by Leslie Meier
Ted stared at her, forgetting the ringing phones. “You’re sure about this?”
“I’m not sure. It’s just what Ellie said. But she is part Metinnicut.”
“Yeah. She’s Bear Sykes’s niece.”
“So she said.”
“Well, I guess she’d know then.” He paused. “I suspected something like this, but I didn’t know it had gotten so far.”
Lucy shook her head. “I don’t know. A casino in Tinker’s Cove—it’s crazy.”
Ted snorted. “Crazy is right. It’s madness.” He tilted his head toward the still-ringing phone. “This is nothing,” he said. “When people in this town find out that the Metinnicuts want a gambling casino, all hell’s gonna break loose.”
CHAPTER 4
Thin November light filtered through the kitchen windows and fell on the big, round golden oak table in Lucy’s kitchen. It wasn’t bright enough to allow her to make out the tiny expiration dates on her coupons, so she had also lighted the milk-glass hurricane lamp that hung above the table. Spread out before her were a colorful array of magazines and coupon sections from the Sunday paper, the IGA flyer, and yesterday’s food section from the newspaper.
The town might be on the brink of a tremendous furor about the casino, but Lucy had other things on her mind. She stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her and bravely wrote Thanksgiving Menu at the top. This year, she thought, she’d like to try something different. She flipped through the magazines until she found the article she was looking for: “A New-Fashioned Thanksgiving.”
Low in fat, rich in flavor, our easy-to-prepare Thanksgiving dinner is sure to please even the pickiest Pilgrims, promised the story, which was accompanied by artfully designed photographs.
She turned to the recipes with interest. Pumpkin soup served in hollowed-out pumpkin shells? She didn’t think so. It looked like something unspeakable to her and the kids would never eat it. Never, ever.
Come to think of it, she decided, there was no point in serving a soup or appetizer course. It would just spoil appetites for the feast to come.
She paused, doing a quick head count. How many would there be? Herself and Bill, the four kids, Toby’s roommate Matthew plus her elderly friend, Miss Tilley, who was practically one of the family. That made eight.
She smiled in satisfaction. Eight was a nice number. Her dining room, newly redecorated after a plumbing disaster last Christmas ruined the ceiling, could seat eight very comfortably; she had sterling for eight. There were even eight teacups remaining in the china service for twelve she’d inherited from her mother. Eight would be perfect.
But what to serve them? Turkey and stuffing, of course. Creamed onions—she liked creamed onions and only bothered with them once a year. She glanced at the magazine menu. There were no creamed onions; there were zucchini boats stuffed with corn kernels. What happened to “easy-to-prepare”? She checked out the other vegetable suggestion. Brussels sprouts?
She clucked her tongue and wrote peas on her menu. Her picky Pilgrims would never eat Brussels sprouts.
Oops, she forgot mashed potatoes. Bill loved mashed potatoes, especially with plenty of gravy, and there would be plenty of gravy. That reminded her. There had to be sweet potatoes, too, but not with marshmallows. She shuddered. Just a little brown sugar. And of course, cranberry sauce and pickles and celery with olives—really just an excuse to use her grandmother’s celery boat shaped like a little canoe.
That should do nicely, she thought, adding nuts to her shopping list. Three kinds of pie: mince, apple, and pumpkin, followed by nuts. It was her favorite part of the meal: that second cup of coffee and the leisurely cracking and dissection of walnuts, pecans, almonds, and filberts. Not hazelnuts—good, old-fashioned filberts—and grapes from the centerpiece.
She put down her pencil and studied the menu. So much for something new, she chuckled to herself. It was the same Thanksgiving dinner she served every year—the dinner her mother had made, the same dinner she remembered eating as a little girl perched on a slippery telephone book at her grandmother’s long linen-covered table.
* * *
At the IGA, Lucy pulled the Subaru into her favorite parking spot and grabbed her coupon wallet and list. She loved grocery shopping; she saw it as a weekly challenge. Getting the most she could for her 120 dollars. To her way of thinking, there was nothing more satisfying than finding a buy-one-get-one-free special and matching it up with a coupon that she could double—or even triple using one of her precious triple coupons—if the deal was sweet enough.
Reminding herself to buy some extra canned goods for the high school food drive, she reached for a cart and tugged it loose from the others. Whirling around, she almost bumped into Franny Small.
“Sorry, Franny. I didn’t see you,” she apologized.
“No harm done,” said Franny, reaching for a cart.
Franny looked remarkably good these days, thought Lucy. The tightly permed gray curls were gone. She now had a sleek frosted do and had replaced her pink plastic glasses with contact lenses. Also gone was the faded pink raincoat she’d worn for years; today she was wearing a sporty golf jacket.
“How’s business?” asked Lucy as they pushed their carts into the produce section. Franny had recently landed a contract with a major department store for the hardware jewelry she designed.
“I’ve got more orders than I can handle,” said Franny. “I’ve got a catalog company that wants ten thousand pieces but I can’t find enough pieceworkers. I’m supposed to meet with some community development people from up north next week. I’m hoping I can get them interested in setting up a home industry program with me.” She reached for a bag of carrots. “It’s kind of frustrating, you know. I’ve got so many ideas.”
“It’s marvelous—what you’ve done for the local economy,” said Lucy. “The unemployment rate is under ten percent for the first time I can remember.”
“It could go even lower if we get that new casino they’re talking about,” said Franny. “That’ll provide a lot of jobs, not to mention a terrific marketing opportunity for my jewelry. I’m already working up some Indian designs.”
So the word was already out, thought Lucy, speculating that the Metinnicuts were carefully leaking news of the casino, hoping to build grass roots support through a word-of-mouth campaign. “You’re in favor of the casino? I thought you were a Methodist,” teased Lucy.
“I am a Methodist,” said Franny. “And I’d never dream of gambling myself. But other people don’t see anything wrong with it. The Catholics have bingo, don’t they? Who am I to tell other people what they can and can’t do?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucy, adding a bag of apples to her cart. “Somehow it just doesn’t seem right.”
“You’ve got to change with the times,” said Franny, checking her watch. “I’ve got to run. If I don’t see you before then, have a happy holiday.”
“Thanks. Same to you,” said Lucy, watching as Franny flew down the aisle, headed for the dairy section. She wasn’t through in the produce section, not by a long shot. She still needed potatoes, at least ten pounds, and fruit for lunches, not to mention a holiday centerpiece. And those nuts—where did they hide them?
* * *
Almost an hour later, Lucy pushed her heavily laden cart up to the checkout, where she got in line behind Rachel Goodman. The cashier, Dot Kirwan, was busy ringing up another customer, a sixtyish woman with her gray hair cut in a neat sporty style.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” said the woman. “Did you see the paper this week?”
Lucy pricked up her ears.
“You mean that dog? Kadjo?” asked Dot. “I think he deserved a second chance.”
“Not the dog. What that reporter wrote about my Bud! Honestly, the man dozes off for a few minutes and she makes it sound like he sleeps through all the meetings or something. It’s outrageous. I don’t know how they can print lies like that.”
“It’s not a lie,” Lucy found herself
saying. The three other women all turned to face her. “I’ve been covering those meetings for years, and I have to tell you Bud sleeps through all of them.”
Mrs. Collier wouldn’t hear it. She was so angry that the little wattles under her chin were quivering. “You’re Lucy Stone?”
“I am.” Lucy braced herself for the attack.
“Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Writing trash like that! And don’t think for one minute that I won’t be complaining to the publisher.”
Taking her bundle from Dot, Mrs. Collier plopped it in her cart and sailed out through the automatic door.
Standing in her place in line, Lucy felt rather sick.
“Well, I guess she told you,” observed Dot.
“Don’t give it a second thought, Lucy,” said Rachel. “It’s about time the truth was known.” She glanced at Lucy’s overflowing cart. “Is Toby coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“Yup. With his roommate, Matthew. What about Richie?”
Richie, Rachel’s son, had graduated from Tinker’s Cove High School with Toby and was a freshman at Harvard.
“He’s staying in Cambridge. He says it’s a good opportunity to catch up on his work.” Rachel furrowed her brow. “I think he feels a little overwhelmed.”
“It’s a big adjustment,” said Lucy. “I can’t wait to see Toby. He says everything’s okay but I need to see for myself—if you know what I mean.”
“I do.” Rachel began unloading her groceries onto the conveyer belt. “In fact, Bob and I are driving down and taking him out for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“That’s a good idea—plus you don’t have to cook,” said Dot as she began ringing up Rachel’s order. “I see you got a turkey anyway.”
“For the freezer. At this price, why not?”
“I got two,” confessed Lucy. “One for Thanksgiving and one for the freezer.”
“So you didn’t get the fresh ones from Andy Brown?” Dot was grinning wickedly.
“At $1.69 a pound, I don’t think so,” said Rachel. “Not with tuition bills to pay.”
“When that casino comes, our troubles will be over,” said Dot. “We’ll all be rolling in money. I went to Atlantic City last fall and won twelve hundred dollars. On the slots. That’s the way to pay those bills.”
“You were lucky,” said Lucy. “I don’t think you can count on winning. Most people lose money.”
“That’s true,” conceded Dot. “But think of all the jobs. That casino will be a shot in the arm for the local economy.”
“I don’t know,” said Rachel doubtfully as she began bagging her groceries. “Casinos bring a lot of problems: organized crime, drugs, money laundering. I can’t say that I’m for it. In fact, Bob’s going to be speaking against it at the meeting next week.”
Rachel’s husband, Bob, was a lawyer.
“That’s good. People ought to speak up,” said Lucy. “This is a nice seaside town. What do they want to go and spoil it for?”
“For money,” said Dot matter-of-factly. “That’ll be $141.38.”
“Ouch,” said Rachel, pulling out her checkbook. “That hurts.”
“I feel your pain,” said Lucy, nervously eyeing her own cart.
“Can I sell you a scratch ticket?” asked Dot.
“No!” chorused Lucy and Rachel.
CHAPTER 5
Zoe was excited about being able to read.
“S-T-O-P,” she read the letters off the red sign, pronouncing the letters carefully. “Stop! Stop the car, Mom.”
Obediently, Lucy braked at the corner and turned onto Main Street, driving a block to the Broadbrooks Free Library, where she pulled into the parking lot.
Lucy had, until recently, been a member of the library’s board of directors and was still struggling with the mixed emotions of guilt and relief over her resignation. She had been tempted to avoid the library, but that wouldn’t be fair to the kids, especially Zoe. This Saturday morning Lucy had firmly set her emotions aside so Zoe could attend a special program. Dr. Fred Rumford, an archaeology professor at nearby Winchester College, was leading a workshop on flintknapping, teaching the kids how primitive people made weapon points out of rocks.
“P-A-T-R-O-N-S,” pronounced Zoe, staring at the PARKING FOR LIBRARY PATRONS ONLY sign. “Pat-rons. Mom, what’s a patron?”
“It’s patron. It means a person who uses something,” explained Lucy as they followed the concrete path that led around the library to the front door. When they rounded the corner of the building she noticed Curt Nolan, who was raking the last of the leaves, and she gave him a wave.
“We’re going to the library, so that makes us patrons,” she continued, as they climbed the front steps, “and we can park here. If we were going to the stores across the street, we couldn’t park here.”
“But you do park here sometimes when you go shopping. You parked here when I got my school shoes.” Zoe pursed her lips primly. “You broke the rule.”
“I’m sure we went to the library that day, too,” said Lucy so firmly that she almost convinced herself.
“No, we didn’t,” insisted Zoe. “I’d remember.”
“Maybe I meant to, but ran out of time,” said Lucy, pulling open the door. “Now remember: It’s the library, so you need to use your very best manners.”
Zoe nodded solemnly and hopped over the sill. Passing in front of the glass display case containing a pewter tankard she started reading off the letters: “E-Z-E . . .”
“Ezekiel Hallett,” said Lucy, taking Zoe firmly by the hand. “He owned that mug a long time ago.”
She pushed open the inner door and glanced at the circulation desk, then felt annoyed with herself for feeling quite so relieved that it was unattended. This was ridiculous, she told herself. People quit jobs, especially volunteer ones, all the time. And she had a good excuse. Her paying job at the Pennysaver was taking up more of her time.
“Mrs. Stone, how nice to see you.”
Startled, Lucy turned and smiled at the new librarian, Eunice Sparks.
“Well, you know how it is,” said Lucy. “Work, kids—there’s never enough time.”
“Oh, I know,” Eunice agreed solemnly. Her brown eyes seemed almost liquid, floating behind her glasses. “And I see your byline all the time. Do you know we’re having a special children’s program this morning. With Fred Rumford from the college. Such a fascinating man.”
“That’s why we’re here,” said Lucy. “Zoe and I want to learn all about the Indians.”
“And Indian dogs,” said Zoe.
“The workshop is just starting downstairs in the meeting room,” said Eunice.
“Thanks—see you later,” said Lucy, leading Zoe through the children’s section. “We’ll pick out some books afterward, okay?”
As soon as Lucy opened the door to the stairs they heard the voices of the children and parents gathered for the workshop. What Lucy didn’t realize until they reached the meeting room was that all the other children, except for Zoe, were boys. They were accompanied mostly by their fathers, but there were a few mothers, too.
“Let’s go, Mom,” said Zoe, halting in the doorway. “I don’t care about Indians.”
“Nonsense,” said Lucy, heading for the two remaining empty chairs. “Indians are interesting.”
“That’s right,” said Fred Rumford, a tall man with thinning hair who had a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. “Indians are very interesting.”
He was standing at the head of a long conference table with a plastic storage box in front of him.
“What I have here,” he said, peering down at the group seated at the table, “is the only remaining genuine Metinnicut artifact—at least, it’s the only one we know about.
“The Metinnicuts, as you all know, lived here for hundreds of years before the European settlers came. We don’t know very much about them or how how they lived. We do know that they hunted for game—deer and rabbits and things like that—and they also ate a lot of
shellfish.” He paused and looked at the children. “How do we know this?”
“Fossils?” asked a little boy with a fresh haircut.
“Good answer. But the Indians only lived here in the past thousand years or so. Fossils, bones that have turned to rock, are much older than that. But we do have archaeological evidence we’ve dug up. What do you think it is?”
Lucy knew Zoe knew the answer. They’d read about an archaeological dig in a children’s magazine last night. She nudged her, but Zoe remained silent.
“Arrowheads?” asked another boy, who was wearing a cub scout uniform.
“Yup.” Rumford nodded. “We have found arrowheads and spear points. What else?”
“Treasure chests?” guessed a boy in a plaid shirt. Lucy heard Zoe give a disgusted snort under her breath.
“No treasure.” Rumford shook his head. “What do you think we’ve found?” He was staring at Zoe.
She hesitated, and Lucy held her breath, willing her to find the confidence to answer. Finally, she did. “Shells and bones.”
Predictably, the boys hooted. The answer must be wrong because a girl said it.
“That’s right!” exclaimed Rumford, silencing them.
Inwardly, Lucy gave a silent little cheer for Zoe. She hoped her daughter would always be able to summon up the courage to give an answer, even a wrong one, but she knew the odds were stacked against Zoe. The older the little girl got, the harder it would become.
“We can tell a lot about what the Indians ate from their garbage piles. We find bones from animals they ate and big piles of shells. We also know from what’s in this box that they didn’t just kill animals. Sometimes, they killed people.”
He had the boys’ undivided attention as he opened the box and lifted out a decorated wooden object for them to see. It seemed to Lucy to be in two parts: a wooden shaft decorated with black designs that held a solid wooden ball.
“It’s a Metinnicut war club, used to bash out the brains of their enemies.”
“Yeah!” exclaimed the boy with the haircut.
“Yuck!” said Zoe, wrinkling up her nose.
