Star Spangled Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Are the kids going to be in the parade, too?”

  “Sure thing. We’re counting on their adorable little faces to win over the judges. Competition is especially keen this year. Since there are no fireworks the parade is going to be the centerpiece of the celebration. Everybody’s entering floats: the Lions, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, the town band, the lumber yard, just about anybody you can think of.” She lowered her voice. “Just between you and me, it’s the garden center I’m most worried about. I think they’ll give us a real run for the money.”

  “So what have you got planned?”

  “Well, we’re covering the base with a carpet of red, white and blue crepe paper flowers, you know the kind I mean. And then we’re going to artistically arrange some small trees and flowers to make a sort of park-like setting, complete with a fire hydrant. Cute, don’t you think? And there’ll be the kids and some well-behaved pets . . . Zoe offered Kudo but I didn’t think . . .”

  “Understood,” said Lucy. “He’d probably eat the other animals.”

  Melanie’s eyes widened. “Well, anyway, the kids will wear Friends of Animals T-shirts with information lettered on the back: how many kittens a cat can produce if it isn’t fixed, how many puppies are destroyed in shelters every year. Stuff like that. We’ll also distribute flyers and cat and dog treats.”

  “Sounds like a winner to me.”

  “I hope so, but we have a long way to go.” She turned to Lucy and placed a hand on her arm. “Say, Lucy. Do you think you and the girls could help out by making some of those crepe paper flowers? You know, while you’re watching TV or something. We need an awful lot of them.”

  “How many?”

  “I figure three or four thousand ought to do it.”

  “F-f-four thousand?” sputtered Lucy.

  “Oh, goodness. I didn’t mean for you to make all of them. Could you do, say, five hundred?”

  “How soon do you need them?”

  Melanie’s voice was an apologetic squeak. “By Monday.”

  “We can try,” said Lucy.

  “Great. I’ll send the crepe paper and pipe cleaners home with the girls.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, wondering why she was saying it. Shouldn’t Melanie be thanking her? No matter, Melanie was already on her knees, consoling a little boy who had tripped over his own feet, shod in brand-new sneakers with room to grow, and scraped his chin.

  Next stop was the IGA, where Lucy had promised to pick up coffee and other supplies for the office. But when she tried to make the turn onto Main Street, her usual route, she encountered a police barrier. The yellow saw- horse was manned by Officer Barney Culpepper.

  “What’s going on?” she asked Barney.

  Lucy and Barney were old friends, who had first met when they both served on the Cub Scout Pack Committee many years earlier when Toby and Barney’s son, Eddie, were still in elementary school.

  “Look for yourself, Lucy. It’s them nudists. They’re having a big demonstration against that public decency bylaw.” Barney resembled a big old St. Bernard dog, and his jowls quivered as he pointed out the crowd of people gathered around the town hall steps.

  “Do I dare?” asked Lucy, peeking through her fingers.

  Barney roared with laughter. “You can relax. They’re wearing clothes today.”

  Lucy dropped her hand and surveyed the crowd that was rapidly spilling out into the street in front of the town hall. There seemed to be hundreds of them, all decently covered and listening quietly to their leader, a middle-aged man with a pot belly and a bald spot.

  “Where did all the Calvin Klein models go?” she asked Barney. “Do they all have to be middle-aged and paunchy?”

  “They do seem to be a pretty well-upholstered bunch,” said Barney, hitching his utility belt a bit higher on his pot belly. “Not that I’m much better, but at least I keep my clothes on, except when I’m showering. Their leader there, Mike Gold’s his name, is a case in point. I can’t see why he’d be in any hurry to strip down. Most guys his size would be happy to hide themselves inside a big old Hawaiian shirt.”

  The idea made Lucy grin. “Listen, you think it would be okay if I drove behind the plumbing supply place and through the bank parking lot to get to the IGA?”

  “Fine with me,” said Barney, holding up his huge hand to stop an oncoming VW and giving Lucy room to make her turn.

  After she parked her car in the nearly empty lot in front of the IGA, Lucy paused to survey the scene. The naturists seemed extremely well-organized; this was no impromptu demonstration. They were carrying professionally printed signs, some of which had clever illustrations and sayings. “If people were meant to wear clothes, they’d be born that way!” proclaimed one placard. Another said: “Naturists have nothing to hide.” “Wear a smile!,” “Clothing is optional” and “Nudity is Natural” declared others, but the one that made her smile said, “Fig leaves belong on trees.”

  Most of the protesters were also wearing official American Naturist Society T-shirts. Lucy suspected that ANS headquarters had sent out a call for volunteers and this demonstration was the result. If they’d gone to all that trouble, she figured, they’d probably also alerted the media. After all, you didn’t have a demonstration unless you wanted to get some attention.

  Lucy considered pulling out her camera and getting a few photos for the Pennysaver, and some quotes, too, but changed her mind when she saw Ted working his way through the crowd, notebook in hand. He seemed to be the only reporter working the crowd, but Lucy figured it was just a matter of time before other media showed up. This was a story that TV news directors wouldn’t be able to resist.

  She turned and went inside the IGA, where a few locals were standing in front of the plate-glass windows, watching the show outside.

  “My word,” fumed one elderly lady, whose hair was shellacked into a permanent sixties-era flip. “I can’t imagine wanting to go around with no clothes.”

  “I thought it was shocking when women stopped wearing girdles,” confided her companion, wearing a tightly-buttoned twinset topped with a three-strand pearl necklace. “Mother always warned about girls who jiggled when they walked.”

  Amused by this exchange, Lucy was smiling to herself as she got a cart and headed for the paper goods aisle. There she bought jumbo packages of paper towels and toilet paper, which she balanced precariously on top of each other. She picked up a few basic cleaning supplies, then went on to the coffee aisle where she picked up a dozen cans of this week’s special as well as a few jars of nondairy creamer. She never used the stuff herself but Phyllis loathed black coffee. A five-pound bag of sugar completed her purchases and she headed for the checkout where she found Miss Tilley and Rachel waiting in line.

  Julia Ward Howe Tilley was the town’s oldest resident and had reluctantly agreed to retire from her position as town librarian only a few years earlier. She was as strong-minded as ever and although a few telemarketers made the mistake of calling her by her first name, no one in town dreamed of doing so. She had always been Miss Tilley and always would be, even to Rachel, who helped her with daily tasks like shopping and preparing meals. Rachel’s influence only went so far, however. Today Miss Tilley was wearing a track suit with racing stripes down the legs and the latest in high-tech athletic footwear.

  Lucy greeted them with a smile. “What do you think of all these goings-on?” she asked.

  “Not much,” said Rachel. “I don’t know how we’re going to get out of the parking lot and home in time for lunch.”

  “Lunch can wait,” said Miss Tilley, a naughty gleam in her bright blue eyes. “I’m hoping one of these protesters will strip—while it’s still legal.”

  “She’s been like this ever since she heard about Pru Pratt’s proposed bylaw,” said Rachel, clucking her tongue in disapproval.

  “I’ll never understand why people who claim to worship the good Lord and all his works find the human body so objectionable,” said Miss Tilley, as Rachel began unloadin
g their groceries onto the conveyor belt.

  “You have a point,” said Lucy. “What do you think about the fireworks?”

  “I think Jonathan Franke is running out of projects. APTC got the town to set up a recycling center, they got that real estate surtax for buying up open space land, they’ve put up bluebird houses and poles for osprey nests all over town. Worthy projects all but not very exciting so he decided to make a big deal about the lichen, which seems to be doing fine without his help and despite the annual fireworks show.” Miss Tilley snorted. “It’s a lot of fuss over nothing, if you ask me.”

  “That’ll be forty-seven dollars and fifty-six cents,” said Dot Kirwan, the cashier.

  They all waited patiently while Miss Tilley got out her rusty black purse and counted out the amount to the penny, then took her receipt and carefully folded it before tucking it into her purse. Then she and Rachel proceeded out to the parking lot at a stately pace, her silver sneakers giving off flashes of light with every step.

  “Hi, Lucy,” said Dot. “Big doings in town today.”

  “It all seems peaceful enough,” said Lucy, unloading her cart onto the conveyor belt. “They’re very well-organized.”

  “I haven’t got any problem with them, as long as they stay out by the pond and don’t go wandering around town in their birthday suits,” said Dot, waving a can of coffee over the scanner. “And business has been up since they started coming. Joe says there’s been a big jump in deli sales over last year. A lot of them take picnics out to the pond. Not to mention bug spray and suntan lotion.” She raised an eyebrow. “Well, it figures, doesn’t it? After all, some parts are more sensitive than others, if you get my drift.”

  “Are they mostly day-trippers, or do they stay around here?” asked Lucy.

  “A lot of ’em are staying at Mel Dunwoodie’s campground,” volunteered Marge Culpepper, Barney’s wife, who had taken the place behind Lucy in the check-out aisle. “He’s got a big banner up that says, ‘Nude is Not Lewd.’ I almost went off the road when I saw it.”

  “I heard he’s thinking of turning the campground into a nudist colony,” said Dot. “That’s what Jack Kimble said. He’s in real estate, you know, and he said he’s worried about property values.”

  “That’s right in your neighborhood, Lucy,” observed Marge. “You and the Pratts would be most directly affected. Are you worried?”

  “I’m worried,” admitted Lucy, thinking of Elizabeth. “But not about property values.”

  “I suppose you want this on account, like usual?” asked Dot.

  “Righto,” said Lucy, pushing her cart towards the exit. “Take care, now.”

  “Keep your clothes on!” said Dot, laughing. She leaned across the counter to Marge. “I used to say ‘Have a nice day’ but now I say ‘Keep your clothes on’. The customers love it.”

  Outside in the parking lot, Lucy was interested to see that an impromptu counter-demonstration had formed. Members of the Revelation Congregation were out in force, making up for their lack of organization with righteous indignation. Their handlettered signs quoted Bible scripture, especially God’s command to Adam and Eve to “cover their nakedness” when they were expelled from the Garden of Eden. The group’s numbers were small, but they were doing their best to shout down the naturist speakers. One of the loudest was Pru Pratt.

  “Sinners repent!” she shrieked, over and over, sounding like a crow.

  Her husband, Calvin, was standing beside her. In contrast to his wife, Calvin looked abashed to be involved in a public display, and was practically hiding behind the sign he was holding. “Avoid the occasion for sin!” it proclaimed, in drippy red paint.

  Not bad advice, thought Lucy, again thinking of Elizabeth as she wheeled the cart over to her car and unlatched the hatch. She tossed the giant package of paper towels into the back of the Subaru, then paused as she reached for the toilet paper. What was she thinking? She was once again agreeing with the Pratts. She needed her head examined.

  Lucy was in the driver’s seat, planning a route back to the paper that avoided Main Street, when she saw trouble looming on the horizon. A group of fishermen leaving the Bilge, their favorite hangout, had spotted the group from the Revelation Congregation. At first they were content to toss out a few ribald comments, and to laugh at the shocked reactions of the Revelation Congregation members.

  They probably would have gotten bored and gone on their way soon enough, except for the fact that one of the more zealous demonstrators raised his sign and threatened the fishermen with it. That was all it took for them to charge into the crowd, seizing the signs and knocking several demonstrators to their knees.

  Lucy grabbed her cell phone, intending to dial 911, but someone had beaten her to it. The wail of a siren was heard approaching and the fishermen quickly scattered. It was all over when the squad car came careening into the parking lot. Not far behind was a white van with a satellite dish on top. Tinker’s Cove would make the TV evening news.

  Chapter Seven

  “This town’s going to hell in a handbasket,” announced Lucy, as she wrestled the giant package of paper towels through the back door at the Pennysaver. Traffic was still not allowed on Main Street and she’d had to wind her way through back streets and driveways to the grungy parking area behind the office. It was shared with other stores and businesses on Main Street and was primarily used for deliveries and as a place to store garbage cans and dumpsters.

  “Want some help with those bundles?” asked Phyllis.

  “No, I can manage,” said Lucy.

  She was out the door and back in a minute with the toilet paper. A third trip to get the bags of cleaning supplies and coffee completed her mission. Phyllis helped her unpack everything into the storage closet.

  “Store-brand creamer?”

  “You sound like my kids,” said Lucy. “I don’t think you appreciate what I went through to get this stuff. It’s like a war zone out there, with the boys from the Bilge attacking the pious folk from the Revelation Congregation.”

  “Is that what happened? I heard the sirens and wondered what was going on.” Phyllis was arranging cans of coffee on the shelf. “Anybody hurt?”

  “I hope not.” Lucy was picturing the encounter in her mind, wondering at the violence exhibited by the fishermen.

  Phyllis voiced the same thought. “What do they have against the Revelation Congregation anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucy. “Frankly, I’m kind of amazed that nudity is turning out to be so controversial. It’s sure turned this town upside down.”

  “I wouldn’t read too much into it,” said Phyllis, with a knowing nod. “After a few boilermakers, those boys’ll punch anything that moves.”

  “You’ve got a point,” agreed Lucy, heading for the door. “See you Monday.”

  The hot weather held during the weekend and there was more traffic than usual on Red Top Road as naturists driving cars with license plates from all over New England and beyond gathered at the pond. Elizabeth spent every spare minute there, ignoring her parents’ objections.

  “You’re asking for trouble,” warned Bill, passing a platter of corn on the cob, the first of the season. They were all gathered around the picnic table for a barbecue dinner.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Dad,” replied Elizabeth. “The naturists are all polite and respectful.”

  “It’s not the naturists I’m worried about,” said Bill.

  “Dad does have a point,” said Toby. “A lot of the guys are going down to the pond to check on the action there.”

  “Well, I can’t be responsible if they’re pathetic and immature, can I?” countered Elizabeth.

  “I hope you’re using sunscreen,” fretted Lucy. “Take it from me, sun can really damage your skin.”

  “You could get cancer,” said Zoe.

  “It’s not fair,” grumbled Sara, wiping her brow with a paper napkin. “Because of these nudists, we can’t go swimming at the pond.”

&nb
sp; “Naturists,” corrected Elizabeth. “And it isn’t their fault. It’s Mom’s and Dad’s. They’re the ones who won’t let you go.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to go,” snapped Sara, who was self-conscious about her developing body. “Maybe I’m not a show-off like you.”

  “That’s enough, girls,” said Lucy, determined to keep peace at the dinner table.

  But keeping peace was no easy task, at the table or anywhere else for that matter, as the temperature soared and the humidity climbed. Frustrated by the unusual amount of traffic when he made his usual Sunday morning dump run, Bill finally slammed his hand on the horn and pulled into the road in front of a line of cars, prompting a flurry of honks in return. Toby made himself scarce, and when Lucy casually asked him what his plans were on Saturday night he was unusually evasive. There was no question about what Elizabeth was doing—she continued to go down to the pond and was so defensive about it that no one dared to say a word to her because she’d snap their heads off.

  Finally, on Sunday afternoon, Lucy and the younger girls settled in the gazebo to make the crepe paper flowers. They occasionally caught a slight breeze off the ocean out there, and Lucy kept the lemonade pitcher filled as the piles of red, white and blue “carnations” grew around them. When they’d used up all the crepe paper they bundled the flowers into plastic garbage bags and stuffed them into the back of the Subaru to deliver on Monday morning.

  Melanie was in her usual spot, greeting the campers, when Lucy pulled up. The girls hopped out of the car and unloaded the flowers, eager to show her how much they’d accomplished. While she oohed and aahed, Lucy went and parked the car. Today she was covering Officer Barney Culpepper’s annual fireworks safety lesson. As community outreach officer, he was responsible for educating town children about the rules of the road for bicyclists, Halloween safety and the danger of fireworks. Lucy always looked forward to covering these events because she got cute quotes from the kids and adorable photographs.