Crafting with Slander, page 5
“How’s that a problem?” I asked. “And why were you hiding?”
“You don’t understand,” Harry looked nervous again. “As soon as he was elected, Carter went nuts. He insisted we call him ‘commodore,’ not ‘association president.’ Then, he wanted a reserved parking space, with a sign. But the worst was when he wanted me to paint his position on the mooring buoy for his boat.” Harry stopped and looked at me. “There are nine letters in commodore. You try painting that on a two-foot plastic bubble, without using hyphens. It’s no joke.”
I could see his point. “That’s why you were avoiding him? He’s too much work?”
“A pain more like it,” Harry said, leaning closer. “You know why we got stuck with him here, don’t you? I have a buddy with a good job in the government down in Halifax, and he told me something. My buddy works in motor vehicles, at the license renewal counter. In a position like that, you hear a lot.”
I could only imagine. “Like what?”
Harry looked around for eavesdroppers. “He said Carter had applied to be a department head across the civil service for years. He was stuck at Public Works. But whenever he applied anywhere else, he got passed over. It got to be a joke. They said he didn’t care what the job was, he just wanted to be the head of something. The word is he moved here because we were the only place dumb enough to offer him a title.” Harry snickered. “Here, he’s finally a director and a commodore. Now with this election thing, he’s trying to be a ‘Your Worship.’” Harry shook his head. “You know what they say?”
I didn’t, at least not in Harry’s world.
“The only man who needs a title that bad is one who doesn’t have friends.” Harry paused to hitch up his pants. “That’s why I never chase fancy positions myself. I’ve got dozens of friends, maybe hundreds, probably close to a thousand. Status is not something I need.” He winked. “If a fellow like Carter doesn’t have something important to call himself, he’s got nothing.”
Harry reached over and picked up a mop. “I bet my mom would like one of these,” he said, then checked the price tag. “Give me a discount? As a friend?”
CHAPTER NINE
I took Harry to the front cash and explained to Colleen that we were giving him the mop at 10 percent off. Colleen was Darlene’s mother. Like her daughter, she had opinions of her own. Colleen sighed dramatically at me but rang him up.
“You’ll never make any money doing that,” she said after Harry left. “People take advantage of you. Look what that Carter fellow tried on me just now. Claimed he forgot his wallet, to put it on his tab. I told him to go home and get his money. We’d still be here.”
“I didn’t even know that he had a tab,” I said. Where was that written down?
“Yes, it was something Rollie set up. He called it a ‘gentleman’s agreement.’ Well, no gentlemen here now, are there? Except Duck, and he’s one of us,” she said, counting the bills in the cash register. “The Elliots of the world better get used to it.”
Colleen stopped talking. She stared past my shoulder to look out the front window, her mouth open. I turned around.
An RCMP cruiser was in front of the store. Wade Corkum was behind the wheel, and right next to him, in the passenger’s seat, was Darlene.
“What in the world …,” Colleen said. “There’s my girl!” Together, we ran through the doors and onto the sidewalk. By the time I got there, Darlene was already out of the car. She took off her sunglasses and hugged us.
“I’ve been sprung,” she said. “We’re back in business.”
“You have? What happened?” Colleen hugged Darlene. She was ecstatic. Some of her other children, the boys, had been arrested, but this time was the first that one had been returned, delivered door to door.
The driver’s door slammed. Wade walked over.
“No reason to hold her,” he said to Colleen, studying the sidewalk. “Results came in from the lab in Drummond. They verified that the hair wasn’t Darlene’s.”
“I told you so,” my cousin said. “Tell her, Wade, tell her whose red hair it was.”
Wade picked up a speck of something from the ground and studied it. “It was confirmed as canine. They said they knew right away. Dog hair is thicker, the color pattern is not the same, very different than human hair,” Wade mumbled. “They figure it was from a golden retriever.”
“Do you believe it?” Darlene asked her mother. “I spent all this time with the RCMP because there were dog hairs, Toby’s hairs, on a sign made at Valerie’s house. You know, the house covered from one end to the other in dog hair?”
That was not true—not from one end to the other. I kept the door to the spare room closed. Wade didn’t say anything. He was busy studying the concrete joints in the curb.
“An honest mistake,” I said to him out of pity. Darlene laughed. “What happens now?”
“I’m going home,” Darlene answered. “I’ve got to have a hot bath, talk to my cats, and get back to running for mayor. This town needs someone who knows what they’re doing,” she added, giving Wade a sideways look. “I got dropped off here to see Mom. My car’s out back.”
“Wait ’til I tell the crafters,” I said. I was vacuuming tonight, that was for sure. No one was coming back into my house until I did.
Darlene detached herself from her mother’s arms. Still giggling, Darlene and Colleen headed to the parking lot behind the store. I turned to follow them. Wade put out a hand.
“Valerie, I would like a word with you, in private, if you have the time,” he said. “Why don’t we go for a little drive?”
I was wary. Wade and I hadn’t had a personal conversation since high school. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted to talk to me now, but I was curious. So, when Wade opened the passenger door of the cruiser, I slid into the seat Darlene had just left. We headed out of town.
As soon as we left Gasper’s Cove behind, I realized that Wade was taking me to the look-off on Shore Road. This conversation was going to be serious. The local look-off was the standby venue for important private conversations, such as confessions, marriage proposals, and breakups. In our case, I suspected that we were going there to discuss a murder. Wade drove carefully, sweeping his eyes left and right as we headed out of town, as if afraid we would be seen.
After he swung into the parking lot, with its spectacular view of the ocean, Wade pulled over as far away as he could from the other cars. I waited for him to start.
“This is between us,” he said. He opened a package of Juicy Fruit gum and offered me a stick. I shook my head. “It goes no further. It’s about all these things going on.” He looked at the horizon. “It’s a lot.”
I’d seen that face before. In algebra class. A tall skinny boy with chalk in his hand and no idea what the equation on the blackboard meant.
“I can imagine,” I said. “A dead former mayor. A current candidate in detention over dog hair. You’ve got a full plate.”
“Val, don’t make fun of me. You know the local stuff. That’s just half of it. It gets worse.” Wade took off his hat. I could see the sweat on his bald head. “I’ve got my hands full here, and now I have that stupid report to deal with. Why did that crazy professor write that paper? I can’t fail.”
“It’s just a theory. No one’s going to take him seriously,” I said. “I mean, really? Productive gossip?”
“Oh, he’s serious all right.” The sweat was running down the sides of Wade’s head in meandering streams. He pulled out a handkerchief from under his padded vest. “He says the clan system brought it over from Scotland. He says that it’s why we can’t let anything go. Why we solve crimes.”
“Is that a problem?” I asked him. “Aren’t you getting an award? Doesn’t this make you look good?”
“Maybe too good,” Wade said. “The expectations are high. I haven’t been under pressure like this since the AAA provincials in hockey, and I thought that was as tough as it got.” He lowered his window for air. “Have you met the PR guy the brass sent down?”
How could I forget?
“I might have,” I said.
“He’s here to get ready for some presentation thing, bring in the media, commend me for my great detective work.” Wade’s voice was a croak.
“Congratulations,“ I said, “but again, what’s wrong with that?”
“Lots,” Wade squirmed in his seat. “Right now, with Mike, we have an unsolved murder. I’m supposed to show everyone how I handle it. Truth is, I am not sure how I did it before. Maybe the professor is right. The community sort of helped. Look, when I try to do this on my own, I end up covered in dog hair.”
Wade stirred uncomfortably in the seat next to me. I stayed quiet, not sure whether I was ready to hear where this conversation was going.
“Why am I here?” I asked.
Wade pulled his eyes away from the view through his windshield and looked at me.
“I have a request to make, in confidence, to you as a member of the public,” he said. “Someone who gets in the middle of everything.”
I sat up. In the past, any official interaction I had with Wade had resulted in his telling me to stop being a nuisance. Was that about to change? Was he asking for my assistance? My day got brighter.
Wade seemed to read my mind.
“Don’t get too excited, Valerie. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have this DeWolf guy looking over my shoulder. I have sent Officer Nolan off to handle our other calls so I can concentrate on this case. I am trying to figure out what to do next.” He hesitated, then spoke quickly, as if to get the words out before he could take them back. “If you run across anything that seems unusual, could you tell me? I’ll decide if it is worth following up. Make sense?”
Yes, it made sense. I traveled in a lot of circles Wade didn’t, and everyone in my circles was a talker. There wasn’t much that went on in Gasper’s Cove, or even in Drummond, that I didn’t hear about. I felt deputized.
“Does this mean I am sort of an undercover agent for the RCMP?” I asked, hearing the thrill in my voice.
Wade put his sweaty head down on the steering wheel and took a few deep breaths, as if to calm himself. “No, it does not, and if you tell anyone about this … ”
I knew what he was trying to say. “My lips are sealed, and my eyes are open, Officer Corkum. I’ll report directly to you.”
Wade lifted his head, put the car in gear, and backed out onto the road to town. “Don’t make me regret this conversation,” he said. “Just, don’t.”
CHAPTER TEN
When Wade dropped me off at the store, I was surprised to see that Darlene’s car was still in the back lot. What about her bath? Why wasn’t she at home with her cats?
As soon as I walked through the doors, I had my answer. School was done for the day, and teen Polly, our unofficial volunteer strategist, was at the front counter. Her laptop was open beside the cash register. Darlene and Colleen were next to her, peering at the screen.
“While you were in detention, I put all the action items from that women candidates pamphlet on a spreadsheet,” Polly explained to Darlene. “I also looked at the other campaigns, as benchmarks.”
“Is that fair to us?” I asked her. “They have budgets, and we don’t.”
Darlene held up a palm. “Wait. Don’t panic. Polly has it all worked out.”
I walked behind the counter to look at the document on the laptop. Darlene was right—there it was. Everything we needed to do, including how we were going to do it:
1.Phone bank. (Charlie: a rotary phone at home. Brian: paid service. Elliot: municipal employee “volunteers”). Us: Seaview Manor Senior Ladies Bridge Club. Point person: Grandma Brown.
2.Campaign literature distribution. (Charlie: doesn’t believe in paper signs and recycles brochures. Brian and Elliot: postage paid and sent out by Canada Post). Us: Local dog walkers. Small breeds, flat streets; large breeds, hilly streets. Point person: Toby and Valerie Rankin.
3.Campaign vehicle. (Charlie: his bike, new tires. Brian: Van, custom painted in Halifax. Elliot: His truck with magnetic signs.) Us: Appliqué flags for Valerie’s and Darlene’s cars. Made by the quilter’s guild, materials donated by Annette.
4.Fundraising. (Charlie: fiddle-case donations when he plays at the market on Saturdays. Elliot: $50-a-plate dinner at Gasper’s Cove Yacht Club, speaker Elliot Carter. Brian: $200-a-plate dinner at Chisholm House, Drummond. Speakers: The Honorable Len Clayton, Member of the Nova Scotia House of Assembly; the Honorable Vincent Dunbrack, Member of the Parliament of Canada; and Senator the Honorable Scott Lindsay.) Us: Bake sale table, Rankin’s General Store, Gasper’s Cove.
5.Media relations. (Charlie: boycotting all mass media. Elliot: Slipstream Communications, Halifax. Brian: McKenna, McKenna, and McKenna Media Relations London, New York, and Toronto). Us: Sarah Chisholm, prosthetic technician, Drummond Consolidated Hospital; Polly Brown, final-year student, Gasper’s Cove Junior High School.
I was impressed. Ours would be the real campaign—the voters of Gasper’s Cove would see that. Polly and I bumped fists. Our junior executive had come through again.
“Just let them try to stop us now,” Colleen said. “We’re ready for whatever they throw at us.”
She was wrong.
As I stood at the counter with my best friend and employees, old and young, I felt a rush of air as the door to the store opened. Noah walked in. He wore jeans, not washed this month, work boots, a T-shirt, a plaid jacket, and a backpack. If it weren’t for the recorder in his hands, he could be mistaken for any other surfer or student. But Noah was here on business.
“Hey, Valerie. Thought I would find you here,” he nodded to my cousin. “And Darlene. A bonus. Time for a quick statement? On the record?” Noah’s thumb was already on a button of the recorder.
“Sure,” Darlene said, smiling a little too brightly. “As a responsible citizen, I have just returned from a consultation with the RCMP. All part of my commitment to finding Mike’s killer. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to help the Mounties as much as I wanted.”
I looked at my cousin. Who knew that the provincial updo champion was also such a great spin doctor? Darlene was catching on.
So was Noah.
“Excellent, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about,” he said.
“It isn’t?” I asked, walking out from behind the counter. My campaign manager’s spidey senses were tingling. Something was up.
Noah reached into his backpack and pulled out a sheet of paper. He handed it to me. It was a press release. Darlene and Colleen leaned over to read it with us.
The logo at the top said that it was from the Brian Nickerson for Mayor Campaign. Briefly, I wondered whether Stuart had written it.
DRUMMOND, Nova Scotia—Well-known lawyer and candidate for mayor Brian Nickerson has called for a public debate on policy issues with his chief competitor in the race, former deputy mayor Elliot Carter. Recent polls show Nickerson and Carter with 36% and 33% support, respectively, among decided voters. Gasper’s Cove hair stylist Darlene Mowat trails with 17% support, and frequent candidate Charlie Landry with 1%. Thirteen percent of eligible voters remain undecided.
“It’s clear that this is a two-person race,” says Nickerson. “The people of our community have a right to know where we each stand on the issues: local, provincial, and national. I can think of no better way to do that than at a public meeting. Accountability matters.”
The Carter campaign has accepted Nickerson’s invitation to the debate, which will be held at 8:00 pm this Saturday at the Drummond Civic Center. All are invited to attend.
It took me a minute to absorb the meaning of the release. When I did, I was furious.
“They’re having a debate, and we’re not invited?” Darlene asked Noah. “The arrogant jerks.”
I glared at Noah. “Turn that thing off,” I ordered in my best mother’s voice, looking at the recorder. “Give us a minute to think of a response. What are the other candidates saying?”
Noah pulled a well-worn notebook out of his backpack. It was probably the same one he had used in high school. I resisted the impulse to ask him whether he wanted me to sign his homework.
“Let’s see here,” he said. “Landry is going to protest. He’s down at the Civic Center setting up. Something about a hunger strike.”
“And Elliot?” Darlene asked. “He’s in on it too. What did he say about us being shut out like this?”
Noah studied a page, avoiding our eyes.
“He had nice things to say about you, Darlene, and your group,” he stammered. “He commended you for your enthusiasm.”
“That’s not all, is it?” I asked. “Come on, Noah, spit it out.”
“He pointed out how well-qualified he is, and that government is no place for amateurs.” Noah looked over to Polly, as the next youngest person in the vicinity, for support. She crossed her arms and glared at him.
Beside me, I could feel the heat begin to radiate off Darlene’s body. Never call a redhead an amateur. I put my hand on Darlene’s arm. If she was going to explode, it shouldn’t be in front of a reporter.
“Continue,” I said. There was more. If there is one thing I know, it’s when a kid isn’t telling me everything.
“You sure?” Noah asked, unexpectedly nervous. “He said he appreciated your interest, but that … ”—he read carefully—“in his words, ‘Maybe the ladies from that craft co-op should stick to their knitting.’” The young reporter swallowed. “Any comment?”
I tightened my grip on Darlene’s arm. She pushed my hand away.
“No comment,” she said. “We’ll make our own news. Watch for it.”
