The Silence of the Llamas

by Anne Canadeo

  Mayor Swabish called the meeting to order and announced the agenda. Only one item: the discussion of a motion to keep the open space zoning laws in force within village limits.

  “If anyone would like to speak about this issue, please sign in and form a line at the podium.”

  There was considerable movement in the room. Maggie held her knitting needles steady a moment. She practically felt the wooden floor vibrate.

  Many spoke in favor of going along with the county and letting the laws expire. They spoke about community vitality, increasing the supply of housing to welcome new families into the area.

  “There’s a lot of talk against these laws expiring, on the grounds of nature and ecology. But villages and towns have ecology, too,” one speaker pointed out. “We have to grow or die. That’s just the way it is. Do we want to promote a healthy, thriving community? Or end up stagnant? Or even a ghost town?”

  “There is such a thing as controlled, planned growth,” another citizen insisted. Increased tax revenue is necessary to keep the town running as costs increase, he pointed out, and there were many benefits to allowing more housing and controlled commercial development in the area.

  “Think of the jobs. Think of the boost to our town’s economy. Think of the vacant stores on Main Street. Are we crazy? What’s the problem here?”

  The “pro” side sounded pretty persuasive, Maggie had to admit. Much more than she had expected.

  Suzanne leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Pretty smooth, right? I’d guess those speakers are either eager to sell or actually in the pocket of the development companies. They could make acid reflux sound like a really fun hobby.”

  Maggie laughed quietly but didn’t reply. She didn’t want to miss anything.

  A few other residents stepped up and spoke in favor of the open space laws expiring. They all looked genuine and seemed sincere, Maggie thought. Their main point was that Plum Harbor should be governed by the same laws that applied to the rest of the county and not isolate itself.

  “. . . And the silent majority in our village shouldn’t be pushed around by a very vocal minority,” one woman stated bluntly. She glanced over at the rows of green T-shirts.

  A chorus of loud boos rose in reply from the Friends of Farmland, drowning out whatever else the woman had to say.

  The Friends hardly seemed to be the minority, Maggie thought, if their showing in the hearing room was any indication.

  Some others in the front row shouted back: “Go back to where you came from, you bunch of trouble makers. What do you know?”

  The mayor clacked her gavel. “Simmer down. Or I’ll end this meeting and clear the room.”

  Maggie hoped it wouldn’t come to that. This was just getting interesting. She felt a sharp elbow in her side. Suzanne leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Look who’s up next. The siren of Sweet Meadow.”

  Maggie glanced back at the podium. Angelica Rossi was next, that’s who.

  All eyes were on her as she approached the microphone in slow, measured steps. She wore her long denim skirt again, with a Friends of Farmland T-shirt attractively cinched around her waist with a wide leather belt. Her long hair was parted in the middle, as usual, and clipped at the back of her neck, and large, dangling earrings were an arty touch.

  She looked very serious and sincere, Maggie thought. It was hard to reconcile the woman who stood before her with the theories they’d spun on Tuesday night—scenarios that paired Angelica with Ridley, scheming together to drive Ellie and Ben off their farm. Or their speculation that Angelica was Ridley’s killer, driven to it by some passionate argument or falling-out.

  But people can show one face to the world and be far different in their private, secret lives. Angelica seemed capable of that. She presented well with excellent social skills. But Maggie guessed she was secretly seething . . . and scheming.

  “My name is Angelica Rossi. I live on Sweet Meadow Farm, on County Road Twenty-three,” she began, identifying herself for the record. “I’m here to speak as a property owner, as a farmer, and as the co-chair of the Friends of Farmland. As you all know, just days ago, we lost our founder, Justin Ridley. He was a brave man who believed in this cause with his whole heart and soul, and who fought bravely for it. Our group mourns his passing, and we are sure the community at large shares our sorrow and our sympathy for his daughter, Janine.”

  She glanced over to the far side of the room, where Maggie had already spotted Janine Ridley sitting alone.

  Angelica easily had the crowd in her hand, Maggie noticed, and the rest of her statement was predictably dramatic—mixing a lecture on the environment and a plea to town residents to put aside their greed and think of their children and grandchildren and even their great-grandchildren, winding it all up with a well-known Native American proverb.

  “As the Native Americans believe, ‘We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.’ ” She paused and solemnly bowed her head. The room was silent, Maggie noticed, with only the sound of papers rustling.

  Then Angelica looked up again. She spared a small smile for the trustees and Mayor Swabish. “Thank you for the opportunity to speak in defense of the innocent parties involved that can’t speak for themselves—the birds, the wildlife, the woods and wild places. The wide blue sky and abundant fields.”

  The Friends of Farmland stood and applauded, calling out her name and cheering loudly.

  “All right . . . calm down.” The mayor, who was not a tall woman, jumped up out of her chair to shout into her microphone. “No demonstrations back there, or you’ll all be escorted out.”

  The Friends of Farmland seemed satisfied and quickly settled down again. Though there were hugs and smiles all around for Angelica when she returned to their ranks.

  “She’s good,” Dana whispered to Suzanne.

  “Oh, baby . . . real good,” Suzanne agreed.

  “I’m on her side of the question,” Lucy whispered back. “But why do I find her so annoying?”

  Maggie felt the same. It was a curious thing.

  After Angelica, a long line of citizens stood waiting to speak their piece. But the Joan of Arc of the farm set had definitely been the high point. It was almost nine by the time everyone had had their say. The mayor leaned toward her microphone and addressed the audience that was left.

  “These comments and concerns will be taken into careful consideration. A vote on this issue will go on the agenda for the next trustee meeting, which will be held in approximately four weeks, date to be determined.”

  Then she struck her gavel to the table and the meeting was adjourned.

  “They’re not going to vote on this for four weeks? I can’t believe that.” Lucy stood up and stuffed her knitting into her tote bag. “It’s like sitting through a two-hour movie and the projector breaks down before the film is over.”

  “Annoying, right?” Suzanne stood up and stretched, though space was limited. “I had a feeling that would happen. These zoning situations move so slowly. It’s like watching grass grow. It’s only fair to let everyone in town have their say. But there’s a lot that goes on behind the scenes, believe me.”

  That sounded very likely to Maggie. There were always people in a small town who wielded big influence.

  It was difficult to work their way out of the meeting room and lobby, but they eventually emerged on to the street. Maggie took a few deep breaths. The room had been stuffy, and the chilly night air roused her.

  “That was pretty entertaining. As good as most reality shows,” Suzanne remarked.

  “I’m glad I went. I didn’t know much about this issue,” Dana said. “But I don’t think I know any better now if this debate connects to Justin Ridley’s death . . .”

  “And to the question of who killed him and why,” Lucy finished for her.

  “I know what you mean. It was sort of a bust that way,” Suzanne agreed. “The neighbor we were looking for, that potato farmer . . .”

&
nbsp; “Walter Kranowski?” Lucy filled in.

  “Right. Either he didn’t come or didn’t get up to have his say,” Suzanne noted.

  Dana quickly turned to her. “Maybe his silence is saying something. Maybe he purposely avoided this public shouting match because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Or his fractious relationship with Ridley.”

  “Good point, Dana. We know Mr. Kranowski feels strongly about this issue and has a strong personality. Yet he hasn’t come to town to make his opinion known. His absence might be meaningful,” Lucy suggested.

  Maggie thought that was a good observation. The mystery of Justin Ridley’s death was complicated. She suspected that there was more to this story. Much more.

  “As for the rest, when the sauce boils down, you see what you’ve got left,” Maggie told her friends. “My grandmother used to say that. She was usually right, too.”

  “This pot has just started to simmer,” Dana observed. “I think it has a ways to go.”

  Chapter Nine

  The pot was still simmering on Saturday morning when Maggie opened her shop. Lucy arrived a few minutes later and dumped a colorful pile of knitted items on the counter.

  “Look how many projects I’ve finished for our fund-raiser. Awesome, right?”

  Maggie looked over the bounty: two frizzle scarves in multicolor yarn, a blue headband embossed with white snowflakes, a pair of black fingerless gloves, and a baby bib.

  “Lovely. I’ll add these to the basket. We’ve already sold a few things this week,” she reported.

  “I wish I could knit this fast all the time. I knit better when it’s for a cause.”

  Maggie glanced at her and smiled. “Keeping Matt warm isn’t a compelling enough cause for you?”

  “Of course it is. But I have other ways of solving that problem.” Lucy smiled and changed the subject. “I’m going get some coffee and raid that reject yarn box.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Maggie murmured. Lucy had already taken some extreme skeins from the box but had used them very creatively, Maggie thought. She hated to waste yarn and would be happy to see that box completely empty by the end of this project.

  Lucy soon returned, the yarn box in one hand and a coffee mug in the other.

  “By the way, Janine Ridley followed up on your recommendation and took her father’s dogs over to Matt. They’re boarding at the animal hospital for now. He’s going to find a good home for them or get them into a rescue group.”

  Maggie nodded, attaching price tags to Lucy’s handmade items. “I knew he’d come through for her . . . and for Thelma and Louise. I wonder if she’ll come back to the shop. I did see her at the town meeting. Sitting by herself.”

  “She must have been curious to hear the debate since her father was so involved. I have a feeling you haven’t seen the last of her, Maggie.”

  “I think you’re right. I have the same feeling.”

  She watched Lucy dig through the skeins in the box and finally hold up a rather hideous fluorescent-orange acrylic.

  “What were you thinking?” Lucy stared at her.

  Maggie did a double take. “I never ordered that. I swear on my— It must have come by mistake in some shipment, and I never returned it. Give me some credit.”

  Lucy laughed. “Everything is good for something.”

  Maggie gave her a quizzical look. She couldn’t imagine what Lucy would make with that. “A glow-in-the-dark toilet paper cover?”

  “Good idea. But I’d have to crochet for that one. I was thinking a dog-size jogging vest. I’ll stick some glow-in-the-dark tape on the edges, for night visibility.”

  “Good idea. Dogs are sweet but don’t have very demanding taste in outerwear. Not like cats,” Maggie added, just to get Lucy going.

  Before Lucy could answer, another voice did.

  “Hi, everybody. . . . Wait till you hear where I’m going this morning. I’m so brilliant sometimes, I can’t stand myself.” Suzanne breezed into the shop, dressed for her workday in a sleek leather blazer, espresso-brown, with matching wool pants and a creamy white turtleneck. She’d looped a long scarf around her neck, a golden-yellow color—perfect for finishing off an Amelia Earhart sort of look, Maggie thought.

  Suzanne sighed and dropped her leather tote bag on a chair. “Here’s the scoop: I just made an appointment to visit Walter Kranowski and work up a listing on his property. Pretty sharp, right?”

  Maggie and Lucy stared at her in shock. Maggie was the first to speak. “How in the world did you manage that?”

  “Part luck, part smarts. Part fabulous personality. My usual winning combination.” Suzanne quickly explained how she’d done some research on the potato farm right before the town hall meeting. But then Kranowski never showed up.

  “I had a few printouts about the farm around the house and Kevin reminded me that he’d done some work for the old man, about two years ago. He put a new roof on the barn or something. So that gave me at least a toe in the door,” she continued, talking now at top Suzanne speed, which was almost faster than Maggie could hear.

  “I called Mr. Kranowski and said I’d heard he was interested in listing his property soon, and he knew my husband, and blah blah blah, and it all worked out.” Suzanne waved her hand and took a sip of coffee, leaving them to imagine the rest.

  “She makes light of it, but the secret is in her blah-blahs,” Lucy remarked to Maggie.

  “To be sure. It’s a gift. And I mean that in a good way,” Maggie hurried to add.

  “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment. I have an appointment to see him in . . . one hour,” she said, checking the time on her phone. “Just stopped in for a little victory lap. And to see if there’s anything you guys think I should ask?”

  “Hmm. Let me see. ‘Did you stab Justin Ridley with a wooden spindle?’ Or is that too direct? Even for you?” Lucy teased her.

  “It would be refreshing. I doubt the police have asked him that yet,” Maggie noted.

  Suzanne rose and picked up her bag. “Want to tag along, Lucy? I think this is a two-woman job. Besides, you can keep me on track. I might get distracted with the real-estate stuff and forget all about Ridley. I would die for this listing.” Her dark eyes gleamed with a barracuda-like enthusiasm.

  “Okay, I’ll go. But can I pass as a real-estate lady?” Lucy looked down at herself, doubting it. She didn’t have the dogs with her today and was dressed for shopping in a khaki utility jacket over jeans and a black T-shirt.

  “I’ll just tell him you’re in training,” Suzanne decided. “And we’ll give you some jungle red lipstick and big, fashiony earrings in the car.”

  Maggie nearly laughed out loud at Lucy’s expression.

  “Um . . . okay,” Lucy said slowly. “Really?”

  “I’m kidding, silly. But I do have some badges from an open house, and you can carry a clipboard or something.”

  “I can go with that.” Lucy collected the yarn she wanted, and the two women were soon on their way.

  “Good luck,” Maggie called out. “Report in soon so I don’t worry. Don’t do anything dumb.”

  The potato farmer could be dangerous, she realized suddenly.

  They either didn’t hear her or just didn’t answer.

  • • •

  Suzanne had a heavy foot on the gas pedal. But Lucy knew she usually drove that way and this morning she was particularly excited to get out to Kranowski’s farm. They flew along the country roads in Suzanne’s huge vehicle, which was part truck and part school bus. Lucy was starting to have second thoughts about her impulsive agreement to come along.

  But the idea of Suzanne venturing out here alone, to chat up a man who was known to have a bad temper and may have even attacked Justin Ridley, didn’t sit well with Lucy, either.

  She’d done the right thing, Lucy decided, glancing over at the driver.

  “Here’s the turn onto Crooked Hill Road. We’re almost there. The lipstick is in the little outside pocket of my purse.
Help yourself,” Suzanne added.

  Lucy gave her a look. She didn’t even own a real lipstick. Her beauty efforts stalled out at an all-purpose cover-up stick and a tube of lip gloss. “I’ll have to pass. Sorry. Do you want me to wait in the car?”

  “Just testing you. I thought if you went for it, I’d sneak a photo and post it on Facebook.”

  “Suzanne . . . you’re truly evil.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s the kids. They’re a terrible influence on me.” She looked contrite for a moment, but the mood passed quickly. “Hey . . . isn’t that Ridley’s place?”

  Suzanne nearly slammed on the brakes to slow down in time. She pointed to the property on the right side of the road that was just coming into view.

  Lucy saw a few wisps of crime scene tape dangling from the fence posts and front door. The house was fairly close to the road but surrounded by tall trees and brush. All she could see were fragments of dark brown cedar shake shingles and a white compact car in the driveway.

  They coasted by, peering through the trees.

  “There’s a car in the drive,” Suzanne noted. “I wonder who’s visiting. It looks like the police are done searching for evidence.”

  “It could be Janine Ridley. That seems to be the kind of car you’d rent at the airport,” Lucy added.

  “You’re probably right. I wonder if she’s planning on putting the place up for sale.”

  “You should call on her next, Suzanne. You could have a real monopoly out here. Though I don’t remember any farms in the board game. They should have tossed a few in, don’t you think? Planting those little green houses and red plastic hotels would have meant something.”

  “Definitely. That was a real oversight.”

  The Kruegers’ farm came into view next. Lucy saw the cheerful wooden sign as they passed the entrance and farmhouse. She gazed back at the orchard and noticed someone working among the apple trees, digging into the rich earth and lifting shovelfuls into a wheelbarrow.

  “There’s Dot,” she remarked, recognizing the older woman. “She works hard.”