by Leslie Meier
“Well, I can understand that,” he admitted, checking the film in his camera. “I guess I’ll go down and see what I can do. You can make some phone calls.”
Lucy was on her feet, shaking a finger angrily. “Ted, I’m warning you: Absolutely no photos of my daughter. Got it?” She paused. “I’ll tell Pam.”
“Don’t worry,” he grumbled as he left. “I won’t even look at your daughter.”
“I wish I believed him,” said Lucy.
“Well, you don’t honestly believe the little hussy’s out there in broad daylight without a stitch on because she doesn’t want people to look at her,” said Phyllis.
“No, I don’t,” wailed Lucy, collapsing back into the chair. “That’s the worst part. My daughter’s an exhibitionist!”
Lucy was on the phone talking to Myra Dunwoodie—she’d caught her just as she was going out the door, on her way to join Mel at the pond—when the bell on the door jangled and she looked up to see Beetle Bickham entering the office with a piece of white paper in his huge hand.
“So how long have you and your husband been naturists?” asked Lucy.
She was having a tough time keeping her mind on the interview. She was curious about what had brought Beetle, who was head of the Lobstermen’s Association, to the Pennysaver.
“Oh, forever,” said Myra. “In fact, that’s how we met. At a naturist camp in Pennsylvania. I fell in love with him during a game of volleyball. He had a fantastic spike, and his serve wasn’t bad, either.”
“Right,” said Lucy. “Great spike.”
“On second thought, don’t put that in the paper,” said Myra, giggling. “Someone might take it wrong.”
“Right,” said Lucy, who was dying to talk to Beetle. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you don’t want to miss this beautiful weather.”
Hanging up the phone, she turned to Beetle, who was leaning on the counter and chatting with Phyllis. He was a terrific flirt, speaking with a faint hint of a Quebec accent, and Phyllis was all smiles, responding to his flattery.
“Anything I can do for you?” asked Lucy.
“Well, yes, Lucy, since you mention it.” Beetle unfolded the paper and handed it to her. “This here’s a letter to the editor I’d like you to print.”
“What’s it about?”
“Well,” said Beetle, hitching up his waterproof yellow oilskin pants. “Some of the fellas are saying they think somebody’s poaching their traps.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to tell seeing that the catch has been down lately and all. But there’s signs. Some people, and I’m not naming names, seem to be doing better than others. A lot better than you’d expect, considering the amount of time they’re putting in. Not to mention their history as kind of shiftless and not exactly hard workers.”
“Could be luck,” suggested Lucy. “Maybe they found a hot spot.”
“Could be,” admitted Beetle, sounding doubtful. “And that’s why I worded this letter very carefully. It’s just kind of a general plea to play fair, if you get my meaning.”
“I get it,” said Lucy, quickly perusing the letter. “But do you think the poachers will read it? And if they do, will they take it to heart?”
“I hope so, Lucy,” said Beetle. “It’d be in their best interest, that’s for sure. Lobstermen don’t take kindly to poachers. Folks who mess with a man’s livelihood have a way of turning up dead. It’s happened before, and I don’t want to see it happen again.”
“Me, either,” said Lucy. “I’ll make sure Ted gets the letter.”
“Thank you kindly, Lucy,” he said, flashing her an irresistibly lopsided smile, “and have a nice day.” He paused on his way out the door and winked at Phyllis. “Au revoir, madame.”
Ted read the letter thoughtfully when he returned, but didn’t say anything.
“I think we’ve really got to look into this,” said Lucy. “Maybe we can help defuse the situation before there’s any violence.”
“We only report the news, Lucy,” said Ted. “We can’t change it.”
“That’s not exactly true, Ted. Take the school budget increase. That would never have passed except for our coverage, showing how Tinker’s Cove students were doing worse on standardized exams than kids in towns with bigger budgets.”
He read the letter again.
“Okay,” he said, with a sigh. “I’ll run the letter and budget space for a story in next week’s issue. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Lucy. She chewed her lip nervously. “So, did you get any good photos at the pond?”
“Sure did.” Ted sounded awfully pleased with himself. “And interviews, too.”
Lucy swallowed hard. “Elizabeth?”
“She wasn’t there. She must’ve left.”
Lucy gave a huge sigh of relief, but she knew it was only temporary. She wanted to stop Elizabeth’s nude sunbathing but she wasn’t sure how to do it. She couldn’t lock her in the house, after all.
One of the things Lucy liked most about working at the Pennysaver was the flexible hours. Today, for example, she was finished by two o’clock which give her time to stop by the library to return her books. While she was there, she decided, she’d see if there were any books offering expert advice to parents of young adults. She could certainly use some help.
The library was only a few blocks down Main Street so she decided to walk. She hadn’t gotten very far, however, before she noticed a crowd of people gathered in front of town hall, where several tables had been set up. She was wondering what it was all about when a clipboard was shoved into her face.
“Would you like to sign our petition?”
“What’s it for?” she asked the ponytailed girl holding the clipboard.
She was one of several college students dashing up and down the sidewalk accosting everyone. They were all wearing T-shirts printed with the APTC logo.
“It simply requests that the town take all necessary steps to protect the endangered purple-spotted lichen.”
“Don’t sign it, Lucy,” yelled Scratch Hallett. He was seated at a flag-draped table with a couple of cronies from the VFW. “Sign ours, instead. We want to bring back the fireworks.”
Lucy smiled and waved. “As a member of the press I have to remain impartial,” she said.
“You can’t avoid the day of judgement,” warned a man with a familiar face whom Lucy couldn’t identify. He was sitting at a third table with members of the Revelation Congregation, a fundamentalist Christian church that had grown steadily since its founding a few years ago. “Choose decency and godliness and support the anti-nudity bylaw.”
Thinking of Elizabeth, Lucy was tempted.
“Sorry,” she shrugged.
“Come on, Lucy,” urged Jonathan Franke, who was supervising the APTC volunteers. “You’re entitled to have opinions, especially since you live so close to Blueberry Pond.”
“What’s Blueberry Pond got to do with lichen?” she asked.
“It’s a prime lichen environment and we’re worried the increased use by naturists may have a negative impact.”
Lucy reached for her notebook. “Does this mean APTC is supporting the anti-nudity bylaw?”
“Oh, no,” he said, holding up his hands. “We’re not against nudity, we’re for lichen. Putting Blueberry Pond on the Web site has attracted large numbers of people, and people can be quite destructive to lichen. It’s so small and blends into the rock so well that they may not even realize it’s a life form.”
“That’s right,” agreed the girl. “So will you sign?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Lucy. But what she was really thinking about as she continued on her way was how very strange it was that APTC was finding common ground with the Revelation Congregation.
Once inside the library, she shoved her books through the return slot and went to check out the new arrivals. There wasn’t anything new about parenting, but there was a Family Medical Guide that had photographs illustrating skin cancer. Just the thing to put on
Elizabeth’s bedside table.
When Lucy pulled into the driveway, she noticed the kennel gate was swinging open once again. Kudo was gone and she had a good idea where she’d find him. She grabbed the leash and set off on foot along Red Top Road to her neighbors, the Pratts.
In contrast to her own yard, where the weeds and flowers and pea vines and lettuces all grew exuberantly and where bicycles and badminton racquets and volleyballs tended to sprout on the overgrown lawn, the Pratts’ yard was extremely neat. A few clumps of hostas promised some pale and feeble blooms later in the summer, but nothing was flowering now, in late June, when almost every garden in town had at least one rambler rose in riotous bloom. The grass had been clipped to an inch of its life and was already turning brown in spots. Unless it rained soon, it would be entirely brown in a week or two, giving the yard a sere and dry look. Not that it was exactly lush and vibrant now. It was also empty; there was no sign of Kudo.
The house was a stark set of geometric shapes, a tall rectangle dotted with awkwardly placed square windows and topped with a rectangular roof. There was no chimney, no porch, no bushes to soften the harsh lines and angles.
Lucy knocked on the door and when she received no answer she went around back to check on the chickens. They were clucking and pecking at the ground in their run attached to the coop and seemed contented enough. There was no sign of any intrusion, no break in the fence. Even though she was relieved he hadn’t attacked the chickens, Lucy was anxious about the dog’s whereabouts. Where could he be? She decided to try the pond by following the path that wandered from the rear of the Pratts’ yard and through their woods. Once behind their barn, however, her attention was drawn by the large amount of lobster gear that was haphazardly stacked there. It was funny to see traps stacked up this time of year, when they should be in the water. Lucy was taking a closer look when she was startled by Pru Pratt’s voice.
“What do you think you’re doing, Lucy Stone?”
Lucy jumped. “Hi,” she said, forcing her mouth into a friendly smile. At least she hoped it was friendly and disarming. “I was just looking for my dog. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“No I haven’t and I don’t believe you, either. A pile of lobster traps is a mighty funny place to look for a dog.”
“I thought he might’ve picked up the scent of the bait, you know,” said Lucy, knowing it sounded lame. “Actually, I was on my way down to the pond. I thought he might have been attracted by all the activity there. I was just headed for the path.”
“I’m not aware that my path has become a public right-of-way,” said Pru, planting her feet firmly on her property and blocking Lucy’s way.
“Ma! What’s going on?”
It was the Pratt’s son, Wesley. He was about Toby’s age but the similarity ended there. Where Toby was relaxed, even lazy, Wesley seemed to be looking for a fight. He bounced on the balls of his feet and alternately flexed his fingers and balled them into a fist as if he were dying to take a punch at something, anything. He had inherited his mother’s lean and wiry look; he even wore his dirty-blond hair long and pulled back in a ratty ponytail.
Lucy sensed it was time to beat a hasty retreat. “No problem. I’ll go back along the road.”
“And don’t come back,” snarled Wesley, as she trotted down the driveway.
Lucy wasted no time in getting back to the security of her own property, where she was relieved to see Toby’s Jeep parked in the driveway.
“Those Pratts are something else!” she exclaimed when she found him in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator. “I went over there looking for Kudo and they kicked me off their property! Like I was a bum or something.”
“What do you expect? They’ve never exactly been friendly,” said Toby, popping open a can of cola.
“I’m not trying to be best friends,” said Lucy. “I’m just trying to be a good neighbor. A little cooperation wouldn’t hurt, you know. I’m doing my best to control the dog and I could use a little help.”
“I’ll help,” said Toby. “Do you want me to see if he’s down at the pond?”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” said Lucy.
“No problem, Mom.”
“I’ll go, too,” said Lucy. “Sometimes he comes if he hears my voice.”
That wasn’t the real reason. This was a rare opportunity to spend some time alone with her only son and she didn’t want to miss it.
“You don’t have to, Mom. I can handle it.”
Lucy fingered the leash thoughtfully. “I get it. You want to check out the action down at the pond, and you don’t want me along to cramp your style?”
Toby blushed. “That’s not it. . . .”
“Okay then, let’s go,” said Lucy, resisting the urge to grab his hand as she used to do when he was small. Somehow it had never gone away, even though he now towered over her at six feet plus. “I just hope Elizabeth’s not there.”
“Elizabeth!” Toby was appalled. “What’s she doing down there?”
“I don’t know if she is or not, but I saw her there this morning. It was really awkward, seeing her like that.” Lucy sighed philosophically. “But if she’s not going to wear clothes, I guess she doesn’t mind people seeing her naked.”
“It’s not what she minds, it’s what I mind. I don’t want to see my sister naked.”
“So it’s okay to leer at other people, but not Elizabeth?”
“Yeah!”
“I see your point,” said Lucy, as they walked past the garden and took the path through the woods. “Say, do you know anything about this lobster poaching? Beetle Bickham wrote a letter to the editor.”
“Nah.”
“But Chuck said he thought his traps had been poached, didn’t he?”
“I guess.”
“It’s not just him. It’s a lot of lobstermen, according to Beetle.”
“Hmmm.”
“Well, what are they saying down at the docks? People must be talking about it.”
“Not really.”
“Okay, okay. You obviously don’t want to talk about it, so I won’t ask you anymore,” said Lucy. “But when I was over at the Pratts I noticed there was a lot of lobster gear piled up behind the barn. Isn’t that odd, for this time of year?”
“Maybe he’s got extra.”
“Is that common?” asked Lucy.
“Sure,” said Toby. “Like a spare tire, you know.”
“Yeah,” said Lucy. “But if it’s all his gear, wouldn’t it all have the same identification on it. The same license number?”
“Of course,” said Toby, suddenly taking an interest. “Did his gear have a lot of different numbers?”
“I didn’t really notice,” lied Lucy, as they approached the pond. She sure didn’t need any more trouble with the Pratts. “Do you see the dog?”
Toby scanned the sea of naked flesh stretched out before them. He shook his head.
“Damn,” said Lucy, looking in vain for any sign of the dog. “We might as well go home. It’s getting on for supper time and he never misses a meal. He’ll probably show up soon.”
“You go on back,” said Toby. “I think I’ll go for a dip myself.”
“You, too?” She put her hands on her hips. “Where did I go wrong? Have you no shame?”
“Guess not,” said Toby, pulling his T-shirt over his head.
Lucy turned around and headed for home as fast as she could.
Chapter Six
Kudo was back in his kennel, crouched on all fours with his chin resting on his front paws and a mournful expression on his face, when Lucy left for work on Friday morning. He’d come wandering into the yard after supper, when the girls were kicking a soccer ball around, and Lucy had coaxed him into the kennel with his bowl of kibble. He’d looked at her reproachfully when she slammed the gate shut, as if she’d played a dirty trick on him, and she was still battling a lingering sense of guilt as she drove off with Sara and Zoe in the back seat, ready to be dropped off at Frie
nds of Animals day camp.
“Mom, Kudo looks so sad. Do we always have to keep him locked up?” asked Sara.
“It’s like he’s in jail or something,” added Zoe, who had a flair for the dramatic. “A life sentence.”
“I don’t like it either,” said Lucy, as she backed the Subaru wagon around in a three-point turn, “but he keeps getting in trouble. If we can’t control him, the selectmen might decide to have him destroyed. That’s a lot worse than a life sentence.”
“You mean they could kill him?” asked Sara.
“No!” exclaimed Zoe.
“Yes. They could,” said Lucy, as they tooled down Red Top Road. “That’s why it’s so important that you all help make sure he doesn’t get out. If he kills any more of Mrs. Pratt’s chickens we could lose him forever.”
“That’s not fair,” whined Sara, resorting to the middle-school battle cry.
“It’s not fair that he kills Mrs. Pratt’s chickens either,” said Lucy.
“Mrs. Pratt’s a poop,” said Zoe.
“Watch your tongue,” admonished Lucy, as she turned into the camp driveway. “I don’t want to hear any more of this talk. It’s our responsibility to take care of Kudo and to make sure he doesn’t do any harm.” Under her breath, she added, “I only wish he’d make it a little bit easier.”
Curious about the large flat-bed trailer that was taking up most of the parking lot, Lucy decided to have a chat with the camp director, Melanie Flowers, who was welcoming the kids as they arrived. Melanie was a petite woman with short, dark hair and a big, friendly smile.
“Hi, girls. Are you ready for a busy day?”
Sara and Zoe gave her the traditional camp high five and ran off to join their friends, leaving Lucy alone with Melanie.
“So what’s with the rig?” she asked. “Are you going into the trucking business?”
“It’s for the parade,” said Melanie. “I know it doesn’t look like much now, but it’s going to be beautiful when we finish decorating it. The theme this year is ‘With liberty and justice for all’ and we think that includes animals.”
