Yet another siren was announcing the arrival of the cheerleaders, and Lucy made sure to catch some good photos of the girls atop the hook and ladder. They were dressed in the school colors and, unlike the boys on the team, were tossing candy to the crowd and enjoying all the attention.
Putting her camera down, she gave the girls a big wave and one tossed a miniature chocolate bar her way. She caught it and tore off the wrapper, eating it as she walked along the street to the church where she’d parked her car that morning. As she walked, she thought about the circuitous path that had brought her to Tinker’s Cove.
She hadn’t been born and raised in the little Maine town. Her family had been New Yorkers way back, tracing their ancestry to the early Dutch settlers of what was then Nieuw Amsterdam. Through the centuries, there had been various additions from Sweden, England, and Germany, but it was a matter of pride to her father that his ancestors had fought in the American Revolution, the Civil War, and two World Wars. While in college, she’d met Bill, whose ancestors included more recent arrivals from Ireland. After working for a few years on Wall Street, he’d begun dreaming of a simpler life as a restoration carpenter and they’d moved to Maine, buying the ramshackle farmhouse on Red Top Road and fixing it up.
Their story was typical, she thought. Everybody in America, except for the Native Americans, came from someplace else. And Americans didn’t tend to stay put, either. Members of both their families had gone west and south. Bill’s parents now lived in Florida; she had cousins in Texas and Virginia. The country was a big jumble of people from all over, who continued to restlessly follow their dreams. That was the whole point about America, she thought, beginning with the earliest settlers.
The parade over, the crowd was breaking up and the sidewalk was filled with people heading home. The afternoon light was already fading and the sky was taking on a pinkish hue. She’d reached Sea Street when she got stuck behind a young mother pushing a stroller and dragging along a tired preschooler, and was trying to get past when she heard people shouting. Turning toward the noise she looked down Sea Street to the harbor where she saw a crowd gathered in the parking area.
She was tired and hungry, having skipped lunch, and wanted to go home, but she was a reporter and duty called. Reluctantly, she turned left and walked down Sea Street to see what the fuss was all about.
As she drew closer, she realized the group was somewhat organized, engaged in a protest in front of the former Olde Irish Pub which now had signs in the window announcing new ownership. COMING SOON! CALI KITCHEN! She knew that Bill had planned to meet Rey there this afternoon to go over the final plans for the renovation and spotted his truck in the parking lot.
Some of the people in the crowd also had signs. AMERICA FOR AMERICANS was one. Another read MEXICANS GO HOME.
She was snapping photos when the camera was snatched from her hand and she turned to protest. “Give that back!” she demanded, facing a man she recognized.
It was Jason Sprinkle, who owned a plumbing business.
“No photos,” he growled in a threatening tone, giving the camera back. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded as a thrown rock smashed one of the restaurant windows, shattering the glass and shredding the paper sign.
CHAPTER 9
Lucy instinctively ducked and moved away from the group of demonstrators. Seeking shelter, she found it in the harbormaster’s shack where Harry Crawford was watching the scene from the open doorway. As soon as she stepped inside, he closed the door and locked it. The little waterfront office was about the same size as a highway tollbooth, and gave a 360-degree view of the harbor and parking lot. He quickly began closing the mini-blinds, at the same time calling the police department to report the situation.
“They’re throwing rocks,” exclaimed Lucy, who was standing by a window and peeking through the slats of the miniblind. “My husband’s in there with Rey Rodriguez.” The sun was sinking fast and the sky was now a fiery red, casting a lurid glow that was reflected in the pub’s remaining windows.
“I’ve got a situation down here at the harbor,” Harry said, speaking into the phone. “There’s a mob protest that’s turning violent.”
Lucy was hanging on every word, at the same time following the action outside, terribly fearful for Bill’s safety.
When Harry put the phone down, his worried expression wasn’t encouraging.
“I don’t think we’re going to get much help, at least not right away. All the officers are working the pep rally.” He still bore traces of the tan he’d acquired during the summer when he was out on the water every day patrolling the harbor. Peeking through the blinds, he was also keeping an eye on the protesters, and he remained on the line, updating the dispatcher on the demonstration. Turning to Lucy he asked, “Who’s out there anyway? The dispatcher wants to know.”
“I recognized Jason Sprinkle and Link Peterson. He used to play Little League with my son, Toby,” said Lucy. “I think it’s mostly those guys who hang out at the roadhouse on Route 1, like Zeke Bumpus. Not exactly up-and-comers.”
Harry nodded. “I call
