The Silence of the Llamas (19 page)

“I think hearing what everyone has to say at the meeting should help, too,” Lucy said.

Maggie felt the same. “The meeting could be very enlightening.”

Maggie believed that was true. For Ellie and Ben’s sake, she hoped so even more.

She knew that the knitting group was getting involved again in police business, and if they went any further, they’d soon be hearing from Detective Walsh or some other police officer involved in the investigation.

But knitters had to do what knitters had to do. They couldn’t sit idly by and watch poor Ben get railroaded into an arrest for a crime he did not commit.

•   •   •

Maggie closed her shop at half past six on Thursday night, leaving herself plenty of time to get to the village hall for the meeting, which started at seven. The building was so close, she left her car
at her shop and took off with her purse and her knitting bag tucked under her arm. It was a pleasant night—perfect sweater weather—and she needed a walk after being cooped up in the shop all day.

But her peaceful mood was soon disturbed by the energy and activity in the village center. Every parking spot along Main Street was filled, and the public lot across from the town hall was filled up, too. Main Street was usually fairly empty at this time of day, but now the sidewalks were full, with streams of people headed to the village hall, coming from all directions. Some looked very serious, wearing business suits and carrying briefcases or stacks of file folders. Others looked like her own friends and neighbors, interested citizens who had come out after dinner. All with the same destination in mind.

Out in front of the building, a group in matching green T-shirts stood in a circle, holding signs and chanting a slogan.

The Friends of Farmland were staging a demonstration. She paused to read the slogans on their signs—“No Farms, No Food” and “Save Some Green Spaces for Our Children.” One or two had blown up photographs of Justin Ridley: “Our Friend Justin. RIP. He Stood Strong for the Land.”

Maggie felt a chill. They were making him a martyr for their cause, just as Ellie had predicted. Did they really believe Ridley had lost his life because of this debate? Or was that just a convenient slogan for the meeting? It was awful to think they would exploit his brutal death to shore up their argument. A cynical thought, but not out of the question.

A young woman offered Maggie a flyer as she passed by. Maggie smiled briefly and tucked it in her purse.

She’d been on her feet all day but quickly abandoned all
hope of a comfortable seat when she saw the throng in the village hall lobby. She elbowed her way through the crowd, looking for her friends. Many people seemed in no rush to get into the hearing room and stood in little huddles, consulting quietly with one another.

Suzanne was right. A lot of people took this issue very seriously. All around her, she heard a hushed discussion of business matters. There was money to be made, as Suzanne had pointed out, and high stakes always made the game dangerous.

Maggie worked her way to the door of the hearing room and peered inside.

The large room held rows of seats, more than Maggie had ever seen set up there. But they were just about all filled. The Friends of Farmland had a big presence in here, too, with more green T-shirts filling up several rows in the back of the room. No signs, she noticed. They must have been told to leave those outside.

Angelica Rossi sat with the group but looked so deep in thought she may as well have been by herself. She sat on the aisle, her head bowed as she read through a sheaf of typed pages in a folder.

There was a long table in the front of the room, set with water pitchers, microphones, and the name plates of the mayor, three trustees, and the town clerk.

Maggie was looking around for her friends again when she heard her phone buzz with a text. She quickly opened a message from Suzanne:

We’re down on the right, toward the front. Saved you a seat.

Maggie looked up and spotted Suzanne on the right side of the room, waving at her. Lucy and Dana were there, too. They had all come with their knitting and were busily stitching away. Maggie headed down the aisle and quickly squeezed in next to them.

It was Thursday night, their usual meeting night, and they were all conditioned by now: It actually felt odd not to be knitting at this hour. Especially when they were gathered together like this. Maggie took out her own knitting and set her bag on the floor. “This is a hot ticket. Who grabbed these seats?”

Suzanne shrugged. “An old mommy trick from attending so many school plays and band concerts. I was in the building this afternoon to check the property lines on one of my listings. So I slipped in here, draped an old raincoat over four chairs, and hoped for the best.”

“Good thinking,” Maggie commended her. “Look, here comes the mayor and trustees. It must be starting.”

The village officials filed in and took their seats. Maggie didn’t know them all by name. One trustee was a woman in her mid-fifties; the other two were men, one fairly young, his late thirties, and the other in his sixties, she’d guess. She did recognize the mayor, Lillian Swabish, who was also in her early sixties and had formerly been a partner in a prominent law firm in town.

Mayor Swabish called the meeting to order and announced the agenda. Only one item: the discussion of a motion to keep the open space zoning laws in force within village limits.

“If anyone would like to speak about this issue, please sign in and form a line at the podium.”

There was considerable movement in the room. Maggie held her knitting needles steady a moment. She practically felt the wooden floor vibrate.

Many spoke in favor of going along with the county and letting the laws expire. They spoke about community vitality, increasing the supply of housing to welcome new families into the area.

“There’s a lot of talk against these laws expiring, on the grounds of nature and ecology. But villages and towns have ecology, too,” one speaker pointed out. “We have to grow or die. That’s just the way it is. Do we want to promote a healthy, thriving community? Or end up stagnant? Or even a ghost town?”

“There is such a thing as controlled, planned growth,” another citizen insisted. Increased tax revenue is necessary to keep the town running as costs increase, he pointed out, and there were many benefits to allowing more housing and controlled commercial development in the area.

“Think of the jobs. Think of the boost to our town’s economy. Think of the vacant stores on Main Street. Are we crazy? What’s the problem here?”

The “pro” side sounded pretty persuasive, Maggie had to admit. Much more than she had expected.

Suzanne leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Pretty smooth, right? I’d guess those speakers are either eager to sell or actually in the pocket of the development companies. They could make acid reflux sound like a really fun hobby.”

Maggie laughed quietly but didn’t reply. She didn’t want to miss anything.

A few other residents stepped up and spoke in favor of the
open space laws expiring. They all looked genuine and seemed sincere, Maggie thought. Their main point was that Plum Harbor should be governed by the same laws that applied to the rest of the county and not isolate itself.

“. . . And the silent majority in our village shouldn’t be pushed around by a very vocal minority,” one woman stated bluntly. She glanced over at the rows of green T-shirts.

A chorus of loud boos rose in reply from the Friends of Farmland, drowning out whatever else the woman had to say.

The Friends hardly seemed to be the minority, Maggie thought, if their showing in the hearing room was any indication.

Some others in the front row shouted back: “Go back to where you came from, you bunch of trouble makers. What do you know?”

The mayor clacked her gavel. “Simmer down. Or I’ll end this meeting and clear the room.”

Maggie hoped it wouldn’t come to that. This was just getting interesting. She felt a sharp elbow in her side. Suzanne leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Look who’s up next. The siren of Sweet Meadow.”

Maggie glanced back at the podium. Angelica Rossi was next, that’s who.

All eyes were on her as she approached the microphone in slow, measured steps. She wore her long denim skirt again, with a Friends of Farmland T-shirt attractively cinched around her waist with a wide leather belt. Her long hair was parted in the middle, as usual, and clipped at the back of her neck, and large, dangling earrings were an arty touch.

She looked very serious and sincere, Maggie thought. It
was hard to reconcile the woman who stood before her with the theories they’d spun on Tuesday night—scenarios that paired Angelica with Ridley, scheming together to drive Ellie and Ben off their farm. Or their speculation that Angelica was Ridley’s killer, driven to it by some passionate argument or falling-out.

But people can show one face to the world and be far different in their private, secret lives. Angelica seemed capable of that. She presented well with excellent social skills. But Maggie guessed she was secretly seething . . . and scheming.

“My name is Angelica Rossi. I live on Sweet Meadow Farm, on County Road Twenty-three,” she began, identifying herself for the record. “I’m here to speak as a property owner, as a farmer, and as the co-chair of the Friends of Farmland. As you all know, just days ago, we lost our founder, Justin Ridley. He was a brave man who believed in this cause with his whole heart and soul, and who fought bravely for it. Our group mourns his passing, and we are sure the community at large shares our sorrow and our sympathy for his daughter, Janine.”

She glanced over to the far side of the room, where Maggie had already spotted Janine Ridley sitting alone.

Angelica easily had the crowd in her hand, Maggie noticed, and the rest of her statement was predictably dramatic—mixing a lecture on the environment and a plea to town residents to put aside their greed and think of their children and grandchildren and even their great-grandchildren, winding it all up with a well-known Native American proverb.

“As the Native Americans believe, ‘We do not inherit the
Earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.’ ” She paused and solemnly bowed her head. The room was silent, Maggie noticed, with only the sound of papers rustling.

Then Angelica looked up again. She spared a small smile for the trustees and Mayor Swabish. “Thank you for the opportunity to speak in defense of the innocent parties involved that can’t speak for themselves—the birds, the wildlife, the woods and wild places. The wide blue sky and abundant fields.”

The Friends of Farmland stood and applauded, calling out her name and cheering loudly.

“All right . . . calm down.” The mayor, who was not a tall woman, jumped up out of her chair to shout into her microphone. “No demonstrations back there, or you’ll all be escorted out.”

The Friends of Farmland seemed satisfied and quickly settled down again. Though there were hugs and smiles all around for Angelica when she returned to their ranks.

“She’s good,” Dana whispered to Suzanne.

“Oh, baby . . . real good,” Suzanne agreed.

“I’m on her side of the question,” Lucy whispered back. “But why do I find her so annoying?”

Maggie felt the same. It was a curious thing.

After Angelica, a long line of citizens stood waiting to speak their piece. But the Joan of Arc of the farm set had definitely been the high point. It was almost nine by the time everyone had had their say. The mayor leaned toward her microphone and addressed the audience that was left.

“These comments and concerns will be taken into careful consideration. A vote on this issue will go on the agenda for the
next trustee meeting, which will be held in approximately four weeks, date to be determined.”

Then she struck her gavel to the table and the meeting was adjourned.

“They’re not going to vote on this for four weeks? I can’t believe that.” Lucy stood up and stuffed her knitting into her tote bag. “It’s like sitting through a two-hour movie and the projector breaks down before the film is over.”

“Annoying, right?” Suzanne stood up and stretched, though space was limited. “I had a feeling that would happen. These zoning situations move so slowly. It’s like watching grass grow. It’s only fair to let everyone in town have their say. But there’s a lot that goes on behind the scenes, believe me.”

That sounded very likely to Maggie. There were always people in a small town who wielded big influence.

It was difficult to work their way out of the meeting room and lobby, but they eventually emerged on to the street. Maggie took a few deep breaths. The room had been stuffy, and the chilly night air roused her.

“That was pretty entertaining. As good as most reality shows,” Suzanne remarked.

“I’m glad I went. I didn’t know much about this issue,” Dana said. “But I don’t think I know any better now if this debate connects to Justin Ridley’s death . . .”

“And to the question of who killed him and why,” Lucy finished for her.

“I know what you mean. It was sort of a bust that way,” Suzanne agreed. “The neighbor we were looking for, that potato farmer . . .”

“Walter Kranowski?” Lucy filled in.

“Right. Either he didn’t come or didn’t get up to have his say,” Suzanne noted.

Dana quickly turned to her. “Maybe his silence is saying something. Maybe he purposely avoided this public shouting match because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Or his fractious relationship with Ridley.”

“Good point, Dana. We know Mr. Kranowski feels strongly about this issue and has a strong personality. Yet he hasn’t come to town to make his opinion known. His absence might be meaningful,” Lucy suggested.

Maggie thought that was a good observation. The mystery of Justin Ridley’s death was complicated. She suspected that there was more to this story. Much more.

“As for the rest, when the sauce boils down, you see what you’ve got left,” Maggie told her friends. “My grandmother used to say that. She was usually right, too.”

“This pot has just started to simmer,” Dana observed. “I think it has a ways to go.”