“I do.” Rachel began unloading her groceries onto the conveyer belt. “In fact, Bob and I are driving down and taking him out for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“That’s a good idea—plus you don’t have to cook,” said Dot as she began ringing up Rachel’s order. “I see you got a turkey anyway.”
“For the freezer. At this price, why not?”
“I got two,” confessed Lucy. “One for Thanksgiving and one for the freezer.”
“So you didn’t get the fresh ones from Andy Brown?” Dot was grinning wickedly.
“At $1.69 a pound, I don’t think so,” said Rachel. “Not with tuition bills to pay.”
“When that casino comes, our troubles will be over,” said Dot. “We’ll all be rolling in money. I went to Atlantic City last fall and won twelve hundred dollars. On the slots. That’s the way to pay those bills.”
“You were lucky,” said Lucy. “I don’t think you can count on winning. Most people lose money.”
“That’s true,” conceded Dot. “But think of all the jobs. That casino will be a shot in the arm for the local economy.”
“I don’t know,” said Rachel doubtfully as she began bagging her groceries. “Casinos bring a lot of problems: organized crime, drugs, money laundering. I can’t say that I’m for it. In fact, Bob’s going to be speaking against it at the meeting next week.”
Rachel’s husband, Bob, was a lawyer.
“That’s good. People ought to speak up,” said Lucy. “This is a nice seaside town. What do they want to go and spoil it for?”
“For money,” said Dot matter-of-factly. “That’ll be $141.38.”
“Ouch,” said Rachel, pulling out her checkbook. “That hurts.”
“I feel your pain,” said Lucy, nervously eyeing her own cart.
“Can I sell you a scratch ticket?” asked Dot.
“No!” chorused Lucy and Rachel.
CHAPTER 5
Zoe was excited about being able to read.
“S-T-O-P,” she read the letters off the red sign, pronouncing the letters carefully. “Stop! Stop the car, Mom.”
Obediently, Lucy braked at the corner and turned onto Main Street, driving a block to the Broadbrooks Free Library, where she pulled into the parking lot.
Lucy had, until recently, been a member of the library’s board of directors and was still struggling with the mixed emotions of guilt and relief over her resignation. She had been tempted to avoid the library, but that wouldn’t be fair to the kids, especially Zoe. This Saturday morning Lucy had firmly set her emotions aside so Zoe could attend a special program. Dr. Fred Rumford, an archaeology professor at nearby Winchester College, was leading a workshop on flintknapping, teaching the kids how primitive people made weapon points out of rocks.
“P-A-T-R-O-N-S,” pronounced Zoe, staring at the PARKING FOR LIBRARY PATRONS ONLY sign. “Pat-rons. Mom, what’s a patron?”
“It’s patron. It means a person who uses something,” explained Lucy as they followed the concrete path that led around the library to the front door. When they rounded the corner of the building she noticed Curt Nolan, who was raking the last of the leaves, and she gave him a wave.
“We’re going to the library, so that makes us patrons,” she continued, as they climbed the front steps, “and we can park here. If we were going to the stores across the street, we couldn’t park here.”
“But you do park here sometimes when you go shopping. You parked here when I got my school shoes.” Zoe pursed her lips primly. “You broke the rule.”
“I’m sure we went to the library that day, too,” said Lucy so firmly that she almost convinced herself.
“No, we didn’t,” insisted Zoe. “I’d remember.”
“Maybe I meant to, but ran out of time,” said Lucy, pulling open the door. “Now remember: It’s the library, so you need to use your very best manners.”
Zoe nodded solemnly and hopped over the sill. Passing in front of the glass display case containing a pewter tankard she started reading off the letters: “E-Z-E . . .”
“Ezekiel Hallett,” said Lucy, taking Zoe firmly by the hand. “He owned that mug a long time ago.”
She pushed open the inner door and glanced at the circulation desk, then felt annoyed with herself for feeling quite so relieved that it was unattended. This was ridiculous, she told herself. People quit jobs, especially volunteer ones, all the time. And she had a good excuse. Her paying job at the Pennysaver was taking up more of her time.
“Mrs. Stone, how nice to see you.”
Startled, Lucy turned and smiled at the new librarian, Eunice Sparks.
“Well, you know how it is,” said Lucy. “Work, kids—there’s never enough time.”
“Oh, I know,” Eunice agreed solemnly. Her brown eyes seemed almost liquid, floating behind her glasses. “And I see your byline all the time. Do you know we’re having a special children’s program this morning. With Fred Rumford from the college. Such a fascinating man.”
“That’s why we’re here,” said Lucy. “Zoe and I want to learn all about the Indians.”
“And Indian dogs,” said Zoe.
“The workshop is just starting downstairs in the meeting room,” said Eunice.
“Thanks—see you later,” said Lucy, leading Zoe through the children’s section. “We’ll pick out some books afterward, okay?”
As soon as Lucy opened the door to the stairs they heard the voices of the children and parents gathered for the workshop. What Lucy didn’t realize until they reached the meeting room was that all the other children, except for Zoe, were boys. They were accompanied mostly by their fathers, but there were a few mothers, too.
“Let’s go, Mom,” said Zoe, halting in the doorway. “I don’t care about Indians.”
“Nonsense,” said Lucy, heading for the two remaining empty chairs. “Indians are interesting.”
“That’s right,” said Fred Rumford, a tall man with thinning hair who had a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. “Indians are very interesting.”
He was standing at the head of a long conference table with a plastic storage box in front of him.
“What I have here,” he said, peering down at the group seated at the table, “is the only remaining genuine Metinnicut artifact—at least, it’s the
