Star Spangled Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “So do you think one of the lobstermen might have killed her by mistake, thinking she was Wesley? Were tempers running that high around here? Over the poaching, I mean?”

  “It’s hard to say,” said Beetle. “Men get upset over a lot of things: women, money, politics. Lobsters, too.” He glanced at the ramshackle Bilge, perched precariously on the hill overlooking the harbor. “Especially if they drink a little too much Pete’s Wicked Ale, no?”

  Lucy looked at him sharply. “Does anybody like that come to mind?”

  Beetle raised his hands. “No, no. Nobody in particular. But the Bilge is a popular place. A lot of guys go there and drink, all night sometimes.”

  “All night? That’s illegal,” began Lucy, prompting a world-weary chuckle from Beetle. “Okay, I admit the Bilge is a law unto itself. So can you think of anybody who was especially upset by the poaching?”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy, but I have to get back to work.”

  “I thought you said there was no rush.”

  “I need a part and I just remembered the boatyard closes early today.”

  Lucy didn’t believe it for a minute. She suspected Beetle didn’t like the direction her questions were taking.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Lucy said slowly. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”

  “No problem. You know I wish the best for Toby. He’s a good kid.”

  “This has been hell for him, for all of us. If you could give me something to go on I’d be so grateful.”

  “I wish I could help you, Lucy.” Beetle shook his head. “Say thanks to Ted for me, will you? I saw my letter in the paper.”

  She had to expect this, she realized. People didn’t know she’d quit.

  “I don’t work there anymore.”

  “No?” Beetle’s black eyebrows shot up in amazement.

  “No. Ted says I can’t be in the news and report it, too.”

  “He fired you? There was nothing else you could do there?”

  “There was nothing I wanted to do, so I quit.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll go back when this is all over.”

  Lucy gave him a tight little smile. “Maybe.”

  Maybe he was right, she thought, as she drove home. Maybe she would go back to the Pennysaver when this was all over. But right now it didn’t seem as if it would ever be over unless Pru’s killer was found. And that seemed extremely unlikely unless somebody talked. But if her conversation with Beetle was any indication, it wasn’t going to be one of the lobstermen. They followed an unwritten code of loyalty, grown out of necessity. They depended on each other to help them if they ran into trouble on the water; it was expected that they would risk their own lives to save a fellow lobsterman.

  The problem was that while most of the lobstermen were hard working and followed the law, a handful took advantage of the code of silence to supplement their incomes by scrubbing female lobsters of their eggs, a practice forbidden by law, or even to use their boats to smuggle illegal drugs, even cigarettes now that they were so highly taxed. If one of the lobstermen had killed Pru Pratt, it would be extremely difficult for her, or the police for that matter, to finger the culprit.

  Lucy was thinking over this discouraging truth, when she spotted Ellie Sykes’s “Fresh Eggs” sign. Remembering the ten pounds of potato salad she’d promised Sue, she slammed on the brakes, spun the Subaru into Ellie’s driveway, bounced down the rutted dirt track and braked by the house.

  The eggs were set out on a card table, underneath a huge shady maple tree, packed in recycled cartons from the supermarket. Lucy opened one of the boxes—these beauties were a far cry from supermarket eggs. The shells shone as if they’d been polished, gleaming globes of brown and blue and green, some even speckled. They were varying sizes, too, big jumbos for daddy and extra larges for mommy and even a few itty-bitty pullet eggs for baby.

  Lucy was trying to decide how many dozen she needed when Ellie came out of the house.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in her official egglady voice.

  “I’m fine,” said Lucy. “I’m just dithering, trying to decide how many to take.”

  “Hi, Lucy, I didn’t realize it was you. The sun’s in my eyes and you’re in the shade.”

  “These are such beautiful eggs. I forgot how wonderful homegrown ones are, I’ve been buying those poor excuses the supermarket sells. I guess I got in the habit over the winter.”

  “My hens only lay enough for me in the winter,” said Ellie, in a matter-of-fact voice. “I don’t have enough to sell, so folks have to go to the store. It takes a while for people to find me again in the spring.”

  “Well, I’m glad I saw your sign. I need them for some potato salad I’m making for the town Fourth of July picnic. I guess you heard about it?”

  “I think it’s a great idea. Something to bring the whole town together.”

  “Not like the anti-nudity bylaw,” ventured Lucy. “Do you think there’s any hope for that now?”

  Ellie shrugged. “Pru had drummed up quite a lot of support, before she was killed. I know the Revelation Congregation came out in force to demonstrate and I guess they’ll carry on the fight.” Ellie drew her brows together. “You know, these are yesterday’s eggs. I can get you some fresher ones if you like. You can gather ’em yourself, for that matter.”

  “Really?” Lucy felt like a little kid. “From the hens?”

  “Sure.” Ellie grabbed a basket that was hanging on a handy hook. “Follow me.”

  They walked together to Ellie’s chicken house, a neat little shed situated behind her house. An old apple tree partially shaded the fenced-in run, where a small flock of plump hens were busily engaged in preening their feathers and scratching at the pebbly soil.

  “They’re very handsome birds,” said Lucy. “They look so healthy.”

  “Thanks,” said Ellie. “Maybe this will be my big year, now that Pru’s out of the picture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ellie’s nut-brown face reddened, and she looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I’m sorry Pru is dead. Nobody should die like that. But the fact remains that she always got the blue ribbon at the county fair. Bitsy Parsons and I took turns getting second and third.”

  “Bitsy?”

  “You know her. She has that little flower and egg stand on Newcomb Road.”

  Lucy nodded. “The snapdragon lady.”

  “And cosmos and zinnias and coneflowers and I don’t know what all. She can make anything grow, claims it’s the chicken manure. She’s the sweetest thing, too, always giving away extra plants.” Ellie waved a hand at the flowering border that ran along the front of her porch. “Most of my flowers came from her garden.”

  “I suppose the competition will be cutthroat now,” said Lucy, entering the chicken house as Ellie held the door open for her.

  “Not likely,” laughed Ellie. “So what do you want? Colors? Jumbos? I bet we’ve got some double yolkers here.”

  Lucy reached into one of the straw-lined nesting boxes and found a warm egg. She liked the way it felt in her hand, she liked the smooth texture and the way it fit into her palm, and lifted it to her cheek.

  “Don’t you peck me,” said Ellie, reaching under a sitting hen who glared at her with disapproving black-bead eyes.

  “She wants to keep her eggs,” said Lucy.

  “Well, she’s not going to,” laughed Ellie. “If she gets a clutch and goes all broody, she’ll stop laying.”

  “Do you eat them when they stop laying?” asked Lucy, tucking her egg into Ellie’s basket.

  “I do. It seems more respectful somehow, to me at least. Continuing the cycle of life.”

  Lucy knew that Ellie was part Metinnicut Indian and had a deep reverence for living things. She was certain that Ellie’s chickens met a quick and merciful end on their way to the stew pot.

  “So how many eggs do you want?’ asked Ellie, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Three dozen, I guess. And if I r
un out, I’ll be back for more.”

  It was amazing, thought Lucy, how a simple change from the ordinary routine could make such a difference. You wouldn’t think homegrown eggs would be that different from supermarket eggs, but somehow they were. She’d seen and touched the chickens and heard their throaty clucking, she’d gathered the eggs herself from their strawy nests, and she’d spoken with the woman who raised the chickens. It was a whole different experience from pushing a wire cart around a sterile supermarket and plucking a Styrofoam container from a chilly cooler. From now on, she decided, she was going to make a stop at Ellie’s to buy eggs a regular part of her routine.

  The route home took her past Mel Dunwoodie’s campground where the “Nude is Not Lewd” banner was still flying high above the entrance. Workers were busy installing a stockade fence along the property line and Lucy wondered if Mel really intended to convert his campground into a nudist colony. It would be interesting to hear what the town’s Planning Board would have to say about that, she thought, as she parked the car outside the office.

  She hesitated for a moment outside the office, remembering her encounter with Mel at Blueberry Pond. She fervently hoped he would be wearing clothes, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him standing behind the counter. He was wearing a shirt, and although she couldn’t see his lower half she assumed it was also decently covered.

  “What brings you here?” he said, scowling at her.

  “Are you upset with me about something?”

  “I just don’t need any more newspaper types nosing around here,” he said.

  “Well, you’re safe from me. I’m not working for the Pennysaver anymore. And if there’s any significance to that fence you’re building, I could care less. I’m here to talk about Pru Pratt.”

  “Can’t help you,” said Mel. “You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead.”

  Lucy smiled at him. “I wasn’t exactly a fan myself, and the police have been taking a very close look at my family, so I’d really appreciate any help you can give me. The sooner I can figure out who killed her the sooner we can all get back to normal.”

  “So you want to finger me?”

  “No way,” said Lucy. “I just thought you might be able to give me some leads. You must have gotten to know her pretty well. You were neighbors, for one thing. And you were on opposite sides of the bylaw issue, that would have brought you into contact at least.”

  “She was a sick woman,” said Mel. “She said she was against nudity but she couldn’t keep herself away from the pond. I think she was obsessed or something.”

  “You know, that doesn’t surprise me,” said Lucy. “I think a lot of people who vehemently reject some sort of behavior—say homosexuality for example—are actually fascinated by it. Sometimes they really are latent homosexuals themselves.”

  “I don’t think she wanted to take off her clothes, but she didn’t mind spying on people who did,” said Mel, warming to his subject. “She’d sit there in a folding chair with binoculars and a paper and pencil, observing everyone and writing things down.”

  “She was observing and taking notes?”

  “There’s not much to observe, in spite of what her son said.”

  “Wesley? What did he say?”

  “He tried to pick a fight with two of the guys one day. Claimed he’d seen them getting up to something in the woods.”

  “Does that happen?”

  “No more than at a regular beach. I mean, I’m not gonna say it never happens. People have a way of. . . .” Mel shrugged. “You know. Sometimes they pair off. Sometimes something happens. It’s normal human behavior.” He scratched his chin. “Considering the situation here, with all the media and the bylaw and all, I think there’s been very little of that sort of thing. Most of the naturists I’ve talked with feel a little bit uncomfortable, a little pressured.”

  Lucy nodded sympathetically. “I can relate to that.” She paused. “Could you give me the names of the men who had the confrontation with Wesley?’

  Mel shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “It would be such a help.”

  “Sorry.”

  Lucy sighed. “Oh, well. Thanks anyway for taking time to talk to me. I know you must be very busy.” She paused. “What time do you open in the morning? It must be pretty early, right?”

  Mel grinned at her. “I suppose you want to know if I was here the morning Prudish Pru was killed?”

  “You got me. I would like to know.”

  “Just like I told the cops, I was right here, checking out a family from Montreal. I’ve got the charge slips and paperwork to prove it.”

  “Lucky you,” said Lucy.

  Lucky for Mel, but a bad break for her. Not that she exactly wanted Mel to be guilty of murder, but she would like to feel she was making some progress on the case. But now as she headed for home she didn’t feel any closer to figuring out who killed Pru than she had when she started. And if that weren’t bad enough, when she passed the Pratts’ place she noticed the press pack was back, with reinforcements, encamped opposite her driveway.

  They were still there when Bill brought the girls home from day camp. When they went upstairs to wash up, he placed a small cardboard box on the kitchen table.

  “Kudo’s ashes,” he said, in answer to Lucy’s inquiring glance. “Shall I just bury them or . . . ?”

  “I guess we should have some sort of ceremony,” said Lucy. “He was a big part of our family for a long time.”

  After supper, Bill and Toby went out to dig a grave while she and the girls cleaned up the dinner dishes. Then they all gathered at the grave site underneath a gnarled old apple tree.

  “Who will begin?” asked Lucy.

  “I will,” said Bill, kneeling down and carefully placing the box in the hole. He tossed a bone-shaped dog treat on top of it. “I had my differences with Kudo, but he won my respect when I saw him chase off a coyote one day when Zoe was playing outside all alone. He was absolutely fearless when it came to protecting her. I realized he wanted to protect my family just as much as I do. He was one tough dog and I hope they have room for him in doggy heaven.”

  “I’m sure he’ll go to doggy heaven,” said Zoe, “and there will be lots of rabbits to chase and big bowls of dog food and no fleas at all. Kudo deserves to go there because he saved me from the coyote, and he always warned us when somebody came to the house. He made me feel safe.”

  “He made me feel safe, too,” said Lucy. “Especially if I was home alone at night. As long as he was snoozing I knew everything was okay. I think he knew when I needed a little extra security, because he always stuck very close to me when I was here alone. He kept me company, he was a good friend.”

  “I didn’t like Kudo when Mom first brought him home,” said Sara. “I thought he was smelly and scary and I was afraid of him. But after he’d been here awhile, one day he saw me and my friends playing soccer and he joined in. He was a really good soccer player; you couldn’t get the ball past him.”

  The others all nodded, remembering.

  “People at school who’d never noticed me before all wanted to come over and see my amazing dog. All of a sudden, I was popular, all because of my dog.” She tossed a little plush dog toy shaped like a soccer ball into the grave. “Thanks, Kudo.”

  “I never told anybody this before,” said Elizabeth, “but one time I came home from a date and it was a beautiful night and the guy suggested we lie down on the grass and look at the stars. We did that for a while but then the guy got a little pushy, if you know what I mean. He wanted me to do things I didn’t want to do.”

  Lucy’s and Bill’s eyes met.

  “He wouldn’t stop and I started pushing him away and he started holding me tighter. I was really struggling when the door opened and Kudo came bounding out. He stuck his nose between me and this guy so I got a chance to break loose. Kudo didn’t let the guy up, though. He put his paws on his chest and started growling at him. He did this for a minu
te or two and the guy started acting real scared, yelling at me to call the dog off. I was on the porch then, so I called him and very slowly he backed away and came up and stood by me.”

  “What happened to the guy?’ asked Sara.

  Elizabeth smiled. “He ran away and I never heard from him again.”

  Lucy breathed a huge sigh.

  Elizabeth tossed an old shoe into the grave. “Here you go, Kudo. You already chewed up one, now you can have the other.”

  Everybody laughed.

  “What about you Toby?” asked Zoe. “Do you have a story about Kudo?”

  Toby cleared his throat. “Kudo taught me an important lesson, that I’ve never forgotten. When I was in high school, there were a couple of guys that everyone was kind of scared of. They’d walk down the hall and everybody’d get out of their way, you kind of wanted to stay clear of them, didn’t want to end up alone in a bathroom with them or anything like that. Sometimes I’d see ’em coming towards me and I’d almost feel sick. Sometimes I even dreamed about them. It was pretty weird. Anyway, one day I was in the yard, mowing the grass, and a couple of enormous German shepherds came down the driveway. Kudo had been sleeping under the apple tree, but he immediately woke up. He didn’t stop to think or anything, he just started barking and headed straight for these dogs, teeth bared, hair on his back all bristly, he was ready for business. It was awesome, and the two German shepherds thought so, too, because they just turned tail and ran away as fast as they could, even though they were a lot bigger and probably could’ve beat him up pretty bad. So after that, whenever I saw those two bullies, I’d just stand up straight and stick my chest out and kind of show my teeth in a sort of half-smile and look those guys straight in the eye and walk right by them.” He smiled and tossed two tiny ceramic figurines of German shepherd dogs into the grave, figures that Lucy had often seen on Toby’s desk. “They never bothered me, ever again.”