“No, I know that. Matter of fact, they're staying at the Queen Vic,” he said, referring to a very posh bed-and-breakfast on Main Street. “I was wondering if we could invite them for Thanksgiving dinner. It seems a shame for them to have Thanksgiving in a restaurant, especially since any decent place has been booked for weeks.”
“I guess two more won't matter,” said Lucy, glancing anxiously at the clock.
“Great! Thanks, honey.”
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By the time Lucy got to the pie sale, which was held in the fellowship hall of the community church, it was in full swing. Several long tables at the front of the room were covered with an impressive array of homemade pies, which customers could buy whole or by the slice. More tables were set up in the rest of the room, where people could eat their pie along with a cup of coffee or tea. As always, business was brisk and the room was crowded and noisy. Lucy finally found Pam in the kitchen, filling a coffeepot from a huge urn.
“Looks like you got a crowd,” said Lucy by way of greeting. “Sorry I'm late.”
“No problem,” said Pam, giving her a big smile. “Did you bring your pies?”
“Sure did,” affirmed Lucy, pleased to have gotten something right. “Six pumpkin.”
“Bless you. I've been worried about running short. Patty Wilson came down with the flu and you know she always makes a dozen.”
“What can I do to help?” asked Lucy.
“Here, take this coffee around and see if people want refills,” said Pam.
“Aye, aye, Captain. Will you save an apple for me and a mince one, too, if you have it?”
“Sure thing.”
As she made her way among the tables, Lucy saw many people she recognized. Oswald Crowley, the chief of police, gave her a wave and she went over to his table. As she went, she heard snippets of conversation. Everybody seemed to be talking about the same thing: the casino.
“Here you go,” she said as Oswald held out his cup to be filled. “Who else wants some more coffee?”
She looked at the faces gathered at the table and fought the impulse to flee. It seemed the entire board of selectmen, minus Sandy, was sitting there.
“If it isn't our own little newshound,” said Joe Marzetti.
“I just write it the way I see it,” said Lucy, keeping her voice light. “More coffee?”
“I'll have some,” said Bud Collier, looking at her somewhat curiously. It suddenly dawned on Lucy that he didn't know who she was; he hadn't connected her face with her byline, which was the way she wanted to keep it.
“I've got no complaints about Lucy,” said Howard, surprising her so much that she almost dropped his cup. “She's a good reporter. And I'm sure we can count on her to cover all sides of this casino issue fairly.” He put great emphasis on the word
fairly.
“Absolutely,” said Lucy, passing his cup back to him. She gave Bud a big smile, just in case he was following the conversation. “And anything I hear today is off the record.”
“So, Howard,” she heard Fred Smithers ask as she filled his cup, “is it true that town zoning regulations don't apply to the Indians?”
“That's nonsense,” said Howard, setting his fork down. “We have very strong zoning regulations in this town. I don't think the Metinnicuts are going to find they can just ignore our bylaws.”
“That's right,” said Jonathan Franke, who was sitting at the same table. “The zoning bylaws were revised just last year and passed with a large majority at a town meeting. It was a long, hard battle but I think we finally have an effective tool for controlling development.”
“Any court is going to have to take that vote into account,” agreed Bob Goodman, dropping a lump of sugar into his coffee and stirring it with a spoon. “I've noticed in quite a few recent decisions that the courts have given community character quite a bit of weight.”
Someone snorted at the far end of the table. Lucy was surprised to see Curt Nolan digging into a big wedge of blueberry pie.
“It's amazing,” he said, hoisting his fork and popping a piece in his mouth. “You see what you want to see.”
“Out of jail so soon?” asked Jonathan Franke, glaring at him.
“On my own recognizance,” said Nolan. “It's a nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to stay there.”
“I wouldn't be so cocky,” said Crowley, giving him a nod. “You might be going back ... for a while.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” said Nolan, looking at Franke.
“I'd like nothing better,” replied Franke, shoving away his empty plate.
“Now, now, don't get all excited,” said Nolan, looking over the rim of his cup. “I'm just as against that Mulligan proposal as you guys are, but I don't see how you can stop it with the zoning bylaws. Not when you let Andy Brown put up electric signs and that mechanical talking pumpkin. And a train ride. How come the association didn't have any problems with Mrs. Lumpkin, the Talking Pumpkin?”
As Lucy watched, Howard White's face grew quite red. “I can assure you that Mr. Brown went through all the proper channels,” said White. “He obtained variances for those improvements.”
“If you say so.”
“Just hold on,” said Franke. “You saw that model, and there was no sign of any museum. It looks to me like Canaday and Mulligan Construction are taking the tribe for a ride.”
Lucy held her breath, waiting for Nolan's reaction.
“I wouldn't be so sure if I were you,” he said, clenching his fist.
“If I were
you,
I'd listen to him,” said White. “What he's saying makes sense.”
“We don't need
him
to explain things to us,” said Nolan, pointing at Franke and rising to his feet. “We're not a bunch of dumb Indians who can't look out for own interests, you know.”
“Now, now, I didn't say thatâ” began White.
“Well, I'll say this,” said Franke, standing and facing Nolan. “The tribe used to be strong advocates for the environment. In fact, quite a few were APTC members. But now that you all stand to make a lot of money from the casino, well, I guess the environment takes a backseat to the almighty dollar. It's pretty hypocritical if you ask me.”
“You have a lot of nerve, talking like that,” said Nolan. “You haven't exactly been working for the environment for free, have you? What do you make as director? Fifty, sixty thousand? You know what the average Metinnicut income is? It's under the poverty line. Being environmentalists hasn't been quite as profitable for us as it has for you.”
Franke glared at him, facing off. Lucy fully expected them to come to blows. Then, suddenly, Franke turned and stalked off.
Nolan laughed, then sat down. He looked at Lucy, who was standing speechless, coffeepot in hand.
“How about some more of that coffee?” he asked, giving her a big grin.
“Sure thing,” she said, wasting no time in filling his cup.
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Lucy stayed until the last cup had been washed and put away, the tables wiped, and the chairs neatly stacked in a corner. Then she bought her pies, said good-bye to Pam, and headed over to the football field to meet the girls. Remembering the trouble she'd had finding a parking spot last year, she put her pies in the car and left it at the church parking lot, walking the few blocks to the high school.
As she walked down the tree-lined street, where bare limbs reached up to the blank gray sky, she wondered what made Curt Nolan tick. He'd only gotten out of jail that morning and he had been arraigned on assault-and-battery charges, yet only a few hours later, he almost got in a fight with Jonathan Franke. He seemed nice enough, she thought, admitting to herself that she actually found him rather likable. But he always seemed to be involved in some kind of confrontation. In fact, he seemed to make a habit of provoking and angering people. Why did he do it? What satisfaction could he possibly get out of it? It seemed a terrible waste of energy to her, an exhausting way to go through life.
Stopping at the corner to let a car go by before she crossed the street, she realized how tired she was. No wonder. She'd gotten only a few hours of sleep; then she'd spent the morning baking pies and working on her story. Then there'd been the stress-filled hour or two at the
Pennysaver
office, the rush home to cook for Toby and his friends, topped off by the pie sale, where she'd spent a couple of hours on her feet running around with the coffee pot.
Maybe Nolan had it right, she thought, trudging up the hill to the field and keeping an eye out for the girls. Maybe it was her way, trying to please everybody, that was exhausting. Maybe she ought to tell Ted to cover meetings himself if he wasn't happy with the way she did it, and maybe Toby needed to understand he couldn't be quite so inconsiderate and maybe Bill could cook Thanksgiving dinner for the Barths himself if he was so keen on inviting them. And what gave those girls, Toby's friends, the right to be vegans? The way she was brought up, you took what you were offered and said thank you.
“Mom! Mom!”
Lucy looked up and saw Sara standing by the gate, holding on to Zoe's hand.
“Are you okay, Mom?” asked Sara.
“Sure. Why?”
“You looked kind of worried.”
“You looked mad,” volunteered Zoe.
Lucy laughed. “I guess I am kind of tired.”
“Toby was late.” Zoe's little face was serious.
Lucy thought for a minute. “You haven't seen him yet, have you?”
“Nope.”
“Me either,” added Sara.
“Well, maybe we'll see him here. He said he was coming.”
There were so many people on the field, however, that Lucy soon gave up looking for him. Instead, she led the girls to the top of the grandstand, where they could get a bird's-eye view of everything.
They had just sat down when the high school band could be heard approaching. Rapt with excitement, Zoe stood up and clapped enthusiastically when the band members finally appeared in their red uniforms with brass buttons.
As usual, they were playing out of key and several members were straggling behind, finding it difficult to keep in step while playing an instrument. Finally, they formed a loose rectangle on the field and waited while the drum major climbed onto an elevated platform. He raised his baton and the band responded with a blast of sound; he lowered the baton and they began rearranging themselves, finally resting in a ragged zigzag.
“What is it, Mom? What is it?” demanded Zoe.
Lucy frowned and furrowed her brow. After a moment, enlightenment came. “It's a W for Warriors.”
“That's not a W,” insisted Zoe.
“I think it's supposed to be a W.”
“If you say so, Mom.”
The drum major raised both arms dramatically, the final chord rang out, and everybody clapped like mad as the cheerleaders ran onto the field.
“Look, Zoe. It's the cheerleaders. Aren't their outfits cute?”
Zoe was enraptured. Lucy guessed she was picturing herself in a red-and-white cheerleader's skirt.
“What are they holding?”
“Pom-poms.”
“Can I get one?”
“I don't know where you get them.”
“You have to be a cheerleader,” said Sara.
Zoe's face fell.
“Maybe we can make some,” Lucy said, “out of crepe paper or something.”
“I'll help,” promised Zoe.
“We'll see,” said Lucy.
“Give me a W,” yelled the cheerleaders.
“W!” yelled back the crowd.
The cheer finally ended with everybody screaming, “Warriors! Warriors! Warriors!”
The band played a drumroll and all eyes went to the end of the field, where two girls dressed in fringed deerskin dresses were holding a large paper hoop. The band began playing the Warriors' fight song and the crowd roared as quarterback Zeke Kirwan broke through the paper circle, followed by the other members of the team. They ran down the field and formed a circle around a big pile of wood that had been stacked at the opposite end of the field.
The music finally stopped playing and everyone was silent, waiting for the big moment. They were rewarded with the sight of the two girls in Indian dress holding torches, escorting team captain Chris White, who was carrying the Metinnicut war club.
Everyone began chanting together: “Go! Go! Go!”
Chris raised the war club above his head, gave the traditional Warrior yell, and sped down the field followed by the torchbearers.