immediately reminded him that, officially, the Mill was closed.

“This won’t take long,” Grenon told her. It seemed like he wanted to be friendly, but couldn’t, after all, because the CEO had just died.

In his office, Grenon seated himself behind an extraordinary wooden desk. I’d seen it on rounds. The story went that it had been made for Thomas Kohler, the founder, but even his great-grandson had flinched at its extravagance. Grenon, supposedly more respectful of the Mill’s heritage, had saved the desk from dead storage. “Or worse,” Cameron had cracked when I’d first asked about it. “Word had Denny Parnell grabbing it for himself.” I could picture Denny sprawled on that desk, with some wiggling secretary under him.

The rest of Grenon’s office was also traditional. Books locked in glass-front cases seemed to mirror his own closed mind. Photos of guys who’d possibly run the Mill before Christ was born decorated the walls. A huge portrait of FDR in his preppie days, recognizable only because Franklin Delano Roosevelt was gold-lettered on the frame, probably gave some visitors the idea that Grenon was a direct relation. Actually, Cameron told me, it was a flea market find by Bill’s wife.

“What can I do for you?” Grenon asked, as he settled into his well-padded chair. Cameron and I sat in less comfortable chairs, another pair of the seemingly endless, studded set scattered around the Mill. I think they were once part of a boardroom.

“You asked to see us,” Cameron prompted, and Grenon nodded. Then, for some reason, he chose to lecture us about Kohler.

“Drew’s success is well known,” he began. “I could spend hours just talking about his innovations.”

I’d read an interview with Kohler once, in a business magazine I’d bought for a paper I had to do senior year. As Grenon put it, “He had the ability to engage the ordinary customer, making them feel special, while also not doing a disservice to the broader organization.” I recognized the speech for what it was and hoped Cameron knew a way to head it off. No such luck. Cameron tried to open his mouth at least a couple of times during Grenon’s breaths, but Bill rambled on.

Anyone watching us might think Grenon a wrinkled old sage. Actually, he was just flabbily over forty -- framed pictures of his teenaged kids sat proudly on his desk. But on he wandered: “Drew made the Mill nationally visible by constantly encouraging our staff. He pushed our best managers to make our products better known, and built sales strategies that have been copied nationwide. And he quietly prodded some of our less able workers to move on.”

That was about as close as he got to finishing when the phone buzzed.

“Yes, Julia?” he said, then listened, nodding importantly, maybe for us. As one of his phone lights flashed out, another lit. “Yes, Mary?” Bill listened again, this time nodding somewhat less often. “Good… Oh… Well...” Once more, the responses seemed mainly for Cameron and me. Finally, he hung up.

“That gives us nothing we couldn’t have guessed,” he announced, though I had no idea what he was talking about, and I’ll bet Cameron didn’t either. “Of course, Mrs. Kohler has far more to think about this week than giving interviews.”

“TV?” Cameron asked.

“And newspapers,” Grenon added. “People seem to think it’s major news when a company shuts down for a few days, just because its CEO died.”

I didn’t know how other companies worked, but it seemed like just the sort of thing Kohler would do. He always seemed to know how a seemingly small gesture could make a whole lot of money.

“In any case,” Bill went on, “we’re not letting this turn into a story. We don’t want cameras at the funeral… or reporters. So if you see anyone trying to get into the Mill...”

He let that go unfinished, as if it was a real threat. I almost laughed. I could just picture Cameron and me, fighting off Grenon’s idea of The Media. The interview calls were probably from some bored interns.

Still, they served one purpose -- the interruptions finally focused Grenon on why we’d come. I was forced, one more time, to tramp through the TV crime show version of what Mary and I had seen at the Founder’s House. When I finished, Bill sat for a long time, fingers drumming on the edge of his desk, his head slowly nodding.

“All right then,” he declared. But he didn’t move. After another silence, Cameron and I looked at each other, and, as if on signal, we both got up. “Let me know what you find,” Grenon told us as we stood -- as though we were part of a serious investigation.

“We’re Rent-A-Cops, for God’s sake,” I wanted to shout. “We don’t even have uniforms.” But Cameron started playing along.

“We’ll phone you know as soon as anything develops,” he practically quoted from some D-level script. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

Bill pondered with one hand on his chin. He pondered while scratching his nose. Finally he asked, “What would you suggest?’

“I could write a report,” Cameron slowly offered. That must’ve seemed brilliant, because Bill’s head started bobbing. “How soon do you need it?” Cameron went on.

The vice president again considered. “How soon can you get it to me?”

Cameron paused, thoughtfully. “It depends on the detail,” he pointed out. He was clearly having fun.

A longer silence from Bill. “I’ll leave it to you,” he decided weakly. “As Julia mentioned -- as Julia was kind enough to remember -- we really shouldn’t be working this week.”

Yep. Having your CEO drop dead can really ruin your fun.

Cameron nodded earnestly, then again started to leave. Then he turned back so dramatically that I almost got caught in his staging. “What’s the best thing Kohler did for Waldron Mill?” he suddenly asked the Vice President, his TV lawyer directness almost startling. Grenon recoiled, then volleyed the challenge.

“He brought change,” Bill said. It seemed practiced, but neat. “There are always people who resist change, but Drew had no choice.”

“And the worst thing?” Cameron hounded. This seemed to stab Bill, and this time he pondered while clearing something from his ear.

“Anything I say would only be my opinion,” he grandly launched. “My feelings for what’s happened now are tempered by what I know has happened in the past, and what I expected in our future. I don’t think enough time has passed for me to tell you where I felt Drew was anything less than completely successful.”

This is Wonderland! I wanted to yell, but Cameron seemed to know. “Would that change if this was a murder investigation?” he suddenly popped.

Grenon glazed. I just wanted to jump up and down, and howl, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I didn’t know where Cameron got his ideas, but they’re what made it so much fun to tag along.

After a moment, Grenon seemed to have to remind himself to breathe. “Why… why… why would you possibly think that?” he asked.

“I don’t,” Cameron said, grinning. Gotcha! “Things like that don’t happen in places like this. But I know you studied history. I once heard you talking, very passionately, about conspiracy theory. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Grenon recovered, then shook Cameron’s hand, and mine. Then the two of us were out, past the glaring Julia and into the hallway, laughing. “Jesus!” Cameron yowled, when he knew they couldn’t hear. “Stick a pin in that man, and he’ll explode.”

“He’s a jerk,” I agreed.

“No! Way past that! He’s some mutant part of a mule.”

“And he thinks he can run the company?” I asked. “I don’t believe that.”

“Either do I! And either can anyone else!”

As we headed down the hall, I turned toward the steps. But Cameron yanked me the other way. “One more stop,” he told me.

“Where?”

“Denny Parnell.” He said that grinning, too. “To cover my butt.”