“Ask them if they want to join us for an ice cream celebration at Any Given Sundae.”
“Ooh. I like that.” Whereupon she asked them, gave me an emphatic nod, and rang off. “They'll meet us in half an hour.”
“Let's get going now. I know we'll be early, but there's not enough time to accomplish anything else.” Concentrating on something else would have been a challenge. My mouth was already salivating.
We drove into the ice cream parlor's parking lot fifteen minutes later. I took Paula's hand, and suggested that we stroll and window-shop along Route 28. It had cooled enough by late afternoon that we could walk in the sunshine without roasting. At 4:30 PM some businesses would be closed, but we didn't have time to enter them and shop, anyway. My plan was to stay outdoors to remain within eyesight of the ice cream parlor, so that we could spot my family arriving.
First stop was a bookstore with a sale rack on the sidewalk. I had to drag Paula away, but she swallowed her protest when she spotted a string of antique stores. Their windows featured furniture, farm and boat and kitchen equipment, and local art and artisanry of highly variable quality. Regardless, our few stress-free minutes together were a much-needed respite.
We timed our walk well, arriving back at the ice cream parlor as my father drove in. He parked at an angle, oblivious to the other cars parked perpendicularly to the building. Or maybe not oblivious.
My parents clambered out of the front seats while Griselda helped Rachel out of the back. After exchanging greetings, the six of us climbed the five steps to the porch which circumnavigated the one-story wooden structure. The building's gray paint was brightened by the parlor's title, painted in pastel multi-colors, and by bunches of balloons, attached to the building every twenty feet.
Any Given Sundae has one large room, with tables for sitters at the periphery. Patrons walk through the room to a long counter-top in the back, where orders are placed and collected. Ice cream flavors and dish choices are displayed in chalk on a massive black-board along a side wall, with a skinny, indecipherable version of same hanging behind and above the counter.
Our group converged at the black-board. My parents peeled off within seconds, soon followed by Griselda and Rachel. As Paula and I scrutinized the menu my father groaned.
“Come on,” he said. “Rachel wants to have her ice cream before tomorrow's breakfast.”
Paula was smart enough to ignore his remark. For me, however, sparring with my father is a reflex. “There are lots of choices,” I said. “And they're all delicious.”
“Be honest, David. We all know what flavors the two of you are going to choose.”
“That's not true,” I said. Paula looked at me, her grin combining chastisement and amusement. “All right,” I conceded. “It is true. But not completely. We do vary our third scoop.”
This time we all laughed, including Rachel. We proceeded to the counter, where I ordered vanilla, chocolate chip, and mudpie with whipped cream and hot fudge. Paula went for vanilla, pistacchio, and maple walnut, topped by whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and a cherry. Griselda selected the basics for Rachel--vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry--and then showed her solidarity by ordering the same for herself. My father, as usual, chose flamboyance over reason: rocky road, amaretto, and watermelon sherbet. My mother was last; I'm sure she realized that we were all curious about her appetite. I was pleased that she ordered a full sundae. It didn't bother me that she requested the same basic flavors as had Rachel and Griselda.
My parents, Griselda and Rachel migrated to a table on the covered porch. Paula and I remained behind to pay, and to carry out everyone's sundaes on trays. As we ate in silence, it occurred to me that with my father out of jail, Paula and I should re-assess the need for us to keep investigating.
“So how are you feeling, Dad?” I began.
“Fine. Don't I look it?” He pointed to his ice cream dish, which was nearly empty. “How's Dr. Singer?”
“No change as far as we know.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. Have you found the real murderer, or attempted murderer?”
“No. But we have made progress.” Since Paula was ahead of me in the ice cream eating department, I asked her to fill my parents in. My parents interrupted with a few questions, but mostly listened and nodded. When Paula finished speaking, and returned to the last of her ice cream, my parents looked at each other.
“Good work, children,” my mother said. “You've done well. Will you be handing over your findings to that nice Lieutenant Hansen?”
“Not so nice,” my father said. “Remember who put me in jail?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“We've already spoken to Lieutenant Hansen,” I told my parents.
“So now you can turn it over to him,” my mother repeated. “It's his job to take risks.”
Not your job, she meant. I was happy that she'd relieved me of the delicate task of asking Paula that question. Paula looked at me, but I don't think that our telepathy is as advanced as my parents'.
“We appreciate your concern,” Paula said, turning to them. “But we know how to be careful.” Was she kidding? “We can't stop investigating now,” she said. “We owe it to Dr. Singer, and to the Singer Institute. They may not realize it, but until this crime is solved there's a cloud hanging over all of them. One of them is probably guilty. How can they work together if they can't trust each other?”
Paula turned back to me. “Right, David?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied quickly.
“You're absolutely right,” my father said, quashing my last exit strategy
“What can we do to help?” my mother asked, abandoning her previous doubts.
“Thank you,” Paula said. “Nothing right now. But we'll let you know.” At full strength my parents are formidable allies.
When we were all finished eating Paula and I gathered and stacked our dishes, my mother's half-empty plate on the top.
“I'm just glad I got out of that place in time for tonight's meeting,” my father said. He looked at me. “You haven't forgotten your promise to come, have you?”
“No, Dad. But please remind me. Why are you in favor of the wind turbines?”
“How many times do I have to explain the same things?” he asked.
“Moshe,” my mother said.
“It’s true, though,” he grumbled.
“The Cape is a place of great beauty,” I said, trying to ignore my father's sarcasm and condescension. “Wouldn't it be better to put the wind turbines somewhere else?”
“Eh, tu, David? The NIMBY argument? Not in my backyard? Every location trots that one out.”
“Trots that one out?” That didn't sound like my father. It must have come from one of his fellow Green Panthers in a preparatory meeting. “Well,” I said, “I will come to the meeting. And my bias is to support you--and Mom, of course. But I'm curious to hear the other side's arguments.”
“Typical,” my father said.
“That's OK with us,” said my mother the diplomat.
I couldn't read Paula's expression. Maybe her mind had drifted to the psych presentation she had to prepare. Or maybe she suspected that I was having second thoughts about investigating, and was considering her response.
Rachel broke the uncomfortable silence by standing up. She may have been bored, having finished eating her ice cream. Or she had better social instincts than any of us except Griselda gave her credit for.
I stood up and kissed Rachel. “You're a born leader,” I said. Turning to my father, “I'm so glad you're out of jail.”
My father cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he said, then looked at my mother. See, he was telling her, I can be polite, too.
We walked out to the parking lot, where my parents wished Paula well on tomorrow’s talk. The four of them got into their car and drove off, back to their cottage.
“My mother looks better, don't you think?” I asked Paula.
“I think so.”
“Let's hope it
stays that way. Do you want to do anything else in this part of the Cape before we drive back to the hotel?”
“No. I have a lot of work to do.”
We were silent once again while Paula drove us to the hotel. Any break from the Singer case was welcome, but time was ticking. Our stay on the Cape, our opportunity to investigate, wouldn't last long. I walked her to her room, where we pecked a temporary good-bye.
“Call me when your meeting's finished,” Paula said. “We can go to the thing at Jonathan Singer's place together.”
“OK.” I'd half hoped that she'd forgotten about that. The Singer case was bound to resurface over there. But at least there'd be free, and probably delicious, food.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
What to do next? I had an hour until my parents were to pick me up on their way to the wind turbines meeting. The ice cream sundae had somehow whetted my appetite, because I was hungry again. Be strong, David. There should be plenty of food at Mitchell Singer's party. I temporized by walking down the hallway to the ice machine to fill my bucket, reassuring myself after my room door slapped shut and locked behind me that I still had the room key in my pocket.
Upon returning to my room I fixed myself a cool drink of tap water on the rocks--too cheap to raid the hotel's rip-off mini-bar. I dug out my emergency chocolate bar from a dresser drawer, and went to sit at the table. The dark chocolate was good, but the two squares I ate didn't solve my problem. A glass of ice water didn't satisfy my hunger, either.
Nap time? Tempting as that sounded, the hour was late enough that a nap might interfere with my regular sleep. And with all the stresses I was unlikely to fall asleep, anyway.
How about distraction? That should work. I returned to the dresser, and opened the drawer where I'd stashed two guaranteed-to-enjoy books--the latest Sue Grafton and Robert B. Parker mysteries. The Parker had landed on top, so I grabbed it and headed for my favorite reading location--the bed. I took off my shoes and tucked them under the bed, so I wouldn't trip on them when I stood up again. And parallel to each other, so that any asymmetry wouldn't disturb my tranquility.
I sat on the edge of the bed, placed two pillows at a perfect reading angle, leaned back, took a deep breath, and smiled. I reached for my book, and immediately thought of--Jonathan Singer. No, don’t think about him now. His condition was grave, but there was nothing I could do about it. Our investigation into his assault was progressing, and I'd get back to it later, at Mitchell's.
I opened the book, but saw my father's face. Even in what should have been a moment of triumph for him, getting out of jail, his priority seemed to be to antagonize me. I have a theory that children are heat-seeking missiles, perfectly designed to zero in on their parents' weak points. But in our family it feels like the reverse. My father always has his teeth in the rawest of my nerves.
The book in my hand might as well have been a spongy-grip exercise toy by now. My mother's gaunt image floated by next, covered by white sheets which matched her face. I felt guilty. I should be doing more to help her. I'm her brilliant doctor son. What's the use of being a doctor if I can't fix the people I love? Let's not even think about Rachel now.
I'd thought that my words of self-reproach were my own, but they seemed to be coming from a familiar voice behind me. I tried to turn around, but was hit by a blast of gale-force wind. I glimpsed a young woman with dark hair streaming across her face. Was it Paula?
I felt her hands on my back. She pushed.
I was falling down, down, down into darkness. Why was this happening? I didn't deserve this. Why didn't they understand? I turned around and looked up. “But-”
Brrring. The ring of the hotel telephone woke me up. I was sweaty, and my book was across the room. I picked up the receiver on the fourth ring I heard.
“Where are you, David?” my mother asked. “I'm calling from the lobby. But I'm going back out to your father in the car to wait for you.”
I washed my face and neck, and combed my hair. Creased clothes are preferable to creased hair is my credo. I took a last sip from my glass of water, which was still cold despite the ice having melted. Neither the external nor the internal water cleared my foggy brain, but reality would soon take care of that.
Speaking of reality, my father had the engine running. He started moving the car even before I'd completed buckling my seat belt. “We don't want to be late,” he said, looking at the road ahead.
I felt my reflexive anger rise, but reined it in without responding. The Cape scenery I watched through my window soothed my spirits, but not so quickly as usual. I have no recollection of what I saw during our ten-minute trip.
I woke up to see the town hall, a red brick building with a pointy roof. It looked like a church to me, which maybe it once was, but without the steeple. Its parking lot and the adjacent streets were jammed with cars. People were milling about, some bearing placards. We had to drive past the Hall by two blocks to find a parking spot. I heard my father grumble something like “that's what you get for arriving late.” But once again, I'm proud to say, I didn't rise to his bait.
As we walked back to the town hall, I saw from my distance that there were about a dozen people bearing the placards. They were marching back and forth in a semblance of unison. Clearly a demonstration for one side or the other. Passersby periodically engaged a demonstrator in conversation, ruining their formation, after which the passerby would break off and enter the building.
A group of four men in gray business suits--very unusual dress for the Cape--were conversing on the Hall's steps. One of them pointed twice at the demonstrators. A muscular man in light-colored short-sleeved dress shirt and slacks emerged from behind the group on the stairs. As he walked toward the demonstrators he squared his shoulders. Thomas Haydock. The suits scurried inside.
Things got even more interesting when Haydock got up close to the demonstrators. His presence, or something he said, seemed to intimidate them. They backed off, a front line of soldiers bending in the face of a direct assault. A uniformed police officer approached and spoke to Haydock. Haydock laughed, and touched his hands to his chest in a “who, me?” gesture.
By this time my parents and I had reached the parking lot. When Haydock turned to address the officer, Haydock and I made eye contact. I was curious. My detective instinct told me to question him right away. I turned back to my parents.
“I'll be right back,” I said. But by the time I turned around again Haydock was a block away. He soon disappeared down a side road. I moved in his direction, but-
“No, you don't, David,” my father said. “You promised.”
I stopped. “OK.” This time he was right.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The Board of Selectmen, unfortunately, matched their stereotype. Almost. Four white-haired white men, in white short-sleeved shirts, sat in a row at a dais on the stage. There was a woman, too, but she appeared to belong to the same club. They spoke to each other in brief snatches, they shuffled papers, but mostly they stared--in shock?--at the noisy, standing-room-only crowd.
I followed my parents to an area halfway up on the left, where the Green Panthers were sitting. We took the last three empty seats in their section, which they'd apparently saved for us. My parents greeted their comrades as we sat down, my mother on my father's right, and me on hers. The room was stuffy and hot, no open windows in sight. I opened the top two buttons of my shirt--casual constituting the Cape’s dress-code.
“Who's that?” I asked, pointing at the four gray-suits in the second row on the right. We’d previously seen them on the Town Hall steps.
“Those are the wind turbine people,” said Bitty Smyth. I recognized her from the episode on Singer's boat.
“Thanks,” I nodded.
My mother leaned toward me and whispered. “That's the only part of our side that I'm not comfortable with. Those wind turbine people are just too slick, too corporate for me. I can't really trust anyone who's just in it for the money.”
“Me ne
ither,” I said, but I was drowned out by my father's “shush,” and by the middle figure of the five on stage tapping his microphone.
The Selectman called the meeting to order, introducing himself as the chairman. He looked at each of his colleagues, and named each of them. Ground rules for the meeting were next, including presentations, discussion, time allotments, and behavior. The Board would vote at the end.
I looked at my mother. She didn't look so well, again. Was it the lighting? She clearly sensed my gaze, because without looking at me she squeezed my hand and pointed at the stage.
One of the gray-suits from the wind turbine company was first to speak. He stood and walked up to the podium, which was situated to one side of the dais, so that the speaker could address both the Board and the audience. When he began by greeting the audience a smattering of hisses interrupted him. The Green Panthers, sitting all around me, responded with applause--which prompted the Board chairman to rap his microphone, re-call for order, and warn the audience that further disturbances would be punished by eviction.
“It's a win-win proposition for the Cape,” Mr. Gray-suit began. “Since electric power is a necessary evil, why not generate and provide it in an environmentally friendly manner? Isn't that in the great tradition of the Cape?”
Hissing re-started, but was quelled by a stern look and a palm-out ‘stop’ gesture by the chairman. I questioned Mr. Gray-suit's environmental sincerity, but reminded myself that the issue should be decided on merits, not personalities--unlike the way many Americans choose their presidents.
“By providing your own power you'll drastically reduce your reliance on traditional utility companies. Their pricing and reliability are, ah, legendary.” I nodded, and saw that the Green Panthers were all nodding, too.
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