Sure enough, I start picking up the trail of frequent blue paint and plastic goo bodywork all along the gravel and dust side-road just about a mile outside Burdock. And the destination would be the next logical place that someone intending to put in a raised vegetable garden would go to. That might have been what threw me off.
The destination comes into veiw; A green-house with smudgey windows, attached to a basic cement block garage with a chimney for the furnace room. Out front stands a somewhat beat up sign with a green backround and bright yellow letters. The sign reads: Bean Butler’s Arboriteum and GreenHouse.
Actually, when Burdock was the beneficiary of the WeenerMan Township shoe-cobbling boom, there had been demand for a market-garden located close by to supply the local restaurants, and to keep the well-heeled beneficiaries supplied with fresh vegetables and produce in season.
The Butler family had put in a wood-furnace and the first greenhouse in the township to provide at least some versions of fresh produce nearly year-round.
The prompt and courteous service eventually allowed the greenhouse and market farm to be nick-named, ‘the Bean Butler’s.’
As time passed, eventually trucking to grocery stores and a the bridge up by the Drollinger’s allowed people to drive to the Clover County Seat to obtain the fresh veggietables.
But there was enough demand left in the township for garden plants and the luck that a family memeber had always managed to keep the greenhouse going on the side which worked.
I swing into the parking lot. The truck slides to a stop admidst the gravel dust.
A tall,thin figure steps out of the cement block garage-showroom, "Yess?" he asks.
Not sure how to proceed, I start, "I’m looking for the Weener-Man, I hthnk he might have been by here no too long ago."
The Bean Butler considers as if remembering, "Somewhat decidedly scruffy-looking fellow, beard, drives a cunky blue import?’
I nod, "That would be an accurate description."
"Long-lost descendant of the Colonel WeenerMan if I so recall," the Bean Butler recounts, "Why yes, he was in here just about an hour ago, left blue-colored autobody work all over the parking lot here."
I kick some gravel over flakes of blue tractor paint, "Sounds like the Rodney-Mobile."
The Bean Butler kneels down and picks up a chip of blue bodywork and tosses it into the trash drum, "How rather appropo, I seem to remember having recorded a transsaction, I could look it up in the receipts, but I fear that I lack the time, with all of these blue specks all over my parking spaces."
I grab a five-gallon bucket from the back of the truck and start picking up the fragments of Rodney scattered accross the parking area.
"Very good, Sir," the Bean Butler nods, "I seem to remember placing the transaction-entries in the ledger," the Bean Butler departs into the garage.
I hear whisling for about a minute, it stops, and the Bean Butler returns, "Yes, it does appear that someone by the name of HM Weenerman has conducted several transactions here, earlier today."