by Leslie Meier
“Those are nice,” agreed Lucy. “I don’t have any ideas. Especially since I’ll be getting her a wedding present, too.” She sighed. “I want to get her something nice; I really do.”
“No problem. Just call Tiffany’s. They even gave you the phone number.”
“It was thoughtful of them,” said Lucy sarcastically. “But these days, even K-Mart is a stretch for me. Tuition’s due in August, you know.”
“You’re always picking up stuff at yard sales. Why don’t you give her something from your collection?”
Lucy was intrigued.
“Can I do that?”
Phyllis shrugged. “Why not?”
“I did find a set of those nesting Pyrex bowls at a yard sale last month. . . .”
“The red and yellow and blue ones? Those are hot now.”
“I got the whole set for five dollars.”
“That was a steal.”
“I know.” Lucy smiled smugly, thinking of how she had arranged the bowls on the top shelf of the pantry where they were part of a growing collection of 1950s kitchenware. She really loved those bowls.
“Why not give her those?”
“I couldn’t,” said Lucy, resisting the idea. They were her bowls and she didn’t want to part with them.
“Not in good shape?”
“Mint,” Lucy admitted. “I don’t think they were ever used.”
“I don’t see the problem,” said Phyllis, reaching for the phone.
Lucy sat silently, wrestling with her conscience. The voice of her Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Pilling, whispered in her ear. “It is better to give than to receive.” She groaned out loud.
Phyllis had finished talking on the phone. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Okay, okay. Sidra gets the bowls.”
Phyllis beamed at her. “That’s a really nice gift, and they’ll go great with my dishtowels.”
The door opened, making the little bell jingle, and Ted walked in.
Lucy and Phyllis immediately busied themselves at their desks.
“Now, this is more like it,” he said, setting his briefcase on a chair. “Monday morning, everybody’s at work, nobody’s talking about weddings.”
Lucy pursed her lips together tightly, but a little giggle escaped from Phyllis.
That night Lucy went to the waterways commission, confident that she wouldn’t mix up any names. Ted had coached her before letting her leave the office.
“The chairman is Wilfred Wiggins.”
“Frank’s uncle.”
“Right. The members are Henry Wiggins—”
“Frank’s cousin?”
“Yes. Then there’s Alf Cobb—he’s married to Wilfred’s daughter Clara.”
“Cousin-in-law.”
Ted wasn’t sure. “Whatever. Alf’s missing a couple of fingers. Winch accident.”
“Got it.”
“Then there’s two older men, retirees. Al Sklar, who used to run the boatyard, and Herb Mason. You can’t miss him. Even when he’s on land he looks like he ought to be on a boat.”
“I’ve got a feeling this is going to be interesting. Toby told me the fishermen are planning some kind of protest.”
“Just remember to keep your head down. Those guys can get rough.”
“Okay.”
But when Lucy arrived at the meeting room in the basement of town hall, nobody was there but the commissioners and a few regulars, mostly retirees who made a hobby of attending meetings.
As she waited for the meeting to begin, she studied the commissioners. Wilfred Wiggins, the chairman, bore a strong resemblance to Frank. His hair was the same reddish color, only there was less of it, and he didn’t have a mustache. He had the same wiry body, however, and a prominent Adam’s apple.
Tom Wiggins wasn’t Wilfred’s son, Lucy knew; he was his nephew. Tom’s mother was Alf’s sister, and she had apparently married someone with black hair. Tom had a full head of thick, dark hair and a stocky build.
Alf Cobb was only related to the Wigginses by marriage, but oddly enough, with his sandy hair and bad teeth he could have been mistaken for Frank’s brother.
The three men obviously enjoyed each other’s company. They were chuckling over something, and their attitude made Lucy feel a bit like an intruder. The other two board members seemed to feel the same way, for they were seated together at the end of the table, occasionally commenting to each other.
At seven o’clock, Wilfred Wiggins pounded his gavel on the table and called the meeting to order, even though the harbormaster had not yet arrived. The committee had waived the reading of the minutes of the last meeting and approved them and dealt with some old business when Frank appeared, dressed in a freshly pressed uniform.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, blinking his eyes and twitching his shoulders.
Wilfred didn’t ask for an explanation but smiled indulgently. “Got held up, did ya? Well, it goes with the job. Always something.”
Lucy suspected Frank had gotten held up at the laundromat, but the board members did not appear to share her suspicions.
“Not a problem, not a problem,” said Tom, baring his brown and ragged teeth in a smile.
“Let’s hear your report; then we’ll see if the board members have any questions. Agreed?”
All the board members nodded their heads.
Frank pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and took his place in front of the table, where he stood, jiggling on his toes. He began reading.
“Harbormaster’s report for the month of June. Commercial boats: sixteen. Recreational boats: forty-eight. Prorated income from resident users: ten thousand one hundred and sixty-six dollars. Income from transients: twelve thousand dollars.”
He stood for a moment, Adam’s apple bobbing furiously, waiting for the board’s reaction.
“I guess that twelve thousand is from that big yacht,” said Wilfred.
“That’s a nice boat,” said Herb.
“I’ll bet that baby takes plenty of fuel,” said Al with a little whistle.
“He can afford it,” observed Tom. “They say he’s the next Bill Gates.”
“Must be somethin’ to have a boat like that,” said Herb, fingering his Quisset Point Yacht Club hat. Despite its name, Lucy knew the boats at the yacht club were hardly yachts; they were mostly day-sailers and a few small power boats.
“Do I have a motion to accept the harbormaster’s report?” asked Wilfred.
“I so move,” said Tom.
“I second it,” said Alf.
“Vote?” asked Wilfred.
“Hold yer horses,” said Herb, and Lucy pricked up her ears. “You forgot discussion.”
“Any discussion?”
Herb looked pointedly at Al, and Lucy wondered if dissension would actually erupt at the meeting.
“Well, uh,” began Al, looking uncomfortable, “last month we voted on a new policy to, uh, encourage transient use, and I wondered how it was going. Any problems?”
“Good point,” acceded Wilfred. “Any problems, Frank?”
Lucy sat at attention, waiting to hear Wiggins’s answer. Would he acknowledge that the fishermen were angry about the new policy, or would he cover it up?
Frank stood for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. Then he looked down at his shoes. A shudder ran through his body and he swallowed. “Nope,” he said.
Interesting, thought Lucy. She suspected word of last week’s confrontation had reached some of the board members. Would they challenge Wiggins, or would they accept his word?
“That’s fine, then,” said Wilfred. “I have a motion to accept the harbormaster’s report. All in favor?”
Everyone was in favor.
“We have one other order of business,” began Wilfred. “As you all know, Friday is the Fourth of July and we always have a fireworks display in the harbor. Is everything set for that?”
“All set,” replied Frank, nodding his head and blinking rapidly.
; “Do I have a motion to adjourn?”
Lucy checked her watch. At barely fifteen minutes, it was the briefest meeting she’d ever covered. Maybe nepotism wasn’t all bad, she thought as she stuffed her notebook in her purse and made her way through the rows of folding chairs.
More chairs than usual, she thought, surveying the room. Maybe the janitor had outdone himself, or maybe the commission had been expecting a larger turnout. At the door, she paused. She knew the fishermen had been planning something at the Bilge, but not a single one had shown up at the meeting. What were they going to do?
Chapter Eleven
Independence Day was always celebrated in grand style in Tinker’s Cove, and the parade was as big a highlight of the day as the fireworks display in the harbor. Preparations were well underway; Lucy noticed that flags and bunting had appeared on many of the Main Street stores when she went to work on Tuesday. The town certainly had a festive air, but Lucy didn’t think that could account for Ted’s cheerful attitude. He was whistling a happy little tune, sitting in his usual spot at the enormous rolltop desk he’d inherited from his grandfather.
“You seem awfully chipper today,” she commented as she waited for her computer to boot up. The groans and clicks emanating from the aged machine seemed to indicate she was asking it to do an awful lot.
“Biggest issue ever—forty-eight pages,” he replied.
Lucy knew it was advertising, not news, that determined the size of the paper.
“Business must be good.”
“You betcha. And it looks like next week will be just as good. How did the meeting go?”
“Fast. It went very fast. It was over before it began.”
“The fishermen didn’t show up?”
“No,” said Lucy slowly. “But I’ve heard rumors they’ve got some sort of protest planned.”
Ted snorted. “That’ll be the day. Those guys couldn’t organize a protest if they tried. They’re all captains, if you know what I mean. When everybody’s giving the orders and nobody’s taking them, it’s hard to get much done.”
Lucy laughed. “Not to mention the fact that they all spend way too much time in the Bilge.” She paused. “Now Toby’s discovered the place.”
Ted shook his head sympathetically. “You better warn him. He’ll get in trouble if he hangs around there.”
They both knew that the Bilge appeared frequently in the police log they printed every week.
“I told him, but I don’t think he listened.”
“They gotta learn the hard way.”
Lucy nodded and glanced at the clock. It was after nine and there was no sign of Phyllis.
“Is Phyllis off today?”
“No.”
“Then she’s late.”
“Impossible.”
“Maybe she’s sick.”
“She hasn’t called, and she was fine yesterday.”
“Maybe she had car trouble,” speculated Lucy, opening her notebook and starting her report on the meeting. She was almost done when the door flew open and Phyllis marched in, nearly an hour late, looking rather flustered.
“What happened?”
Phyllis didn’t pause for breath. “I was just driving along minding my own business when I saw my cousin Elfrida coming the other way. She was on South Street and there wasn’t any traffic to speak of, so we stopped to chat a minute.”
Lucy knew that folks in Tinker’s Cove thought nothing of pulling their cars alongside for a conversation. If she herself came upon two motorists so engaged and blocking traffic, she didn’t mind—as long as the chat didn’t last too long.
“Well,” Phyllis continued, “Elfrida was just starting to tell me about Aunt Effie’s new boyfriend when—bam!—somebody drove smack into my car. Rear-ended me! Can you believe it?”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right—my back is stiffening up a bit, but I’m okay.”
“What about the car?”
“My Buick? Just fine, thank you. But you should see the other car, the car that hit me. It’s one of those rice burners. The fender was hanging off and the bumper was all screwed up.” Phyllis’s tone was triumphant. “I guess he got what he deserved, driving like that.”
“Who was it?”
“That magazine writer. The one who was in here last week. Doing the story on the next Bill Gates.”
“Dorfman?”
“That’s it. And wasn’t he fit to be tied! Acting like it was my fault or something. Said he never heard of people just stopping in the middle of the road. Imagine!”
“He does come from New York.” Lucy didn’t think New York drivers would tolerate traffic delays while motorists stopped to gossip. “So, who’s Aunt Effie’s new boyfriend?”
“I never did find out!”
Lucy chuckled and went back to work on her story, quickly finishing it up. Since she had plenty of time, she was also able to work on her lobster story.
“You know, if you’ve got a lot of room in the paper, I think I can have the story on the lobster project ready by tomorrow,” she told Ted.
Ted was cautious. “I don’t want to rush you.”
“Really, it’s almost ready.”
“Well, I could use it.”
“It’s all yours.”
“That story you wrote about Geoff Rumford’s research project was nice work.”
Lucy, who was sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the front porch at the Queen Vic Inn, looked up and saw Andy Dorfman. It was the Fourth of July. She’d brought a resentful Elizabeth to work and was sitting for a few minutes, watching the crowds of people gathering for the parade.
“Thanks.” Lucy was genuinely pleased at this praise. After all, Dorfman worked for a national publication. “How’s your car?”
“You heard about that? News really travels fast in this town.”
“Phyllis, the woman you hit, works at the paper.”
“Oh.” He stood for a moment with his hands shoved in his shorts pockets. “Beats me how people can just stop in the middle of the street.”
“Local custom,” said Lucy. “How’s your story going? The one about the next Bill Gates.”
“The subject’s not cooperating,” said Dorfman.
“I saw him throw a fit in the doughnut shop.” Lucy paused. She was dying to get the inside scoop on Davitz, but she knew she couldn’t be too direct without trespassing on Dorfman’s research. “I bet his mother wasn’t pleased,” she ventured with a little chuckle.
“Turns out he’s not quite the mama’s boy he appears to be.” Dorfman grinned wickedly. “The mouth on that boy! I was shocked.”
Lucy laughed, hoping to encourage him to elaborate. “Personally, I’m glad to hear it. It’s my opinion that that woman has too much influence over her son.”
“Never fear,” said Dorfman, declining to respond and adroitly changing the subject. “Are you staying to watch the parade?”
Lucy leaned back and rocked in the comfortable chair. “I wish. Unfortunately, Mrs. McNaughton has already given me the evil eye once or twice. I’m related to the help, you see. My daughter works here.”
“Not that cute little chambermaid with the bad attitude?”
“You got it. Getting her here this morning was quite a struggle. I’m just resting here for a few minutes, trying to summon the energy to find the rest of the family.” She narrowed her eyes mischievously. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a real good deal on this chair. Just tell me how Davitz got a great girl like Sidra to fall in love with him.”
“That’s simple,” he said. “Money talks.”
“She’s not that kind of girl,” protested Lucy.
“Trust me, they’re all that kind of girl.”
“Not Sidra,” insisted Lucy.
She stood up and offered him the chair with a flourish, then hopped down the porch steps and sauntered down the street, keeping an eye out for Bill and the girls. As she walked she also looked for Toby, who’d said he would be watching with his
friends, but she didn’t see any sign of him. The parade was supposed to begin in just a few minutes, and the sidewalk was full of observers, most of them dressed in variations of red, white, and blue. Many were holding small flags or sporting straw hats with patriotic ribbons. Small children had little flags painted on their cheeks.
When she found her family, Lucy was dismayed to see they’d staked out viewing territory right in front of the Pennysaver office.
“I can’t ever get away from this place,” she moaned, but her complaints were cut off by the siren of a police car announcing the beginning of the parade.
Riding behind the cruiser, in an open convertible, was the grand marshal, Franny Small. Franny was an old friend of Lucy’s who had managed the hardware store for years, until it was driven out of business by competition from a national chain. Franny had started making jewelry out of the remaining stock of nuts and bolts and had been hugely successful. She was now one of the town’s top employers.
“Hi, Franny!” screamed Lucy, waving her arm.
Franny turned and, spotting Sara and Zoe, tossed a handful of hard candy their way, setting off a scramble among the children in the vicinity.
The grand marshal’s car was followed by a group of girl scouts holding signs announcing the theme of the parade: liberty and justice for all.
“Pretty controversial,” joked Bill, standing at attention as the boy scouts’ color guard passed by, followed by a girl dressed as the Statue of Liberty.
Even though she had covered her body with green paint, her toga was revealing, and Lucy wondered if his attention was entirely patriotic.
Several Scottish pipers were next, prompting Sara and Zoe to join in an impromptu jig. Their dance was rewarded with more candy, tossed their way by a clown on a unicycle. A float created by the local nursery came next: a garden had been created on a flatbed trailer, and several employees were lounging in hammocks and lawn furniture. “LIBERTY AND JUSTICE—AND SUNSHINE—FOR ALL,” read a placard on the side of the float.
It was definitely popular with the crowd. Everyone clapped as it passed, and Lucy thought it had a real chance of winning the chamber of commerce’s trophy for most creative entry.
