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Authors: Leslie Meier

Tags: #Suspense

Star Spangled Murder (6 page)

BOOK: Star Spangled Murder
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“What do you think you're doing, Lucy Stone?”
Lucy jumped. “Hi,” she said, forcing her mouth into a friendly smile. At least she hoped it was friendly and disarming. “I was just looking for my dog. You haven't seen him, have you?”
“No I haven't and I don't believe you, either. A pile of lobster traps is a mighty funny place to look for a dog.”
“I thought he might've picked up the scent of the bait, you know,” said Lucy, knowing it sounded lame. “Actually, I was on my way down to the pond. I thought he might have been attracted by all the activity there. I was just headed for the path.”
“I'm not aware that my path has become a public right-of-way,” said Pru, planting her feet firmly on her property and blocking Lucy's way.
“Ma! What's going on?”
It was the Pratt's son, Wesley. He was about Toby's age but the similarity ended there. Where Toby was relaxed, even lazy, Wesley seemed to be looking for a fight. He bounced on the balls of his feet and alternately flexed his fingers and balled them into a fist as if he were dying to take a punch at something, anything. He had inherited his mother's lean and wiry look; he even wore his dirty-blond hair long and pulled back in a ratty ponytail.
Lucy sensed it was time to beat a hasty retreat. “No problem. I'll go back along the road.”
“And don't come back,” snarled Wesley, as she trotted down the driveway.
 
 
Lucy wasted no time in getting back to the security of her own property, where she was relieved to see Toby's Jeep parked in the driveway.
“Those Pratts are something else!” she exclaimed when she found him in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator. “I went over there looking for Kudo and they kicked me off their property! Like I was a bum or something.”
“What do you expect? They've never exactly been friendly,” said Toby, popping open a can of cola.
“I'm not trying to be best friends,” said Lucy. “I'm just trying to be a good neighbor. A little cooperation wouldn't hurt, you know. I'm doing my best to control the dog and I could use a little help.”
“I'll help,” said Toby. “Do you want me to see if he's down at the pond?”
“That's awfully nice of you,” said Lucy.
“No problem, Mom.”
“I'll go, too,” said Lucy. “Sometimes he comes if he hears my voice.”
That wasn't the real reason. This was a rare opportunity to spend some time alone with her only son and she didn't want to miss it.
“You don't have to, Mom. I can handle it.”
Lucy fingered the leash thoughtfully. “I get it. You want to check out the action down at the pond, and you don't want me along to cramp your style?”
Toby blushed. “That's not it. . . .”
“Okay then, let's go,” said Lucy, resisting the urge to grab his hand as she used to do when he was small. Somehow it had never gone away, even though he now towered over her at six feet plus. “I just hope Elizabeth's not there.”
“Elizabeth!” Toby was appalled. “What's she doing down there?”
“I don't know if she is or not, but I saw her there this morning. It was really awkward, seeing her like that.” Lucy sighed philosophically. “But if she's not going to wear clothes, I guess she doesn't mind people seeing her naked.”
“It's not what she minds, it's what I mind. I don't want to see my sister naked.”
“So it's okay to leer at other people, but not Elizabeth?”
“Yeah!”
“I see your point,” said Lucy, as they walked past the garden and took the path through the woods. “Say, do you know anything about this lobster poaching? Beetle Bickham wrote a letter to the editor.”
“Nah.”
“But Chuck said he thought his traps had been poached, didn't he?”
“I guess.”
“It's not just him. It's a lot of lobstermen, according to Beetle.”
“Hmmm.”
“Well, what are they saying down at the docks? People must be talking about it.”
“Not really.”
“Okay, okay. You obviously don't want to talk about it, so I won't ask you anymore,” said Lucy. “But when I was over at the Pratts I noticed there was a lot of lobster gear piled up behind the barn. Isn't that odd, for this time of year?”
“Maybe he's got extra.”
“Is that common?” asked Lucy.
“Sure,” said Toby. “Like a spare tire, you know.”
“Yeah,” said Lucy. “But if it's all his gear, wouldn't it all have the same identification on it. The same license number?”
“Of course,” said Toby, suddenly taking an interest. “Did his gear have a lot of different numbers?”
“I didn't really notice,” lied Lucy, as they approached the pond. She sure didn't need any more trouble with the Pratts. “Do you see the dog?”
Toby scanned the sea of naked flesh stretched out before them. He shook his head.
“Damn,” said Lucy, looking in vain for any sign of the dog. “We might as well go home. It's getting on for supper time and he never misses a meal. He'll probably show up soon.”
“You go on back,” said Toby. “I think I'll go for a dip myself.”
“You, too?” She put her hands on her hips. “Where did I go wrong? Have you no shame?”
“Guess not,” said Toby, pulling his T-shirt over his head.
Lucy turned around and headed for home as fast as she could.
Chapter Six
K
udo was back in his kennel, crouched on all fours with his chin resting on his front paws and a mournful expression on his face, when Lucy left for work on Friday morning. He'd come wandering into the yard after supper, when the girls were kicking a soccer ball around, and Lucy had coaxed him into the kennel with his bowl of kibble. He'd looked at her reproachfully when she slammed the gate shut, as if she'd played a dirty trick on him, and she was still battling a lingering sense of guilt as she drove off with Sara and Zoe in the back seat, ready to be dropped off at Friends of Animals day camp.
“Mom, Kudo looks so sad. Do we always have to keep him locked up?” asked Sara.
“It's like he's in jail or something,” added Zoe, who had a flair for the dramatic. “A life sentence.”
“I don't like it either,” said Lucy, as she backed the Subaru wagon around in a three-point turn, “but he keeps getting in trouble. If we can't control him, the selectmen might decide to have him destroyed. That's a lot worse than a life sentence.”
“You mean they could kill him?” asked Sara.
“No!” exclaimed Zoe.
“Yes. They could,” said Lucy, as they tooled down Red Top Road. “That's why it's so important that you all help make sure he doesn't get out. If he kills any more of Mrs. Pratt's chickens we could lose him forever.”
“That's not fair,” whined Sara, resorting to the middle-school battle cry.
“It's not fair that he kills Mrs. Pratt's chickens either,” said Lucy.
“Mrs. Pratt's a poop,” said Zoe.
“Watch your tongue,” admonished Lucy, as she turned into the camp driveway. “I don't want to hear any more of this talk. It's our responsibility to take care of Kudo and to make sure he doesn't do any harm.” Under her breath, she added, “I only wish he'd make it a little bit easier.”
Curious about the large flat-bed trailer that was taking up most of the parking lot, Lucy decided to have a chat with the camp director, Melanie Flowers, who was welcoming the kids as they arrived. Melanie was a petite woman with short, dark hair and a big, friendly smile.
“Hi, girls. Are you ready for a busy day?”
Sara and Zoe gave her the traditional camp high five and ran off to join their friends, leaving Lucy alone with Melanie.
“So what's with the rig?” she asked. “Are you going into the trucking business?”
“It's for the parade,” said Melanie. “I know it doesn't look like much now, but it's going to be beautiful when we finish decorating it. The theme this year is ‘With liberty and justice for all' and we think that includes animals.”
“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 unloading 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.”
BOOK: Star Spangled Murder
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