Tinker's Cove has a long history of Thanksgiving
festivities, but this year someone adds murder to the menu.
Lucy Stone intends to discover who left Metinnicut Indian
activist Curt Nolan dead with an ancient war club next to
his head. If Lucy is not careful, she just may find herself
served up as a last-minute course.
Excerpt Chapter One
"Look at that face. I ask you. Is that the face of a cold-
blooded killer?
In her usual seat in the second row, part-time reporter
Lucy Stone perked up. Until now, she'd been having a
difficult time paying attention at the Tuesday afternoon
meeting of the Tinker's Cove Board of Selectmen, even
dozing off for a few moments during the town assessor's
presentation of the new valuation formulas.
Lucy studied the face in the photograph Curt Nolan had
propped up on an easel in the front of the hearing room,
allegedly the face of a multiple killer: big brown eyes;
an intelligent expression; a friendly, if somewhat toothy,
smile. He didn't look like a mass murderer to her--he
looked like a plain old mutt.
"Kadjo's not just some mutt," continued Curt Nolan, his
owner and advocate at the dog hearing. "He's a Carolina
dog. I went all the way to North Carolina to get him from
a breeder there. He's descended from the dogs that
accompanied humans across the Bering land bridge from Asia
to America thousands of years ago. He's a genuine Native
American dog." He paused for emphasis and then
concluded, "Why, he's got more tight to be here than you
do."
That comment was aimed at Howard White, chairman of the
board of selectmen, who was chairing the dog hearing.
White--a tall, thin, distinguished-looking man in his
early sixties--didn't much like it and glared at Nolan
from behind the bench where he was sitting with the four
other selectmen as judge and jury.
This was more like it, thought Lucy, studying Nolan with
interest. Most people, when called before the board for
violating the town's bylaws, exhibited a remorseful and
humble attitude. Nolan, by contrast, seemed determined to
antagonize the board members, especially Howard White.
Even his clothing declared he was different from the
majority of people who resided in the little town of
Tinker's Cove, Maine. Instead of the usual uniform of
khaki slacks, a button-down shirt, and loafers, which was
the costume of choice for board meetings, Nolan was
wearing a fringed leather jacket, blue jeans, and cowboy
boots. His glossy black hair was brushed straight back and
tied into a ponytail with a leather thong. A second
leather thong, this one decorated with a bear claw, hung
from his neck. His face was tanned and deeply creased, as
if he spent a lot of time outdoors in the sun.
"We're not interested in the animal's bloodlines," growled
White. "We're here to decide if he's a threat to the
community. I'd like to hear from the dog officer."
Cathy Anderson stepped to the front of the room and con-
suited a manila folder containing a few sheets of paper.
Lucy had struck up an acquaintance with Cathy over the
years and knew she hated speaking in public, even in front
of the handful of citizens who regularly attended the
selectmen's meetings. Cathy flipped back her long blond
hair and nervously smoothed the blue pants of her
regulation police uniform. That uniform didn't do a thing
for her well-upholstered figure, thought Lucy.
"The way I see it," said Cathy, taking a deep breath, "the
problem isn't the dog--it's the owner."
Hearing this, White exchanged a glance with Pete Crowley.
Crowley was a heavyset man who tamed his thick white hair
with Brylcreem so that the comb marks remained permanently
visible. Also a board member, Crowley was Police Chief
Oswald Crowley's brother and a strict hw-and-order man.
"Mr. Nolan has refused to license the dog," continued
Cathy, "in clear violation of state and town regulations.
He also lets the dog run free, which is a violation of the
town's leash law. If the dog were properly restrained we
could avoid a lot of these problems."
Crowley beamed at her and nodded sympathetically.
"Can I say something?β Nolan was on his feet. Without
waiting for permission from White, he began defending his
pet. "Like I told you before, Kadjo is practically a wild
dog. lie's closely related to the Dingo dogs of Australia
and other wild breeds. He needs to be free--it'd be cruel
to tie him up. And licensing him? That's ridiculous! We
don't license bear or moose or deer, do we?β
"You're out of order!" White banged his gavel, startling
his fellow board member Bud Collier.
Collier, a retired gym teacher, slept through most board
meetings, rousing himself only to vote. Lucy often debated
with herself whether she should mention this in her
stories for the paper, but so far she had refrained. He
was such a nice man, and so popular with the townsfolk,
that she didn't want to embarrass him. Nevertheless, she
wasn't entirely comfortable about covering up the truth.
"Ms. Anderson has the floor," said White, raising a
bristly white eyebrow. "Please continue."
"Thank you." Cathy glanced at Nolan and gave him an
apologetic little smile. 'Td like to call a witness, if
that's all right with the board."
White nodded.
βIβd like to call Ellie Martin, who lives at 2355 Main
Street Extension. Ellie, would you please tell the board
members what happened last Monday?"
Ellie Martin stood up, but remained by her chair in the
rear of the room. She was a pleasant-looking woman in her
forties, neatly dressed in a striped turtleneck topped
with a loose-fitting denim jumper. She was barely five
feet tall.
"We can't hear you from there," said White. "Step down to
the front."
Clutching her hands together in front of her, Ellie came
forward and stood next to Cathy.
"Just tell them what happened," prompted Cathy.
"I don't want to make trouble," began Ellie, glancing back
at Nolan. "I only filed the report because I want to get
the state chicken money."
"What state money is this?" demanded board member Joe
Marzetti. Owner of the IGA and a stalwart of the town
Republican committee, Marzetti was strongly opposed to
government spending.
"It's to reimburse people whose livestock has been
destroyed by dogs," explained Cathy. "It's actually town
money mandated by state law--it comes out of the licensing
fees."
"But you said Nolan hasn't licensed the dog."
Lucy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Trust Marzetti to
find an excuse--any excusemthat would save the town a few
dollars.
"That doesn't matter," said Cathy. "It's a state law."
"Well if it's a law, how come I never heard of it?β
Marzetti had furrowed his forehead, creating a single
fierce black line of eyebrow.
"Well, it hasn't come up in a long time. Not many people
bother to keep chickens or sheep these days."
"What kind of money are we talking here--how much are the
taxpayers going to have to cough up?"
"Thirty dollars."
βThirty dollars for a chicken!" Marzetti's face was red
with outrage. "Why, I sell chickens for a dollar nine a
pound in my store! That's ridiculous."
"Thirty dollars total," said Cathy. "Mrs. Martin had a
dozen hens and she'll get two dollars and fifty cents for
each one."
"Oh, that's more like it," said Marzetti.
"The dog killed the chickens? Is that what this is about?"
demanded Pete Crowley, who was growing impatient.
"You'd better tell them," said Cathy, giving Ellie a
little nudge.
"Well, it was like this," began Ellie. "I was busy inside
the kitchen, cleaning the oven, when I heard an awful
commotion in the yard outside. I went to look and saw the
dog, Kadjo, chasing the chickens. They're nice little
pullets, Rhode Island Reds. I raised them myself from
chicks I got last spring. They'd just started laying and I
was getting five or six eggs a day. That is, I used to.
The dog got every one." Ellie's face paled at the
memory. "It was an awful sight."
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