The Most Famous Illegal Goose Creek Parade

by Virginia Smith

  “What did she say?”

  “A lame excuse about a tomato sale, which I refused to accept, and finally the truth came out.” Drama tinged her voice. “Norman made her go to Frankfort.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To keep her quiet.” Violet lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. “She knows something, and he doesn’t want her telling it.”

  Glancing around the empty waiting room, Millie whispered back, “What does she know?”

  “There’s something planned for Saturday. Norman’s been holding secret meetings in the barn all weekend.”

  A delicious chill swept across Millie’s skin. “What are they meeting about?”

  Violet replied in a normal tone, disappointment heavy in her voice. “I couldn’t pry it out of her. Said Norman would skin her alive if she told. But she did say if I have any errands to do out of town, Saturday would be a good day to get them done.”

  The paperclip was now a straight wire, and she used it to pick absently at the ragged edges of the message pad. Who could she call to find out? “Who do we know in Norman’s camp?”

  “Would Hazel tell?”

  “Possibly.” Millie reviewed the conversation with Hazel at the Whistlestop. Did her urging them to take sides have an unspoken purpose? Was she, in fact, feeling them out to see if it was safe to invite them to these top-secret meetings in the Pilkington barn? If she’d been inclined to share details, she would have done so then. “What about Sharon Geddes? Albert said Chuck was in Norman’s camp at the Council meeting.”

  “Good idea. You want to call?”

  Susan emerged from the clinic then, frowning over a folder. The girl seemed determined to memorize the contents of every pet file in the cabinet, though Millie couldn’t imagine why. Probably bored, the poor dear. “I really can’t right now.”

  “I’ll do it.” Violet sounded positively gleeful at the prospect. “I’m sure I can get her to spill the beans.”

  “Let me know the minute you find out anything.” Millie hung up and turned her attention to Susan.

  “According to the chart, we haven’t seen this animal in over two years. I’ve noticed quite a few like that.” She closed the folder and read from the tab. “Tiger McCoy.”

  “Oh, that’s Christine McCoy’s beagle. She works at a bank in Lexington, so she started taking him to one of those drop-off pet store clinics nearby. She said we close too early and she can’t get back here in time.”

  “I don’t have a problem staying open a bit later.” Susan’s eyes brightened as an idea occurred. “Do you think there are others who go somewhere else because of scheduling problems?”

  “I’m sure of it. Doc and Lizzie were both adamant about locking the doors right at five o’clock.”

  “Maybe I could give them a call.” She seemed almost fearful that Millie would veto the idea. “You know, kind of introduce myself and tell them I’m happy to work around their schedules.”

  “An excellent idea.” Millie poured on the enthusiasm, pleased when Susan’s face lit. “If you want, we can go over the files together and I’ll tell you what I know about each one before you call.”

  “I’ll start on a list right away.” She half-turned, and then stopped as though a thought had just occurred to her. To Millie’s sharp eye, the gesture looked a tad put-on. “Uh, you know that guy who was here earlier?”

  “Justin?” Millie affected a pleasantly blank expression, though she had a hard time biting back a chuckle. “He seemed like a nice young man. He certainly is nice looking.”

  “Is he? I didn’t notice.” At least she had the grace to blush when she lied. “You mentioned some work he’ll be doing for you.”

  “That depends on his prices. But I hope he’s affordable. I rather liked him.”

  In fact, she had decided to hire Justin Hinkle when she first heard about him, no matter what Albert said. They’d argued over the issue last night when he insisted she get estimates from at least two other sources. A complete waste of time, in her opinion.

  Susan seemed to be struggling to come up with a reply, so Millie added, “Do you have some work that needs to be done?”

  Her face cleared as she leaped on the question. “Yes. Exactly. I noticed that, uh, the knob on the door of my office is loose.”

  “I noticed that myself,” Millie agreed, and then added graciously, “Maybe he could look at that toilet too. I think the water level needs adjusting.”

  “I’ve thought the same thing.” The enthusiasm in her nod definitely exceeded what would be normal for a toilet repair.

  “He said he’d call with his bid this evening,” Millie said. “If you want, I could ask his fee for repairs like that.”

  The tension in her shoulders relaxed, and a smile transformed her rather severe features. “That would be good. Thank you.”

  Carrying her folder, she left in the direction of her office. Millie’s grin broke to the fore. Did young people realize how transparent they were? She pulled the trash can from beneath the desk and swept the mangled paperclip and confetti in.

  The door swung open, and she looked up to find Susan’s head peeking into the room. Smile gone, the lines had returned to her forehead.

  “On second thought, never mind. No sense wasting the money. Daddy can fix those things next time he comes.”

  The door swung shut.

  Daddy again.

  With a thud, Millie shoved the trash can back in place. If Daddy were here right now, she’d give him an earful.

  “She wouldn’t budge,” Violet announced over the phone that evening. “Lips shut tighter than a clam. Tongue frozen over like a pond in January. Silent as the grave. Quiet as—”

  “I get the point.” Millie used a firmer tone than normal. Sometimes Violet could get carried away.

  Albert tore his gaze away from the television to give her a questioning glance. She waved him back to his show and headed into the kitchen.

  “As a church mouse,” Violet finished stubbornly.

  Millie sighed.

  “There’s definitely something going on,” her friend continued. “Sharon talked my ear off about the need for overseeing the government, and pressured me to agree. When I refused to say either way, she got stubborn.”

  The only light in the kitchen shone from beneath the microwave, casting a homey yellow glow throughout the room. Millie slid into a chair. “What could they be up to?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s not good.” A pause. “Millie, what side are you on, really?”

  “Albert and I are officially neutral. We’re both against giving the contract to Little Norm, but I’d never say that publicly. I couldn’t hurt Eulie’s feelings like that.” Something in Violet’s question sounded hesitant. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  A long pause, which Millie endured patiently. Normally her friend was quick to speak and quite verbose. When she took her time with words, a great deal of contemplation was going on beneath all those salt-and-pepper curls.

  Finally, Violet continued. “What Sharon said kinda made sense. This may have started out being about Little Norm, but it’s bigger now. I mean, our City Council is made up of regular people. Our neighbors. Shouldn’t they have rules about spending tax money?”

  It sounded like Hazel and Sharon had been talking.

  “I think they do. I mean, they must have.” Political discussions, even with her best friend, always left Millie feeling uncomfortable. She should know more than she did about her government, should make a point of educating herself. Instead, she was content to cast her vote and let others decide. “Anyway, the mayor leads them. I trust him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” The answer came without hesitation, and with a hint of relief. “I do trust Jerry.”

  “And besides,” Millie said slowly, thoughts solidifying as she spoke, “if I were making the rules about spending taxpayer money, I would want the Council to do exactly what they’re doing. Shop around. L
ook for bargains.”

  “Like we do when we’re shopping for a new washer and dryer.”

  “Exactly.”

  Or a new roof. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the den. Maybe I will get one or two estimates besides Justin’s.

  “And if I were in the market for a new washer and dryer,” Violet went on, “I wouldn’t limit my shopping to Goose Creek.”

  Millie chuckled. “If you did, you’d be using a scrub board and stringing a clothesline in the backyard.”

  “True fact.” Violet’s laughter sounded lighter than a moment before. “Okay, so unofficially we side with the mayor. Officially, though—”

  “We’re Switzerland,” Millie said.

  “Huh?”

  She smiled. At least she knew a little about politics. “We’re neutral,” she explained.

  “Hey, I like that. We’re so Swiss we’re full of holes.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.”

  While they shared a final laugh, Rufus waddled into the room. On his way to his corner cushion he paused beside her chair and looked up, a patient request in his eyes. Disconnecting the call, she obliged by rubbing behind his ear. An unpleasant odor wafted toward her. Sniffing her hand, she wrinkled her nose.

  “Do you need another bath already?”

  One thing about Rufus. He wasn’t as slow-witted as Albert claimed. At the dreaded word, he tucked his tail and scurried from the room.

  Mayor Jerry Selbo went to bed at eleven o’clock, as usual. When the red digits on the alarm clock read 12:00, he slipped out of bed, taking care not to disturb Cindie.

  In the seven years since his entrance into local politics, first with two terms on the Council and then as mayor, he’d never lost sleep over an issue. This water tower situation had taken over his professional life, and now was interfering with his personal life as well.

  It’ll be over soon.

  Though the RFB had just gone out on Friday, they’d already received their first response via e-mail. No one knew it, hopefully. Sally had taken a vow of secrecy, not that she was eager to discuss the water tower with anyone. She hated conflict. If she didn’t resign before this was over, he’d be surprised.

  I would too, if I thought I could get away with it.

  Creeping down the stairs, he stepped over the squeaky fifth step and descended to the main floor in silence. He slipped into the living room, but didn’t turn on the light. Normally he would pick up one of his guitars and lose his tension in the music, but he didn’t want to wake Cindie. Instead, he headed for his recliner. The house felt stuffy tonight. He detoured to crack open one of the small windows on each side of the large bay window, and stood for a moment breathing in the cool midnight air before sinking into his recliner.

  At least there was one benefit from this contentious affair—the decision about making another run for mayor next year had been made for him. The water tower controversy had shot a fatal bullet through his political career. He wasn’t sure whether to be upset or relieved.

  He must have fallen asleep, because what seemed like moments later he jerked upright. The display on the DVR box read 12:33. What had awakened him? A muffled exclamation. Real, or had he dreamed it?

  Hissing whispers from outside drifted through the window. Not a dream, then. Instinct shot him to his feet, but he stood there, hesitant. Should he make a dash for the kitchen phone? Run upstairs and barricade himself and Cindie in the bedroom?

  “Shut yer trap, you idjit!”

  The words, uttered by a familiar voice, decided him. Keeping to the shadows, he crept closer to the open window. Why in the world was Norman Pilkington slinking around his house in the middle of the night?

  “I think I broke something,” came the reply. Also familiar. But who?

  “Don’t tell me I’m gonna hafta carry you outta here, ’cause I ain’t a-doin’ it.”

  “Not on me,” the second voice said. “One of them garden thingies. I felt it crunch under my boot.”

  Jerry winced. One of Cindie’s garden gnomes had also fallen victim to the water tower controversy.

  “Fergit it,” Norman commanded. “Heft that there brick.”

  Brick? Jerry straightened. Time to end this. He turned toward the door, ready to jerk it open and confront the trespassers. A loud bang! sounded as something hit the front door, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “Dang, Junior! I coulda throwed it better’n that. You plumb missed the whole winder.”

  Junior Watson. Yes, that was the voice.

  “Didn’t wanna break the winder. That woulda cost the mayor a bundle to fix.”

  Norman gave a loud groan. “You really is a idjit. C’mon. Let’s git outta here. He’ll git the message in the morning.”

  Jerry followed their progress by the sound of Norman insulting Junior’s intelligence. When silence once again settled outside, he opened the front door. An ugly scratch would have to be repaired, but he had extra paint. On the doormat lay a paper-wrapped brick.

  Back inside, he flipped on a table lamp. Removing the rubber band, he held the note beneath the lampshade.

  Dear Mayor and City Council,

  We ain’t about to let you get away with hiring no outsiders. Come Saturday you’ll see we mean business.

  Jerry let out a resigned sigh. If the note had been from anyone else, he might have felt threatened. He’d still have to show the sheriff, of course, but only as a precautionary measure. The man couldn’t be planning anything too violent or illegal. After all, how could anyone feel threatened when the culprit had signed his note?

  Sincerely,

  Norman Pilkington, Sr.

  Dog Cookies

  1 cup old-fashioned oatmeal

  ⅓ cup butter

  1½ cups boiling water, divided

  2 tsp bouillon granules (chicken or beef, depending on your dog’s taste)

  1 cup sharp Cheddar cheese, shredded

  ¾ cup cornmeal

  1 beaten egg

  2 tsp sugar

  3 cups whole wheat flour

  Preheat oven to 350° and line a cookie sheet with parchment paper. Combine oatmeal, butter, and 1 cup water. In a separate bowl, combine cornmeal, sugar, ½ cup water, bouillon, cheese, and egg. Stir that combination into the oatmeal mixture and blend thoroughly. Add flour a little at a time, stirring to form a stiff dough. Turn onto a floured surface and knead a bit until fully blended. Roll out and cut with squirrel-shaped cookie cutters. (Feel free to use your dog’s favorite shapes.) Bake for approximately 40 minutes. Cookies will turn golden brown. Remove parchment paper to counter to cool.

  Chapter Fourteen

  An eerie tension settled over Goose Creek. Being out of town for the better part of each day, Al only had Millie’s word to go on. Her description of the furtive glances exchanged by passersby on the streets and the veiled references to Saturday’s mysterious event made Al almost glad to escape to his job.

  Almost.

  Thacker made the office more unbearable than ever. He apparently believed that he and Al were now buddies since, as he announced to everyone, “We’re going to be fellow geese, flying in the same flock.” Most disturbing of all was his loud and often-repeated rendition of the theme song from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.

  “No!” Al wanted to shout over the cubical wall. “It is not a beautiful day in the neighborhood. And I do not want to be your neighbor.”

  Saturday arrived with a glorious sunrise, which Al witnessed from his lounge chair on the back deck. He and Millie wrapped themselves in fleece blankets to ward off the pre-dawn chill and sipped hazelnut coffee while God showed off by splashing color from His shining palette onto a sky full of wispy clouds.

  A happy sigh issued from his wife. “Just think, Albert. In a few weeks we’ll be sitting on our verandah and watching the sunrise over the lake.”

  “It’s a pond,” he informed her, “and the back porch faces west.”

  She cast a scowl sideways, and then brightened. �
�I’ve been thinking about names for our B&B.”

  “We’re a long way from needing a name.”

  “I know, but I don’t want to keep calling it the Updyke house. How does Woodburn Manor strike you?”

  A shudder rippled through him. “The place is an ancient tinderbox. I’d rather avoid any mention of burning wood.”

  “Good point,” she conceded. “How about Beautiful Dreamer B&B?”

  “Too cutesy.”

  “Bluegrass Estates?”

  “Too generic.”

  “What about Lakeview Manor?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “There’s no lake, therefore no lake view.”

  “Don’t be an old poop.” With an exasperated glance, she burrowed further into her blanket. “What do you suggest?”

  “Haven’t given it any thought.” He cradled the warm mug and regarded the lightening sky. “What about Mother Goose Inn?”

  “Albert, be serious.”

  “I am,” he teased. “You could be Mother Goose.” A thought occurred to him, and he sobered. “Or maybe Old Mother Hubbard, and we’ll have to live in a shoe because the repairs will bankrupt us. What time are we meeting this fellow?”

  “Nine-thirty.” She twisted around and squinted through the window toward the clock inside. “Just over two hours.”

  The sun was fully up now, though hiding behind the Andersons’ house. Al glowered in that direction. Today he would commit the first of a great many expenditures that posed a threat to his financial security. The bid from the handyman in Frankfort was far less than he’d expected, though he didn’t admit that to Millie. He’d be inclined to hire Hinkle based on that alone, regardless of the fact that the other two bids Millie obtained weren’t nearly as comprehensive as his. Woody’s brother-in-law didn’t even bother to inspect the place, but had requested that Millie e-mail him pictures.

  Millie was watching him with a pensive expression. “You will be nice, won’t you?”

  His chin jutted forward. “I’m always nice.”

  After a long blank stare, she burst into laughter. Chuckling, she unwrapped herself from her cocoon and headed for the house. Offended, he did not get up to open the door for her.