by M. G. Meaney
Amelia smiled and stage-whispered to neighbors, "He means me."
Will continued. "Now that this danger has been rooted out, my sincerest hope is that Paulding will find itself a better village: more understanding, more accepting, even more caring, more inventive, and more dedicated to justice."
A smattering of applause, but some onlookers narrowed their eyes, wary of where the rector's speech was headed.
"And on the matter of justice, I ask you to join me today in a new quest."
Now nearly all of the onlookers turned wary. The last thing they wanted from Reverend Haviland was another intrusion into the village's affairs.
Abigail herself looked quizzical, for he had not told her about this new undertaking.
"Let us all band together and work to put an end to executions by hanging," Haviland announced. "Let us make Theodore Hopfner's death the last hanging in the state."
The crowd murmured, a murmur of annoyance and irritation. Those the authorities hanged generally deserved it, most thought. Would eliminating it not encourage criminals? Would it not be a slap at the police who maintained order?
Haviland mistook the nature of the crowd reaction or did not notice it.
"First, let us start a petition asking the state Legislature to abandon hanging. Those who would like to help collect signatures, please see me after. I'm sure this effort can unite us even more as a village and lead the state on a matter of great public and moral good."
As he wound down his remarks, the crowd drifted away, shaking their heads and remarking on the rector who could not keep out of trouble.
Only Abigail waited when he left the platform.
"Abigail, are you the only volunteer?"
"Will, I'm only volunteering to walk with you. Let's stroll to the harbor." She took his arm.
"Will, I love you, but you do love to tilt at windmills," she said, twirling her blue parasol before them as she thought, "Brooklyn yet again."
"Some windmills need tilting at," Will said.
They walked in quiet contentment the two blocks to the waterfront, occasionally nodding at passing villagers. At the harbor, they watched a fishing boat sound its horn and edge out toward the Sound. Workers from a docked ship grunted as they slapped containers of fish atop each other on the wooden pier as seagulls hovered and shrieked.
Abigail took in the harbor, its brownish rivulets whisking against the dock. The fishing boat that had departed grew smaller. Then, an object on the water caught her eye.
"Will, look. That yellow there." She pointed. "Is that a boat?"
"It's coming this way," Will said. "It's getting closer.
Yes, I think you're right. It is a small boat. And there's no one on board."
The small yellow boat rode the tide toward them. It spun slowly as it drifted. Finally, it chocked into the harbor wall at their feet.
Two paddles lay inside.
"Will, look. There's a box. Let's check."
Will reached over and grabbed a rope from the boat and knotted it to the dock.
Abigail scrambled into the boat, then steadied herself as it rocked and the water's oily sheen adhered to the sides. She opened the box and peered in. "What's this? Oh, Will," she announced delightedly. "Wine. A dozen bottles of black currant wine." She pulled out one and displayed it with a smile.
"Odd," Will said.
"A new mystery for us to tackle," Abigail announced. "Whose boat is this? Where did it come from? And why the wine?"
She climbed back onto the dock with the bottle and hugged Will. "Maybe a couple rowed out and stopped for a picnic and the boat drifted away. How romantic!" she said. "Or maybe smugglers. Even better."
"We'll never run short on imagination, I see," Will remarked.
"Oh, and when we solve the mystery and find the owner, you can lecture them on the evils of the drink. And I'll share a wine with them." He smiled, and they kissed.
* * *
NOTE: Five years later, the New York state Legislature abolished hanging. Replacing it, however, was a "more humane" capital punishment: the electric chair.
Acknowledgements
Thanks so much to Karen Meaney, Patrick Meaney, and Elizabeth Meaney for reading the manuscript and offering so many suggestions that made it better. To Jim Meaney for sharing his expertise on local Civil War infantry units. To Judy Moore for invaluable advice. And to the Westchester Historical Society, New York Public Library and Port Chester, New York, Public Library for their help with historical research.
About the Author
M.G. Meaney has been a journalist who covered and edited stories about breaking news, crime and courts, government, elections and education. He has also been a college professor and local history researcher. This is his first published novel. He is a lifelong resident of New York state.
M.G. Meaney can be contacted
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