by Leslie Meier
Barney was just beginning his presentation when she arrived at the covered pavilion, positioning herself on the outside of the circle of children gathered around him.
“Who knows what this is?” he asked, holding up a sparkler.
Almost all the children raised their hands. He pointed to a little boy with red hair and a freckled nose.
“A sparkler,” said the boy. “My dad gets ’em every year for the Fourth of July.”
“Does your dad let you hold them?” asked Barney.
“Sure. It’s fun.”
“It’s fun, but it’s also dangerous,” said Barney, lighting the sparkler he was holding and receiving a chorus of ohhhs. “Do you know how hot this is right now?”
The kids didn’t know, but a few raised their hands anyway. Barney chose Zoe.
“Five hundred degrees,” she said, making an educated guess. “That’s the hottest the oven gets.”
“More than one thousand degrees,” said Barney, carefully inserting the spent sparkler into a large coffee can filled with sand.
The kids were impressed.
“If you were to touch a lighted sparkler, you’d get a very bad burn. It could also set your clothes on fire. Who can think of some safety rules for sparklers?”
“Don’t have them,” offered a little girl with glasses.
“That’s the safest thing, absolutely,” said Barney. “But what if you do have them?”
“When they’re done, put them in sand like you did,” suggested a serious looking little boy.
“That’s excellent. Anything else?”
The group was stymied.
“Well, if you’re holding a sparkler be very careful. Watch it. Keep it away from other people. Don’t run with it. Hold it out, away from your clothes. Don’t let it get near your face, and don’t keep holding it after it burns out because the wire stays very hot. And always have a bucket of water nearby, just in case of fire. Okay?” Barney held up a string of firecrackers. “Who can tell me what these are?”
“Firecrackers!” chorused the kids.
“Anybody here ever set off any firecrackers?”
If they had, nobody was going to admit it.
Barney chuckled and winked at Lucy.
“Firecrackers make a lot of noise, right?” Barney had everyone step back and lit the string, which popped and crackled and banged and danced about on the ground. “They don’t seem too dangerous, do they?”
“If you put one in a can it will make the can bounce,” offered the boy with freckles.
“What do you do if you put a firecracker under a can and it doesn’t go off?”
“You look and see if it’s gone out.”
“NO YOU DON’T!” yelled Barney. “If it goes off when you’re looking, you could hurt your eyes. Even go blind.”
Barney’s expression became very serious. “Do you know how many people are injured by fireworks every year?”
“Millions?” guessed the boy with freckles. He looked so serious that Lucy couldn’t resist snapping his photo.
“Not millions, thank goodness,” said Barney. “It’s around nine thousand, which is a lot of people. That’s why firecrackers and most other fireworks are illegal in our state. They can get you in big trouble.”
The children had grown very quiet. Lucy guessed some were probably thinking guiltily of the supplies of fireworks their families had at home, ready for the holiday. After all, they were sold legally in neighboring New Hampshire and Canada, too.
“Anybody here hungry? Anybody want some watermelon?” asked Barney, sensing it was time to liven things up.
He lifted a small, round watermelon out of a box and held it up, prompting an enthusiastic reaction. The kids shrieked and clapped until he held up his hand for silence.
“Before we eat the watermelon, I want to try a little experiment. What do you think will happen if I put a little cherry bomb inside the melon and set it off?” He held up the little device. “It’s pretty small, isn’t it? It can’t do much damage, can it?”
Lucy was surprised to see Zoe had her hand raised. She waited until Barney gave her a nod before posing her question.
“Officer Barney, isn’t that cherry bomb illegal? You said only sparklers are legal, didn’t you?”
“That’s a very good question, Zoe,” said Barney, adding a big humph. “This cherry bomb was confiscated from somebody who was trying to bring it into the country illegally from Canada. It was given to our department for demonstration purposes only.” He paused, letting this information sink in, then pointed to a little girl with long braids. “I see we have another question.”
“Will it make the watermelon taste funny?” she asked.
“It might,” agreed Barney. “But we won’t know unless we try. Everybody move back.”
Once he had everyone gathered at one end of the pavilion, he took the melon to the other end, where he set it on a concrete block. Then he donned safety glasses before he dropped the cherry bomb into the melon and awkwardly scampered away. A minute later, the fireworks started popping and the melon exploded, spraying chunks of rind everywhere.
“Sorry, kids. I didn’t expect that to happen. I guess these firecrackers are more powerful than we thought, hunh?”
There were nods all round, as well as a few pouts.
“I want you to remember what happened to this watermelon if somebody asks you to play with fireworks on the Fourth of July, okay? They may look pretty, and you might think it would be fun to play with them, but they can be very dangerous They can really hurt you, and I don’t want to visit you in the hospital.”
The kids were clearly impressed, sitting silently with somber expressions.
“Well, lucky for you, I brought two watermelons.” Barney bent over and hoisted an even larger melon out of the box.
The kids cheered.
Afterwards, when they were sitting side by side, chewing on half-moons of ripe, red watermelon, Lucy asked Barney about the scuffle on Friday afternoon.
“Just between you and me,” he said, wiping his chin with his huge hand, “that whole brouhaha had nothing at all to do with the church. Those guys were after Calvin Pratt.”
“Calvin?”
“Yeah. It’s no secret that a lot of the fishermen suspect him and his son Wesley there of poaching their traps. He hasn’t been very popular on the waterfront for some time.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
Barney smiled slyly. “You should read those police logs you pick up every week.”
“I would if I had time,” said Lucy, defending herself. “Phyllis scans them into the computer.”
Barney took a bite of watermelon. “We’ve saved his butt a coupla times, breaking up fights.”
“No wonder he looked so miserable,” said Lucy. “Pru probably dragged him there.”
“I’ll bet. He knew he was in big trouble if he was spotted.”
“Did they hurt him?”
“Nah, he ran for his truck as soon as he saw them coming. A couple of the naturists got in the way, there were some bruises. No broken bones.”
Lucy nodded. “You know, there’s an awful lot of lobster gear on the Pratts’ property, behind their barn. I went over there when the dog got out last week and it made me wonder because I figured they’d have all their pots in the water. But when I looked closer it seemed as if the stuff had a whole lot of different registration numbers on it. I think it was stolen.” She paused. “Wouldn’t that be evidence that they’re poaching?”
“Not really. Fishing gear breaks off all the time. They could just say they found it floating around.”
“Well shouldn’t they return it?”
“They could say they’ve been too busy.” Barney spit out a seed. “It’s high season, you know.”
“So a search is no good?”
“Gotta catch ’em in the act.”
“How are you going to do that?” asked Lucy, who knew the town police department had limited manpower, stretched
even thinner by the presence of the naturists in addition to the usual influx of summer visitors.
“We can’t, but we’ve asked for help from the state natural resources people.”
Lucy also knew the state was having budget problems, and had cut back many departments. Natural resources had been one of the hardest hit.
“You don’t expect them anytime soon, do you?”
“Nope,” said Barney, tossing his rind into the trash. “No I don’t.”
“Mind posing for some pictures?”
Barney grimaced. “I might break the camera.”
She studied his homely, jowly face as he knelt down to show his portable radio to a little boy.
“I’ll risk it. Handsome is as handsome does, Barney.”
“Aw, Lucy.” It was going to be a great photo, the big bear-like policeman and the adorable little boy, heads together over the radio. She snapped a couple of shots, just to be on the safe side.
“You’ll look great on page one.”
“Sales will drop, I’m warning you.”
“Never fear. Ted’s putting the naturists above the fold.”
Chapter Eight
Back at the Pennysaver, deadline was approaching and Lucy could no longer ignore the pile of press releases that had been growing on her desk all week. A roast beef dinner at the VFW, a square dance in the Community Church basement, a meeting of the Ladies Aid Society, story hour at the library, bingo at the senior center, all these and more had to be added to the community calendar. Some, like the Drama Guild’s upcoming production of “Our Town” merited more attention than a listing and Lucy had to write three or four inches of copy for a brief announcement.
“What can I write about ‘Our Town’?” she wondered aloud. “Talk about an old chestnut.”
“Don’t you mean ‘classic’?” corrected Ted, sounding a bit sarcastic. As deadline drew nearer he tended to grow increasingly caustic.
“If you say so, but that old thing has been performed by every amateur theatrical group on the coast,” said Lucy. “The entire population must know it by heart.”
“Okay, smarty-pants, do you know it by heart?”
“No, Ted, I don’t. But that’s only because I keep my brain clear and uncluttered, so I can better concentrate on the intricate details of the bird club’s walks. It’s the conservation area on Sunday and Quisset Point on Tuesday and I wouldn’t want to get them switched.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” sighed Phyllis. “They’ve had the same schedule for years. You’d think anybody who’s interested would know it by now.”
“What about visitors? Or new residents?” snapped Ted. “Don’t they deserve to know what’s going on in Tinker’s Cove?”
“Doesn’t take long to figure that out,” said Phyllis. “Not much.”
The office scanner cackled just then, contradicting her observation. Something was indeed happening in town, something that required a response from the police or fire department. They all listened intently, but the only word they could make out was “waterfront,” combined with a lot of garbled numbers, police codes for classifying incidents.
“Did you catch that?” asked Ted, screwing up his face.
“Funny, isn’t it? When some old guy has difficulty breathing and needs an ambulance it’s clear as a bell.”
Ted was on his feet, checking his camera and making sure he had extra film.
“Do you get the feeling they don’t want us there?” he asked, heading for the door.
“That would be my guess,” said Lucy, slinging her bag over her shoulder and hurrying to catch up with him.
“I’ll stay here and take the messages,” said Phyllis, feeling sorry for herself. But nobody was there to listen.
The waterfront was only a couple of blocks from the Pennysaver office but Ted got in his car and started the engine. Lucy hopped into the passenger seat and they were off, chasing a police cruiser that was racing down Main Street with its siren blaring and its lights flashing.
The scanner in Ted’s car was also cackling as the dispatcher reeled off numbers and called in units from the far ends of town. The sound of approaching sirens filled the air.
“I don’t like this,” said Lucy, who was growing nervous. “Fishing’s so dangerous. I hope nobody’s in trouble.”
But when they careened into the harbor parking lot it was clear that this was no tragedy at sea. Instead, police officers were busy breaking up a brawl. And as they got closer and had a clearer view of things they discovered that Toby was in the center of the fray, locked in fisticuffs with Wesley Pratt. Lucy was shocked to see her normally peace-loving son grappling with Wesley, his face red and twisted with rage.
She winced as two burly police officers administered a liberal dose of pepper spray before grabbing the young men by their shirt collars and yanking them apart. Toby’s eyes were tearing and he was coughing and sneezing but the officers ignored his distress as they clapped his wrists into handcuffs and bundled him into the back of a cruiser.
“He needs a doctor!” exclaimed Lucy, frantic with concern.
“He needs a lawyer,” said Ted, busy snapping pictures of Wesley getting the same treatment.
“Where are they taking them?”
“The station for now. Court’s in session today so they’ll probably arraign them this afternoon.”
“Arraignment?” Lucy was shocked.
“This is serious, Lucy. Toby’s not going to get off easily. I meant what I said about getting a lawyer. Come on, I’ll take you back to the office so you can make some calls.” He paused. “You better let Bill know what’s happened.”
“I can’t,” said Lucy, as they climbed up the hill to the car. “He’s over on the other side of the state, picking up some salvaged doors and windows.”
“That’s too bad.” Ted was starting the car.
“Yeah,” said Lucy, fastening her seatbelt. But she wasn’t altogether convinced. It was probably better that Bill would learn about Toby’s arrest after the fact, when things had settled down a bit.
When they got to the office Lucy immediately put in a call to Bob Goodman, her friend Rachel’s husband, who was a lawyer. He promised to meet Lucy at the courthouse for the afternoon session which began at two o’clock.
The district court was located in Gilead, a good half-hour drive from Tinker’s Cove and Lucy left early so she wouldn’t miss anything. That meant she had to wait. She was too nervous to sit on the benches provided in the lobby, so she paced. A few other worried-looking people were also waiting, some sitting with slumped shoulders and grim expressions. Others could be seen through the glass doors, standing outside and puffing on cigarettes. Lucy had never smoked a cigarette in her life but she suddenly wanted one.
A bailiff opened the doors to the courtroom and people started to drift in. Lucy took a seat right up front. She wanted to know everything that happened. But where was Bob? Minutes ticked by, a few lawyers gathered in the front of the courtroom, chatting casually, but there was no sign of the judge. Or Toby. Where was he? What were they doing to him?
Bob Goodman slipped into the seat beside her and Lucy threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Bob made a reassuring figure, with his graying hair and rumpled suit. His shoes needed polishing and his briefcase was overflowing with papers, all evidence of his heavy caseload. He was one of the hardest working lawyers in the district with a reputation for fairness that attracted clients from his better-tailored competitors.
“Take it easy Lucy,” he said, seeing her worried expression. “This is just routine. I’ll ask for bail and we’ll get it. Have you got cash?”
Lucy nodded. “I stopped at the bank.”
“Here they come,” said Bob, squeezing her hand. “I better get down front.”
Lucy watched as the court officers led a straggly line of miscreants into the courtroom. Toby was there, along with Wesley and a few other fishermen. There were also faces she didn’t recognize: an old
er man, a couple of young girls. They were all in handcuffs and looked disheveled and miserable. None of them made eye contact with anyone and a few attempted to cover their faces.
“All rise!” thundered the bailiff and the robed judge hurried in and took his place at the bench. He pounded his gavel and announced that court was in session. The fishermen were the first item of business.
“These young men engaged in a brawl this morning on the docks at Tinker’s Cove,” began the assistant district attorney.
He was a clean-cut youth, apparently fresh out of law school, crisply dressed in a spotless summer suit. His sturdy black wingtips were polished until they gleamed and he wore a large, gold signet ring on his pinky finger. Lucy hated him. He’d probably never, ever done anything bad. Never made a mistake. Never got himself into trouble.
“Testimony from police officers who were called to the scene . . .” continued the prosecutor, “one Tobias Stone is charged with assault with a dangerous weapon: a shod foot . . . other charges include disorderly conduct, resisting arrest . . .”
“He didn’t resist!” exclaimed Lucy, jumping to her feet. “He was pepper-sprayed. I was there. I saw it.”
Everyone in the courtroom was looking at her, including the judge, who had a very stern expression on his face.
“You are out of order,” he warned her. “If this happens again I will have you removed from the court.” He leaned forward. “Do you understand?”
Abashed, Lucy nodded. “I’m sorry, your honor.”
The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Do you have any objection to bail?”
“None, your honor.”
“We’ll set the pretrial conference for July 30 and schedule the trial for August 15. Is that agreeable to everyone?”
Both the prosecutor and Bob Goodman nodded.
“Bail is fifty dollars.” The judge banged his gavel, then leveled his gaze at Toby.
“Young man, release on bail is conditional upon your continued good behavior. Bail can and will be revoked if there are any further problems. Do you understand?”
