CHAPTER 38
At twelve thirty, Article Eleven was about to be brought before the town. The first ten articles had involved relatively low-budget funding of things like a new sidewalk snowplow, money for energy-efficient LED lights in the town’s lamps, and repaving the playground’s parking lot. I found the business numbingly boring, but the town need to conduct it. My mind had been more on murder than motions, anyway. By now my not-so-padded rear end already ached from the ridiculously outdated wooden folding chairs we all were obliged to sit on. I’d noticed the knitter in front of me had brought her own seat cushion. Smart move.
Red-bereted Abo Reba stood in line at the center aisle microphone, followed by Silas Carter. What issue would bring these two together? After a select person read the article, I understood. The article outlined a high-budget request to build a new senior center.
After she stated her name and that she lived on Main Street, my grandmother made the case, in a voice surprisingly deep and loud for such a tiny old being, that the town needed to support its elders. That the current home to the senior center, a room in the Our Lady of the Sea parish hall, was drafty, dark, and most important, not handicapped-accessible. That a new center could provide a gathering space for the entire community.
She had a point. This very town hall was bigger and had tall windows that let in sunlight. The side door didn’t involve stairs, nor did the restrooms. Still, it had been built over a hundred years earlier. The bathrooms were narrow and antiquated. The paint on the high ceiling flaked. And these chairs were the pits.
Silas stepped up to the mike and identified himself. He touched his snowy head.
“As you all can see, along with our friend Reba I am of the age to benefit from this center. If we are to provide equal access to all and support our increasingly graying population, we must support this article.”
Bravo. Leave it to the Quaker to bring up equality.
As Silas turned away from the microphone, his gaze fell on me. He nodded and gave me one of those looks that says, “We need to talk.”
I nodded back. Unfortunately, that talk would have to wait for a lunch break, if they ever got to one. I wished the moderator would call for a vote right now. My stomach complained bitterly of hunger, and I was desperate to hear what Silas had to say about Ogden.
The discussion of the pros and cons of a new center went on forever, or so it seemed. PTO parents argued for a priority of more school funding. The smooth-talking owner of Jimmy’s Harborside maintained a repair of the buckling sidewalks needed the funds more. A man well-known for his Not-in-My-Back-Yard opinions said, “What about that ratty town park with all those wretched homeless people? The town should clean that up first.” A few murmurs of agreement arose, but they were overridden by a chorus of Nos.
A few rows in front of me, a man stood, ready to make his way to the back of the line of folks who waited to argue for their corner of the universe. Huh. Phil DiCicero. I’d missed him entirely. Someone next to him tugged his sleeve. I half rose out of my seat to see who. That thin, sand-colored hair could only belong to Ogden Hicks. And Doris sat next to him.
Phil tried to extricate his arm. I watched, still half-standing. Furious whispers took place between him and Ogden. Phil finally broke free from his business partner’s grasp and excused himself repeatedly as he passed in front of a half-dozen sets of knees to reach the aisle.
I exchanged a glance with Zane. Derrick frowned at his phone and seemed to have missed the interaction. Zane lifted a shoulder and his eyebrows in a “Who knows?” gesture. I reached for my back pocket but had to drop my hand. That pocket wouldn’t hold a phone until I drove somewhere to buy and activate one. I silently cursed my own need to photograph a pretty bird. Why couldn’t I have simply appreciated the lovely sight of a wild bird in its native habitat? What drove me to need to take a picture of it? Maybe it would be good for me to take a sabbatical from texting, from the world always at my fingertips, from social media. The objections rose up instantly. I wouldn’t be able to communicate with Tim in Washington, and I’d be out of the Cozy Capers loop. Not to mention using it for my business.
Phil now stood at the microphone. “Philip DiCicero, Pebble Lane.”
The moderator spoke. “Do you have anything new to offer?”
“Yes, Madam Moderator. If this article passes, I pledge to donate a hundred thousand dollars to the construction of a new senior center. My late wife, Annette, adored older people. If the town so wishes, I would appreciate it if you named the center the Annette Andrade DiCicero Center. Thank you.” He bowed his head, then turned and walked, not back to his seat but straight out the door at the rear.
The buzz of conversation in the hall matched the buzz of my own thoughts. Phil had that kind of money? Ogden rose and stared at the back. He looked like he wondered the same. And if the vote was going to be close, why hadn’t Phil stayed to add his own? Also, had Annette loved seniors? I glanced at Reba’s red hat. I’d have to ask her.
Zane elbowed me. “Seriously? Since when does DiCicero have pockets that deep?”
“No clue,” I replied. “Derrick?”
He wagged his head.
“We need to find out,” I murmured.
Victoria moved up the side aisle past me. I hadn’t noticed her before, which didn’t mean much. The police and fire officials usually hung around on foot at the back of the hall, the request of the moderator for town residents to sit notwithstanding. Maybe their jobs exempted them. She must be keeping an eye on the gathering to be sure it didn’t get out of control.
The moderator rapped her gavel. “Quiet.” When the conversation continued, she banged it twice. “Article Eleven is still before us. Is there any further discussion?”
Within two minutes, a motion to vote had been made and seconded. The article passed with a resounding chorus of ayes far outnumbering the handful of those opposed.
“We will adjourn for a lunch break of no more than thirty minutes,” the moderator announced. “To reconvene at one thirty sharp.” Bang went the gavel.