Star Spangled Murder (4 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Star Spangled Murder
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Chapter Four
“N
aked?”
The voice on the other end of the telephone line was incredulous. Sue Finch, Lucy's best friend, had never heard of anything so ridiculous.
“You mean without any clothes at all?”
“Not a stitch,” said Lucy.
“But the swimsuits are so cute this year,” said Sue, who had a lifetime subscription to
Vogue
magazine. “Little boy shorts, triangle top bikinis, though those aren't for me. I splurged on a wet-look halter number in black.”
“You go swimming?” This was news to Lucy.
“It's not likely I'd actually get in the water,” admitted Sue. “But I like to sunbathe on my deck. With plenty of sunscreen, of course.”
“You don't get a tan that way,” said Lucy.
“If you keep at it long enough, you do,” said Sue. “You have to
work
at it.”
“I thought the idea was to relax,” said Lucy, who occasionally rolled her pants up to her knees in hope of tanning her legs when she was sprawled on a chaise lounge in the backyard. She usually fell asleep. And her legs usually kept that fish-belly look well into August, her tan developing just around the time the temperature started to drop and she had to start wearing long pants again.
“Well, within limits. I keep an eye on the time and turn over every ten minutes, and I make sure to drink a lot of water so I stay hydrated. And I'm aware of shadows and things like that. It makes a difference, it really does.
“And you don't worry about tan lines?”
“Not a problem. I wear the same suit all season.”
“I'll suggest that to Elizabeth. She can't wait to join the crowd down at the pond. Says she doesn't want to have tan lines.”
“Right.” Sue sounded skeptical.
“Well, I can't imagine she's interested in anybody down there. They all seemed a bit the worse for wear, if you know what I mean.” Lucy paused. “From what I saw, most of them could've benefitted from an article of clothing or two or ten.”
Sue laughed.
 
 
The next caller was Pam Stillings, the wife of Lucy's boss, Ted, and the mother of Toby's friend Adam, who had a summer job mowing lawns and trimming hedges.
“Wow, news travels fast in this town,” said Lucy, who hadn't been back from the beach for an hour.
“It's the heat. A lot of people had the same idea you did to go down to the pond for a swim. It's funny, but most of the folks around here don't like swimming in salt water. Anyway, I heard all about it from Adam. He went for a quick dip after work and got an eyeful.”
“You can say that again.”
“Oh, Lucy. You're so prim and proper. Didn't you go skinny-dipping when you were a kid. I did, all the time.” She lowered her voice. “I even have photos of the whole gang.”
“Photos? I'd get rid of them if I were you.”
“No way. They bring back happy memories of the days before I had cellulite,” said Pam. “But, you know, I grew up in North Carolina. It was a lot warmer there. I can't imagine why these folks think Tinker's Cove is such a great place that they put it on their Web site.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They're an organized group. The American Naturist Society. Not nudist,
naturist.
That's what they want to be called. And they have a list of the ten best places for ‘enjoying the natural world
au naturel.
' Their phrase, not mine. And little Blueberry Pond is number one.”
“Well, I guess that explains why all those people were down there. There must've been at least a hundred.”
“And this isn't the weekend, you know.”
“Ohmigod,” said Lucy. “There could be thousands.”
“Not if this heat wave breaks,” said Pam. “Don't forget the average high around here in June is something like fifty-eight degrees.”
“We can only hope.”
“And don't forget the black flies,” said Pam, giggling. “This hot, still weather will bring them out. Reinforcements are on the way!”
Rachel Goodman didn't see anything funny about the black flies.
“Those poor people!” she exclaimed. “They don't have any idea what they're exposing themselves to.”
“I think they know,” said Lucy.
“They couldn't, or they wouldn't do it,” said Rachel, who was a firm believer in the value of education. “The black flies are just the beginning. There's mosquitoes—they carry that West Nile virus. And I'm not at all convinced bug spray is safe for people. You have to figure that if it kills insects it must be full of toxins. And don't forget the wild animals—raccoons and all use that pond, too—and when they're rabid they lose their fear of people. And I know people like to swim there but I certainly wouldn't do it because I don't think that water is all that clean, what with the wildlife and all.”
“I wonder what all those people are doing for toilets,” mused Lucy.
“You know what they're doing—and it's filthy. You wouldn't catch me anywhere near the place.”
“There were a lot of people. Children, too.”
“Not children!” Rachel was outraged. “I hope they were wearing sunscreen!”
“Oh, I'm sure they were,” said Lucy, not meaning to sound sarcastic at all.
“Oh, those poor babies,” moaned Rachel. “They'll all get cancer and die. And their parents, too.”
“Maybe before the weekend, if we're lucky.”
“Lucy!”
 
 
When Lucy got to work Thursday morning there was no sign of Ted. But Phyllis, who was looking cool and comfortable in a brightly-printed green and blue muumuu, handed her a packet of printouts from the American Naturist Society Web site.
“His Lordship wants you to look these over and then interview some of these naturists at Blueberry Pond. Find out if they've got a leader or something and talk to him,” said Phyllis. Seeing Lucy's shocked expression she added, “Or her.”
“You're kidding, right? This is a joke.”
Phyllis pursed her Frosted Apricot lips and fanned herself with her hand. “I don't think so, honey. He wants you to get reaction to that proposed public decency bylaw.”
“But those people are naked. I can't talk to naked people.”
Phyllis was bent over, rummaging in her bottom drawer. “He wants photos, too.”
“What did you say?”
Phyllis sat up and held out a box of candy. “Want one? These are really good. I'd go for the square ones, if I were you. They're usually caramels.”
She waited until Lucy's mouth was full of gooey candy, then she repeated Ted's request. “I'm pretty sure you heard me, but I'll say it again. Ted wants photos of the nudists.”
“Mmmph,” said Lucy, plunking herself down at her desk and chewing furiously. She swallowed. “Absolutely not. I am not talking to naked people. I am not photographing them. If Ted wants this story so much he can get it himself. I've got another story. A bigger story. Lobster poaching.”
Phyllis's brows rose above her rhinestone-trimmed half glasses. “You don't say.” She examined her nails, which were painted bright blue, to coordinate with the muumuu. “That could get nasty.”
“Exactly. I want to get on it before somebody gets hurt,” said Lucy, scanning the printouts.
The American Naturist Society, she discovered, was indeed a national organization with thousands of members. Their purpose was to “promote and encourage the practices of healthful living including freeing the human body from restrictive and harmful clothing.” While they insisted that all clothing was detrimental because it “smothered the pores” they were especially concerned about anything that changed the shape of the body such as high heel shoes or support garments like girdles and bras. In particular, they believed pantyhose to be especially harmful.
Lucy found herself agreeing with them.
“So they're not so crazy after all?” inquired Phyllis.
“They're death on pantyhose.”
“Sensible group.”
“They don't think much of elastic, either. They say it cuts off circulation.”
“They're wrong there. The happiest day of my life was the day I discovered elastic-waist pants.”
Lucy smiled and resumed reading, wondering why she'd had such a strong reaction to the presence of the naturists at Blueberry Pond. Now that she was reading about the group, they seemed pretty reasonable. Just regular folks who happened to dislike wearing clothing. Come to think of it, clothing was pretty unnatural. She remembered how she'd had to struggle to keep the kids clothed when they were little. They hated wearing snowsuits and even on the coldest days pulled off their hats and mittens. She remembered watching one of Toby's little sneakers floating downstream, after he'd pushed it off when Bill was carrying him across a bridge in a backpack when they were hiking on a nature trail. In fact, it had been difficult to keep that child in diapers; whenever she changed him he'd attempt a bare-bottomed dash for freedom. And the girls hadn't been much different, struggling and squirming whenever she tried to get them into their snow boots and protesting loudly when she tried to get them to trade their comfy overalls and sneakers for starched party dresses and Mary Janes.
When she finished reading the last page, Lucy leaned forward over her desk and propped her chin in her hand, asking herself what she found so offensive about the presence of naked people at the pond. She wasn't prudish, really she wasn't. She enjoyed a healthy sex life, she faithfully made appointments for annual physicals and mammograms, she'd given birth four times. She wasn't ashamed of her own body, she just didn't want to look at other peoples'.
Not that she didn't enjoy watching a steamy love scene in a movie, or looking at nude paintings and sculptures in a museum. She'd made a point of taking the kids to museums and introducing them to great art, with or without fig leaves. And she'd never objected to Bill's collection of
Playboy
magazines, they were fine with her. So what was the problem? Why was she so uncomfortable about these naturists?
Maybe, she decided, it was because they were practically in her backyard. Maybe it was because she could choose to look at a movie or a magazine or a work of art, but she had no control over the naturists. Now that they were around, they could pop up anywhere. What if they came to the house, asking for a Band-Aid or something? How could she talk to them? Where would she look? Not to mention the fact that the nudes in movies and works of art and even in magazines were carefully edited. They were presented attractively, even glorified. Imperfections were air-brushed away or edited out. Not like the folks at Blueberry Pond who were happy to let it all hang out.
Most of all, she decided, was the feeling she had that these people were depriving her of something she enjoyed by their presence. If she didn't want to see them, she couldn't go to the pond. Her pond. Well, it wasn't as if she actually owned it. It was conservation land, owned by the town. But Blueberry Pond was so close to the house, and the family went there so frequently, that they all felt a bit proprietary about it. If she saw litter, she picked it up and so did the kids. If somebody had dumped an old appliance or couch there, as sometimes happened, she made sure the town sent workers to pick it up. She loved the pond and the naturists had seized it. They might as well have marched in with an army and raised a flag, claiming it for their cause.
The bell on the door jangled, announcing Ted's arrival.
“What are you doing here, Lucy? I wanted you to go down to the pond and see what the naturists think about Pru Pratt's proposed bylaw.”
“I'm pretty sure they won't like it, Ted. In fact, I think it's a foregone conclusion. There's something else I want to work on. Are you aware that there's lobster poaching going on? Chuck Swift told me.”

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