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  In the front row, on one side, sat Jonathan Franke, executive director of the Association for the Preservation of Tinker’s Cove and Bob Goodman, Rachel’s husband and the lawyer representing the association.

  Franke’s once long hair and casual workclothes had gradually been giving way to a more professional look; tonight he was wearing a denim shirt and knitted tie, topped with a tweed sport coat.

  Bob, Lucy noticed, looked as if he’d come to the meeting straight from a long day in court. His suit was rumpled and he definitely needed a haircut. He was bent over a thick sheaf of papers and occasionally consulted with Franke.

  On the other side of the room, the Metinnicut faction seemed more relaxed. Bear Sykes, the tribe’s leader, was sitting with his arms folded across his chest. His thick black hair was combed straight back, and when he turned to confer with Chuck Canaday, the tribe’s lawyer, Lucy saw he was wearing a wampum bolo tie with his plaid flannel shirt.

  Canaday, as always, was impeccably dressed in a neat gray suit. Tall and fair, he was a dramatic contrast to Sykes’s stocky, barrel-chested figure. Next to him was Andy Brown, wearing his trademark farmer’s overalls and a smug expression, as if he had counted his chickens and was certain they would hatch a casino. The three looked up when a fourth man approached them—a man Lucy didn’t recognize.

  From his city-tailored suit, with no vents in the jacket, Lucy guessed he probably represented a bank or a real estate development company. This guess was confirmed when he bent down and whispered to Sykes, who immediately left the room and returned a few minutes later carrying a cardboard box, which he carefully set on a table in the front of the room. Lucy figured they were going to be treated to an architect’s model—plans for the casino had indeed progressed further than anyone suspected.

  “Look at that,” snorted Ellie, glancing at Bear. “They treat him like an errand boy.”

  “If the casino gets approved, he won’t be an errand boy anymore,” said Lucy. “As tribal leader he’ll be a very influential man.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Ellie. “When’s this meeting going to start?”

  Lucy glanced at the empty bench in the front of the room and checked her watch; it was already ten minutes past seven.

  “It’s a power thing,” she said, leaning toward Ellie. “The board keeps everybody waiting so they know who’s in charge.”

  “I’ll let them know who’s in charge come the next election,” said Ellie. “I’m missing my favorite TV show.”

  “Hiya, Ellie! What’s happening?”

  It was Curt Nolan, sliding into the seat beside Ellie.

  “Did I miss anything?”

  “Nothing. They haven’t started,” said Ellie. Lucy couldn’t help noticing her voice suddenly sounded a lot brighter than it had before Curt Nolan arrived.

  “Good.” Curt settled himself in the chair, planting his feet firmly on the floor and letting his knees splay apart. His hands rested easily on his denim-covered legs.

  Lucy checked her watch again—it was a quarter past. Time for the selectmen to appear. A side door opened and Lucy slid down in her chair, hoping none of the board members would notice her as they marched in and took their places behind the raised bench. Last to enter was Howard White, the chairman, who walked briskly across the room to his seat at the center of the bench and picked up his gavel.

  “This meeting is called to order. First on the agenda: parking regulations.”

  Lucy sighed with relief and sat up a little straighter. If Howard were going to scold her, he would have done it first thing.

  “Point of order.” Joe Marzetti’s voice boomed out, unnaturally loud. “I’d like to move that we table all other business and take up the Metinnicut proposal first.”

  Lucy raised an eyebrow and scribbled furiously in her notebook.

  “I second the motion,” announced Bud Collier before White even had a chance to ask for seconds.

  “Any discussion?” From White’s tone, it was a challenge rather than a question. Howard White was clearly unhappy at this evidence of rebellion in the ranks.

  Lucy was surprised. In her experience with the board, she had never seen individual members take any initiative whatsoever. Someone must have put a bee in Marzetti’s and Collier’s bonnets, and she suspected it was Chuck Canaday, who had gotten his ducks in a row before the meeting.

  “Considering the very great interest in the Metinnicut proposal, I think we should act as expeditiously as possible,” said Sandy Dunlap.

  Lucy doubted that Sandy had come up with such big words on her own; she was probably quoting Chuck. What a busy bee. Lucy wondered if he was working on a retainer or if he stood to get a share of the casino.

  “Any objections?” White looked hopefully to Pete Crowley, who was usually a stickler for proper procedure.

  Receiving no encouragement in that quarter, White called for a vote, and the motion passed with only one no vote.

  “All right, then,” said White with a disapproving humph. “We’ll take up the matter of the Metinnicut proposal.”

  There was a buzz in the room as Bear Sykes stepped forward to address the board, reading nervously from a prepared statement.

  “The Metinnicut Tribal Council has asked me to request your support, as the board of selectmen, for the tribe’s petition for federal recognition.

  “We all know that the history of the Metinnicut people is interwoven with the history of this town—Tinker’s Cove. When I was a little boy growing up here, I shared many of the same experiences as most American boys. I was a Cub Scout. I played Little League baseball. I went to the public schools and served in the army.

  “I was also aware, however, that because of my Indian ancestry I was descended from people whose culture and values were different from those of most Americans. I felt a desire to acknowledge this separate identity, but I was unable to do so. My tribe, the Metinnicuts, were not recognized.

  “In recent years, I spoke about this with family members and others and learned I was not alone in my desire to reclaim my Metinnicut heritage. As time went on, we formed a tribal council and conducted genealogical research. Now we are now ready to request federal recognition as a tribe. As citizens of this town, we ask your support for this petition. Thank you.”

  There was scattered applause, which White quickly silenced.

  “Do I have a motion?” he asked, casting an evil eye toward Marzetti.

  Marzetti swallowed hard and raised his hand. “I move that the board support the Metinnicut tribe’s petition.”

  “Second?”

  Collier nodded.

  “Discussion?” asked White, looking extremely annoyed as hands shot up throughout the room.

  “Do I have a motion to limit discussion?” Lucy, for once, found herself agreeing with White. Unless discussion was limited, the meeting could go on all night.

  This was met with silence by the board.

  Defeated, White recognized Jonathan Franke.

  “With all due respect to Mr. Sykes and his Indian heritage, I want to point out that the main reason the tribe is seeking federal recognition is so that they can negotiate a casino deal with the state government. It’s important to recognize that fact and consider the possible impact such a project would have on our town.”

  There was a loud buzz from the audience and Chuck Canaday stood up.

  “If I may . . .” he began, catching Howard White’s eye but continuing without waiting for his permission. “Mr. Franke has brought up an important point, which we are prepared to fully address tonight. With us is Jack O’Hara of Mulligan Construction in Boston. Mr. O’Hara has plans and a model of the proposed casino project.”

  “Ah, Mr. O’Hara,” said White, shooting his cuffs. “Didn’t I see your name in the business pages of the Boston Globe? They say you’re the top contender for my old golfing buddy Joe Mulligan’s job when he retires next year.”

  As Lucy wrote the quote in her notebook she felt a rare surg
e of sympathy for Howard White. It must be quite a comedown for a man like him—the former CEO of a paper company—to find himself reduced to managing an unruly group of local yokels.

  O’Hara shrugged off the comment. “You know, sir, you can’t believe everything you read in the papers. But I’ll be sure to give your regards to Mr. Mulligan.”

  White was charmed. “Heh, heh,” he chuckled. “That’s right. Well, let’s see what you’ve got there.”

  O’Hara stepped forward and stood next to the table with the box, but didn’t lift the cover.

  “By way of preamble,” he began, “I want to tell you that we at Mulligan Construction believe we were presented with a tall order: a request for a modem, innovative design that would also honor the unique tradition of our clients, the Metinnicut Indian tribe.”

  A hush of expectation fell over the room. Feeling a slight vibration, Lucy’s attention was drawn to Curt Nolan, who was sitting a few seats from her. He was so tense that his knee was twitching; his hands were clenched anxiously. Ellie was watching him nervously.

  “With all due modesty,” O’Hara continued, “I think you will agree that we have risen to the challenge and exceeded it.”

  With a flourish he lifted the cardboard cover and revealed the architect’s model.

  Involuntarily, Lucy blinked. There was a stunned silence, then a collective gasp, as audience members absorbed the two gleaming hotel towers, each at least fifteen stories tall, and the accompanying casino, a monstrous version of a traditional Iroquois long house rendered in glass and steel.

  Lucy wondered what Nolan’s reaction was and looked curiously at him. His knee, she saw, was jumping and his knuckles were white.

  “What may not be obvious,” said O’Hara, flicking a laser point over the model, “is that the complex will provide parking for two thousand cars, accommodations for five hundred overnight guests, numerous gift shops, and a wide variety of restaurants catering to all tastes from fast food right on up to a five-star dining experience.”

  As soon as he’d finished speaking, hands shot up around the room and Curt Nolan was on his feet.

  “This is a travesty, an outrage,” exclaimed Nolan.

  From his perch behind the selectmen’s bench, Howard White was nodding in agreement. He made no attempt to silence Nolan but let him continue.

  “This prop-proposal has nothing to do with Metinnicut heritage,” said Nolan, so angry he was stumbling over his words. “Metinnicuts never lived in long houses—and they certainly didn’t have skyscrapers. And what about that museum we were promised? If you ask me, the only thing this looks like is the Emerald City of Oz!”

  He sat down with a thump, and Ellie gave him a little pat on the knee.

  White, for perhaps the one and only time, was nodding in agreement with Nolan. Looking around the room, he next recognized Bob Goodman, certain that he, as the lawyer for the Association for the Preservation of Tinker’s Cove, would also be against the proposal.

  “Putting all aesthetic considerations aside,” began Bob, pausing to remove his glasses and wipe them with a handkerchief, “I feel compelled to point out that, as presented here tonight, this design does not comply with the existing zoning and site plan regulations of this town.”

  Canaday was immediately on his feet. “Point of order,” he said, managing to get everyone’s attention without raising his voice. “We believe there is some precedent here. If built on land that is owned by the tribe, and that can be shown to have been traditionally occupied by the tribe, local zoning ordinances do not apply.”

  At this pronouncement, the room exploded in an uproar as citizens loudly debated with their neighbors whether this could possibly be true.

  Howard White pounded his gavel, and gradually the roar subsided and order was restored.

  “I want to remind everyone that the merits,” he spat the word out, “of the proposed casino are not the issue tonight. The question is whether the board will support the Metinnicut petition for federal recognition. I’m going to close the public debate now and bring that issue back to the board.”

  Pete Crowley took his cue.

  “I’m sympathetic, of course,” he began, “to the desire of the citizens of our town who are of Native American heritage to reclaim that, uh, heritage. But let’s face it: Most of these so-called Metinnicuts are just about as much Indian as I’m Swedish, and for your information, my maternal grandmother was half Swedish which, as far as I can tell, makes me one hundred percent American!”

  This was met with murmers of approval.

  “The tribe’s real interest, as we’ve seen tonight, is getting this casino built and as far as I’m concerned a casino is just going to bring organized crime and a lot of other problems to our town.”

  Crowley paused and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry. I’ve lived with these people my whole life and I don’t see how they’re an Indian tribe. They’re just like the rest of us.”

  “Well, I’m Italian and proud of it,” proclaimed Joe Marzetti. “It doesn’t make me any less American, but in my family we enjoy Italian food. We keep in touch with relatives in the old country. And I understand what Mr. Sykes is talking about. He has a right to his heritage. And if recognizing that right brings certain advantages to our town, like legalized gambling, so much the better.”

  He turned to Bud Collier and, noticing he had dozed off, poked him in the side.

  Lucy couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Mrs. Collier might not have liked her story, but it apparently hadn’t affected Bud Collier in the least.

  He roused himself, blinked a few times, and spoke. “There aren’t enough jobs in this town. The kids are all moving away. We’re going to become a town of old people if we don’t watch it. These Metinnicuts—they’re fine people. I’ve lived with them my whole life. Give them what they want.”

  He paused and cast a baleful eye on the model. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk about that later.” His chin sank on his chest and he resumed his slumber.

  “Oh, dear,” fretted Sandy Dunlap as Howard White looked in her direction. “I just don’t know what to say. I mean, I’m sympathetic to the Metinnicuts . . . but after what we’ve seen tonight . . . I can’t say I’m in favor.”

  Concluding that he had three no votes, White seized the moment.

  “Are we ready to vote?” he asked.

  “I vote yes. We should endorse the Metinnicut petition,” said Marzetti.

  “Yes,” said Collier, expending as little energy as possible.

  “I vote no,” said Crowley, narrowing his eyes at the others.

  “I, of course, vote no,” said White. “That makes it a tie. Mrs. Dunlap?”

  “Oh, dear, I just don’t know.”

  Lucy leaned forward, pen in hand, to get every word.

  “Of course, I value the Metinnicut heritage, but this is such an important decision, it could change our town forever. Of course, we can’t stand in the way of progress, but we do want to preserve our treasured way of life. . . .”

  Suddenly, Sandy’s eyes brightened and her curls bounced.

  “I know! Frankly, this is much too important a decision for people like us to make. This is one time I think we should rely on the experts in the federal government.”

  Lucy glanced at White; she thought he would explode with rage.

  “The folks at the Bureau of Indian Affairs have developed expert criteria for determining whether a tribe is really a tribe,” continued Sandy. “We should let them do their job. I vote yes.”

  Again, the room exploded. There was celebration on the Metinnicut side, anguish and head shaking among the preservationists. Lucy only felt relief. She had the quotes; she had the votes—she could go home. She grabbed her bag and fled, never looking back.

  CHAPTER 8

  “You’re cutting it kind of close, aren’t you?” growled Ted when Lucy arrived for work on Wednesday.

  It was ten o’clock, just two hours before deadline.

  “Not to wo
rry,” said Lucy, glancing at Phyllis, the receptionist, with a questioning raised eyebrow.

  Phyllis responded with a nervous grimace. Lucy knew she was in some sort of trouble.

  “I worked at home this morning,” she continued, “while my pies were baking. I’ve got the whole story on this disk.”

  “I can’t wait to read it,” said Ted. “I heard there was quite a little dustup.”

  “Just what you’d expect. Howard White almost had apoplexy a few times, but he managed to control himself.”

  “What about Curt Nolan and the Mulligan guy? What’s his name?”

  “O’Hara,” said Lucy, wondering what Ted was getting at. “Nolan had a few words with him.”

  “From what I heard, it was more than words.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Lucy, feeling her stomach drop a few inches. “I stayed for the whole meeting.”

  “This was after the meeting. Nolan took a swing at this O’Hara fellow and he’s pressing charges. Nolan’s going to be arraigned this morning—I was hoping to have you cover it.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Lucy, sliding into her chair and pounding her fist on the desk. “This is big. I can’t believe I missed it.”

  “Me, either,” said Ted, looking rather put out. “I thought I could count on you. What happened?”

  “I stayed until they took the vote,” said Lucy, sounding defensive. “Toby was supposed to come home yesterday but he hadn’t arrived when I left for the meeting. I was in a hurry to get home and see him.”

  Ted nodded.

  “The stupid thing is, he wasn’t there when I got home either. He didn’t actually roll in until one-thirty, and then he showed up with three friends instead of the one we’d been expecting.” Lucy rubbed her eyes. “It was absolutely crazy. I mean, I was so worried l had Bill calling hospitals and the state police. When Toby finally did show up I didn’t know whether to hug him or smack him.” Lucy paused for breath. “And I didn’t have a clue where all those extra people were going to sleep.”

  “Where’d you put them?” asked Phyllis, who had been keeping a low profile.