Star Spangled Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Hear! Hear!” boomed Scratch Hallett, waving a fist in the air.

  Chairman Howard White banged his gavel and called for order.

  “We’ll have no more of that,” he said, as if scolding a classroom of rowdy kindergarteners. “You’ll all get to express your views, but you have to wait to be recognized by the chair, that’s me.” He pointed the gavel. “Reverend Macintosh.”

  “Clive Macintosh, I’m the chaplain for the VFW, and I want to express support for Mr. Weatherby’s petition.”

  Heads nodded and hands shot up throughout the room.

  “Am I correct in assuming you’re all here because you want the fireworks restored?” asked Howard. “Just raise your hands.”

  Almost everyone in the room raised their hands.

  Howard White sighed, and the other board members looked pained.

  “Perhaps if I explain our vote,” said Howard. “The problem is that this plant is protected by state law and the town could face an expensive court battle if the lichen is harmed. We really had no choice but to cancel the fireworks this year. But I’m willing to appoint a committee to look into alternatives for next year.”

  The other board members nodded in agreement.

  “We don’t want a committee!” yelled a shrill female voice. “We want fireworks!”

  This was greeted with enthusiastic applause, prompting Howard to bang his gavel furiously.

  “I don’t want to have to clear the room,” he warned. “We have a consensus, however, and the committee proposal will be put on the agenda for the next meeting.”

  This was met with grumbles and somebody called out, “We don’t want a committee! We want fireworks!”

  “That’s not the way business is conducted in this town,” said Howard, setting his jaw firmly. “Now, does anyone have any other matter to discuss beside the fireworks?”

  “Hold on, Howard,” said Joe Marzetti. “Maybe we should take another vote.”

  “That’s impossible,” snapped Howard, “and you know it. We can’t vote on a matter unless it’s placed on the agenda and duly advertised.”

  “Well, then, let’s add it to next week’s agenda,” said Joe, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “We can add it, but it will be too late. The next meeting is after July Fourth.”

  Joe’s face was red with embarrassment at his mistake and fury at Howard’s high-handed manner. He sat silently, drumming his fingers on the table.

  Lucy was so caught up in the drama of the situation that she’d forgotten all about Kudo until Bill tapped her thigh a few times with his knee. “How long is this going to go on?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” she said, looking around the room. Nobody seemed ready to leave and Howard was looking increasingly uncomfortable with the situation.

  “Discussion on the fireworks issue is hereby closed,” he said, adding a smack of the gavel for emphasis. “Does anyone wish to bring any other issue to the board’s attention?”

  If he had expected the crowd to pack up and leave, he was going to be disappointed, thought Lucy. Hands had shot up throughout the room. Howard gave the floor to Millicent Blood, a patrician woman who happened to be one of his neighbors. If he’d been seeking a conciliator, however, he’d made the wrong choice. Millicent’s comments only fanned the flames of controversy.

  “I would just like to say that I applaud the efforts of the Society for the Preservation of Tinker’s Cove to preserve our natural heritage. . . .”

  Millicent was drowned out by a chorus of boos. Seeking to restore order, Howard pointed his gavel at the first person he happened to see: Mike Gold.

  The portly, frizzy-haired representative of the American Naturist Society had dressed for the meeting, albeit in sandals, rather short shorts and a tank-style T-shirt. Definitely not the sort of thing people wore in Tinker’s Cove, thought Lucy, but at least he was decently, if minimally, covered.

  “My name is Mike Gold and I’m here on behalf of the naturist community . . .”

  If only she’d had a camera, thought Lucy, to capture Howard’s horrified expression.

  “. . . and I’d like to express our appreciation to the people of Tinker’s Cove for their tolerance and hospitality,” continued Mike. “We’d like to apologize for any disruption we may have caused and ask for your patience. We understand naturism is controversial, not everyone approves, but we believe that if you get to know us, you’ll find we’re a pretty responsible group and we’re eager to work out any problems that may come up in a constructive way. Thank you.”

  The next speaker, Mel Dunwoodie, wasn’t quite as tactful. “Whether or not you like it, naturists have rights, too, and we intend to exercise our right to ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’ to the utmost,” he said, turning to glare at Prudence Pratt. “I’d also like to add that this proposed bylaw against nudity is a bad idea for our town and urge everyone to vote against it.”

  The crowd was divided on this issue: some applauded while others grumbled. Hands shot up and Howard scanned the crowd until he found someone who was certain to say the right thing, whatever the occasion: Corney Clark.

  Corney got to her feet gracefully and gave a little toss of her head, causing her blond hair to fall into place. Trust Corney to find a fabulous stylist, a genius with the shears.

  “I just want to say,” she began, in her wellmodulated finishing school voice, “that in all the years I’ve lived here in Tinker’s Cove I’ve never seen the town so divided. These are challenging times and we’re faced with many difficult issues, but I want to remind everyone that we’re all members of the same community and we all want what’s best for our town. The days ahead will be much more pleasant if we treat each other as we would wish to be treated ourselves : with tolerance and respect.”

  For once, the crowd was silent. Howard White seized the moment, closed the public discussion period and moved the meeting forward onto the first item of business. He slumped in his chair, mopping his brow with his handkerchief, while dog officer Cathy Anderson came forward and arranged her papers.

  Lucy, who’d been enjoying the meeting so much that she almost forgot about Kudo, clasped Bill’s hand.

  “I have received several complaints about Kudo, a mixed-breed dog owned by Lucy and Bill Stone, who live on Red Top Road. The dog has on several occasions attacked chickens, and I myself have witnessed him running loose in violation of the town’s leash law. On at least two occasions these sightings have coincided with complaints about knocked-over garbage bins. When I contacted the owners, they were exceptionally cooperative, they even built a kennel to specifications I recommended, incurring considerable expense. Unfortunately, the dog continues to defy their best efforts and keeps getting out.”

  “Are the owners here tonight?” asked White.

  “Yes,” said Lucy, rasing her hand.

  “Ah, Mrs. Stone, I didn’t see you there. You’re not in your usual seat.” He surveyed the audience. “Are any of the complainants here?”

  “Yup. Right here,” Prudence Pratt spoke out loudly.

  “Well, I guess we better hear what you have to say, Mrs. Pratt.”

  Lucy found herself sinking lower in her chair as Pru strode to the front of the room, taking her place beside Cathy Anderson. Pru was much taller than Cathy, and in contrast to the dog officer’s womanly figure, she looked mannish from behind. Her T-shirt and jeans hung loosely from her bony body. Cathy’s blond hair was clean and shiny while Pru’s was scraped back and clumped into a stickylooking ponytail.

  “Well,” began Pru, “I’ve got a flock of about forty Rhode Island Reds. These are chickens I breed myself, and they regularly take the blue ribbon at the county fair. They’re also good layers, I get a lot of double yolks. And when they stop laying they make a very tasty stew, if I say so myself. The problem is that this dog, here, keeps coming over and gets ’em all in a panic and, well, being chickens, eventually one of ’em will manage to flap its way over the fence and right in
to the beast’s mouth. And then there’s blood and gore and feathers all over the place.” She snorted. “He doesn’t even eat ’em, mind, just shakes ’em ’til they come apart.”

  There were a few groans from the audience and Lucy found herself wincing.

  “You’re saying he doesn’t dig under the fence, or break it in some way?’ asked Joe Marzetti.

  “No, he’s a crafty devil. He just keeps worrying ’em and worrying ’em until he gets one in a panic. He’s a master at it.”

  “Have you asked the Stones to repay you for the lost chickens?” asked Ellie Sykes.

  “Sure. They always pay, but what’s the good of that? I can’t replace the chickens. They’re breeding stock, see. Last week he got one of my prizewinners, one I was planning to breed.”

  “Do we have any other witnesses?” asked White.

  No one came forward, and Lucy had a little surge of hope. Then she was called to the front of the room. Bill squeezed her hand as she rose from her seat.

  “All I can say,” she began, looking each board member in the eye in turn, “is that we have done our very best to restrain the dog. As Cathy mentioned we built him a very sturdy kennel, but he is something of an escape artist. I would like to mention that he is not a vicious dog, except for chickens, and he’s a much-loved family pet. My two youngest girls, especially, are very fond of him.”

  Again, she tried to make eye contact with the board members, but only Ellie Sykes met her gaze. The others looked away. Not a good sign.

  Lucy went back to her seat when Howard White asked Cathy for her recommendation.

  “This is a very difficult situation,” she began in a tight voice, pausing to consult her notes. “As I mentioned, the Stones are responsible pet owners who have followed all my suggestions and recommendations. Unfortunately, they have been unable to control the dog and his problem behavior continues. This doesn’t leave the board with too many options. You could banish the dog, which essentially means passing the problem on to someone else, or you could vote to . . . ,” she paused and swallowed hard, “destroy the dog.”

  Lucy actually felt her stomach drop.

  “Is the dog a danger to people? To children?” inquired Ellie Sykes.

  “I don’t believe so,” said Cathy.

  From her seat, Pru Pratt snorted. “I wouldn’t want to get between that dog and a chicken, that’s for sure.”

  “That’s definitely a factor to consider,” said Joe Marzetti.

  “I don’t think we should concern ourselves with speculation,” said Howard. “We should base this decision on the facts, on the dog’s past history.”

  “The dog was before us a few years ago?” asked Marzetti, who was leafing through his information packet.

  “Yes, when he was owned by Curt Nolan,” said Cathy. “It was a similar complaint.”

  “I actually brought that complaint,” said Ellie. “I keep chickens, too, and he did quite a lot of damage to my flock.”

  “I had a dog like that once,” said Pete Crowley, “only he chased cats. He was always treeing the neighbor’s cats.”

  “Do we have a motion?” asked Howard, cutting off Pete’s reminiscences.

  “I move we give the Stones one more chance,” said Ellie. “We can continue the order that the dog be confined to their property with the condition that it will be destroyed if it gets loose again.”

  “Second,” said Bud Collins, who Lucy had thought was asleep.

  “All in favor?”

  The vote was unanimous.

  “Whew.” Bill let out a huge sigh. “A reprieve.”

  “But he’s still on death row,” said Lucy, wondering how they were ever going to manage to keep Kudo confined, considering he’d overcome their best efforts to date.

  Pru wasn’t pleased with the decision. She was clearly in a huff as she went back to her seat.

  “Our next order of business is a request from the July Fourth parade committee,” said Howard. “Who speaks for the committee?”

  “I do.”

  Lucy turned around and saw the speaker was Marge Culpepper, Barney’s wife. She was a tall, plump woman who looked older than her years due to the curly, gray hair she refused to touch up with color. Lucy gave her an encouraging smile; she knew that Marge was terrified of speaking publicly.

  “I’m here on behalf of the entire committee,” stammered Marge, indicating four other people seated in the same row with her. They all raised their hands, to identify themselves. Marge stood up a bit straighter and swallowed hard. “We’re here to request that the board cancel the Fourth of July parade.”

  There was a shocked silence in the room. Even the group from the VFW was too stunned to protest.

  “What is the reason for this unusual request?” asked Howard.

  “The problem is that the American Naturist Society has applied for permission to march in the parade.”

  “So what?’ asked Pete Crowley, scratching his chin.

  “We’re not confident they will be appropriately attired,” said Marge, blushing furiously.

  “You mean they might march naked?” asked Crowley.

  “That’s ridiculous . . .” protested Mike Gold, only to be silenced by a bang of the gavel. He and Mel Dunwoodie both raised their hands, but Howard ignored them.

  “It’s a concern,” said Marge, nodding.

  “So deny the application,” said Marzetti.

  “It’s not that simple. Marching in the parade is an exercise of First Amendment rights. Free speech and all that. The application is just a formality, really. We can’t turn away anybody who wants to march, unless they’re breaking some law. It’s a violation of their right to free speech.”

  “That’s why we need a public decency bylaw,” yelled Pru, from the audience.

  “We’ll open this up for public comment later,” admonished Howard. “After the board has finished questioning Mrs. Culpepper.”

  “It sure doesn’t make much sense to me to cancel the whole parade because of one group,” said Joe. “Besides, the parade’s a big tourist attraction.”

  “Folks with kids are going to leave town fast and never come back if we have naked people in the parade,” said Pete.

  “Have you expressed your concern to the naturists?” asked Ellie. “Perhaps you could get some sort of agreement from them in advance.”

  “We considered doing that, but when we checked with town counsel he said we couldn’t apply a restriction to one group that we didn’t apply to all. And even if we did get some sort of informal promise, it wouldn’t be binding. I don’t think we can risk it.”

  “Whiskey?” Bud Collins opened one eye. “Where?”

  “Not whiskey, risky,” said Ellie.

  Howard banged his gavel. “Any comment from the audience?”

  Several hands shot up, joining Mike Gold’s and Mel Dunwoodie’s. Howard ignored them and chose the commander of the VFW post.

  “Well, all I want to say is that Tinker’s Cove doesn’t seem to be interested in celebrating the Fourth of July anymore,” asserted Bill Bridges, his dentures clicking furiously. “First it was the fireworks and now it’s the parade. What next?”

  “Yeah, I don’t suppose you’re even interested in this flag that we’re giving you,” said Scratch. “It flew over the Capitol, you know.”

  “I don’t recall recognizing you,” said Howard. “You only get the floor when I give it to you.”

  “Well, I don’t want your floor,” said Scratch, handing the flag to the commander. “I don’t want anything to do with the lot of you. I think it’s a sorry state of affairs when we can’t even celebrate the founding of our country and I know who to blame, too.” He pointed a finger, shaking with fury. “It’s you, Pru Pratt. It’s because of you and that stupid bylaw that these naturists want to be in the parade, instead of doing what they do over at the pond.”

  “Well, I never,” said Pru, rising to her feet, ready to give Scratch a piece of her mind. But it was too late. He’d le
ft the room.

  Unwilling to court further controversy, Howard called for a vote and the board members agreed unanimously, albeit reluctantly, to cancel the parade. They had hardly completed the vote when people started leaving. Down in front, Ted was getting quotes from Gold and Dunwoodie, scribbling furiously into his notebook.

  “Do you want to stay any longer?” asked Bill.

  Lucy shook her head and they joined the throng leaving the room.

  “It just doesn’t seem right,” she said. “No fireworks, no parade. It’s not going to be much of a Fourth of July.”

  “You can say that again,” agreed Bill.

  “The parade’s the least of it,” muttered Mel. “Whatever happened to free speech in this town?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucy and Bill were both quiet on the ride home, thinking over the implications of the board’s decision.

  “It could have been worse,” said Bill.

  “How are we going to keep Kudo from getting loose?”

  “I’m working on it,” said Bill.

  They fell silent.

  It was almost midnight when they got to bed and Bill, unused to such late hours, fell asleep immediately. Lying beside him, Lucy’s mind kept following the same worn track of worries, but now there were a few new twists. It seemed to her that the board hadn’t really done them any favors—they’d already tried everything they could think of to keep the dog confined and he’d always managed to get loose. It was just a matter of time before they’d be back at another hearing, and this time the result was a foregone conclusion. What could they do?

  It was an unanswerable question, but that didn’t stop her from trying to think of something. She heard the grandfather clock in the hall downstairs chime two before she fell asleep and she didn’t wake until Bill roused her an hour late in the morning.

  “You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” she protested.

  “I thought you could use the rest. Besides, you don’t have to write up the meeting today.”

  “That’s right,” she said, relaxing back against the pillows. “No deadline for me today.”