“This meeting is called to order. First on the agenda: parking regulations.”
Lucy sighed with relief and sat up a little straighter. If Howard were going to scold her, he would have done it first thing.
“Point of order.” Joe Marzetti’s voice boomed out, unnaturally loud. “I’d like to move that we table all other business and take up the Metinnicut proposal first.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow and scribbled furiously in her notebook.
“I second the motion,” announced Bud Collier before White even had a chance to ask for seconds.
“Any discussion?” From White’s tone, it was a challenge rather than a question. Howard White was clearly unhappy at this evidence of rebellion in the ranks.
Lucy was surprised. In her experience with the board, she had never seen individual members take any initiative whatsoever. Someone must have put a bee in Marzetti’s and Collier’s bonnets, and she suspected it was Chuck Canaday, who had gotten his ducks in a row before the meeting.
“Considering the very great interest in the Metinnicut proposal, I think we should act as expeditiously as possible,” said Sandy Dunlap.
Lucy doubted that Sandy had come up with such big words on her own; she was probably quoting Chuck. What a busy bee. Lucy wondered if he was working on a retainer or if he stood to get a share of the casino.
“Any objections?” White looked hopefully to Pete Crowley, who was usually a stickler for proper procedure.
Receiving no encouragement in that quarter, White called for a vote, and the motion passed with only one no vote.
“All right, then,” said White with a disapproving humph. “We’ll take up the matter of the Metinnicut proposal.”
There was a buzz in the room as Bear Sykes stepped forward to address the board, reading nervously from a prepared statement.
“The Metinnicut Tribal Council has asked me to request your support, as the board of selectmen, for the tribe’s petition for federal recognition.
“We all know that the history of the Metinnicut people is interwoven with the history of this town—Tinker’s Cove. When I was a little boy growing up here, I shared many of the same experiences as most American boys. I was a Cub Scout. I played Little League baseball. I went to the public schools and served in the army.
“I was also aware, however, that because of my Indian ancestry I was descended from people whose culture and values were different from those of most Americans. I felt a desire to acknowledge this separate identity, but I was unable to do so. My tribe, the Metinnicuts, were not recognized.
“In recent years, I spoke about this with family members and others and learned I was not alone in my desire to reclaim my Metinnicut heritage. As time went on, we formed a tribal council and conducted genealogical research. Now we are now ready to request federal recognition as a tribe. As citizens of this town, we ask your support for this petition. Thank you.”
There was scattered applause, which White quickly silenced.
“Do I have a motion?” he asked, casting an evil eye toward Marzetti.
Marzetti swallowed hard and raised his hand. “I move that the board support the Metinnicut tribe’s petition.”
“Second?”
Collier nodded.
“Discussion?” asked White, looking extremely annoyed as hands shot up throughout the room.
“Do I have a motion to limit discussion?” Lucy, for once, found herself agreeing with White. Unless discussion was limited, the meeting could go on all night.
This was met with silence by the board.
Defeated, White recognized Jonathan Franke.
“With all due respect to Mr. Sykes and his Indian heritage, I want to point out that the main reason the tribe is seeking federal recognition is so that they can negotiate a casino deal with the state government. It’s important to recognize that fact and consider the possible impact such a project would have on our town.”
There was a loud buzz from the audience and Chuck Canaday stood up.
“If I may . . .” he began, catching Howard White’s eye but continuing without waiting for his permission. “Mr. Franke has brought up an important point, which we are prepared to fully address tonight. With us is Jack O’Hara of Mulligan Construction in Boston. Mr. O’Hara has plans and a model of the proposed casino project.”
“Ah, Mr. O’Hara,” said White, shooting his cuffs. “Didn’t I see your name in the business pages of the Boston Globe? They say you’re the top contender for my old golfing buddy Joe Mulligan’s job when he retires next year.”
As Lucy wrote the quote in her notebook she felt a rare surge of sympathy for Howard White. It must be quite a comedown for a man like him—the former CEO of a paper company—to find himself reduced to managing an unruly group of local yokels.
O’Hara shrugged off the comment. “You know, sir, you can’t believe everything you read in the papers. But I’ll be sure to give your regards to Mr. Mulligan.”
White was charmed. “Heh, heh,” he chuckled. “That’s right. Well, let’s see what you’ve got there.”
O’Hara stepped forward and stood next to the table with the box, but didn’t lift the cover.
“By way of preamble,” he began, “I want to tell you that we at Mulligan Construction believe we were presented with a tall order: a request for a modem, innovative design that would also honor the unique tradition of our clients, the Metinnicut Indian tribe.”
A hush of expectation fell over the room. Feeling a slight vibration, Lucy’s attention was drawn to Curt Nolan, who was sitting a few seats from her. He was so tense that his knee was twitching; his hands were clenched anxiously. Ellie was watching him nervously.
“With all due modesty,” O’Hara continued, “I think you will agree that we have risen to the challenge and exceeded it.”
With a flourish he lifted the cardboard cover and revealed the architect’s model.
Involuntarily, Lucy blinked. There was a stunned silence, then a collective gasp, as audience members absorbed the two gleaming hotel towers, each at least fifteen stories tall, and the accompanying
