Dark Nantucket Noon by Jane Langton

“That’s what they’re really saying, that bunch: ‘Stay out. This island is our personal property. You can’t have it.’ Or they gas away about the goddamn birds, as if birds were more important than people. What difference does it make to a bird if it lands on this tree or that tree? I ask you. It’s still got about a million trees to land on, on this island.”
    Kitty was curious. “You mean people are trying to keep Nantucket from being built on anymore? And that’s not good for real estate?”
    â€œYou can say that again. Got a new bylaw.” Mr. Flakeley glanced at Kitty balefully. “Here we have all these nice potential buyers, would like to live here, build a house. They’ve got the money too. They’d like to put up a nice home in a high-class neighborhood. You know as well as I do that people like that aren’t about to clutter up the island with cheap jerry-built cottages. They’re well-to-do. Nice people. Probably spend half their time feeding the goddamn birds. But no, those snobs with their Nantucket Protection Society won’t let an honest man pick up one square acre of their precious sacred holy soil. You’d think Jesus Christ had personally peed on every square inch of it. Excuse me.”
    Kitty felt herself warming to this big crass brute. “This new bylaw—it will really make a difference?”
    â€œA difference! Christ! We had it all set. The whole deal was set, all the signatures on the dotted line. One hundred acres of nice land over near Madaket. A million dollars it was worth. We were going to build really high-class hundred-thousand-dollar homes. And then that Nantucket Protection Society and that whole self-righteous bunch of people, they had to come along and put the kibosh on the whole thing. Got up a petition for the new bylaw, squeaked through Town Meeting with it. Left us holding the bag. There was Holworthy, the owner, out of his million. He was hopping mad. From now on all that hundred acres of his is good for is a place for the fucking birds. Excuse me. He can’t build a doghouse on it. Oh, he could sell it to the town for part of their conservation district, but a fat lot of good that’ll do him. They’d never pay what we were going to pay. No, his best bet is to sit tight and keep working to get the zoning back the way it was before. Outfox that woman Helen Green and her fucking Nantucket Protection Society. Excuse me.”
    Kitty turned color. She asked a bold question. “Helen Green? Did you know she was dead?”
    â€œDead?” Mr. Flakeley nearly went off the road. “Mrs. Green? Dead? Christ! No. I’ve been away. What happened?”
    â€œThey think—they think she was killed.”
    â€œKilled? You mean murdered? My God. Mrs. Green, dead! She was a beautiful young woman! … Here, this is the turnoff. Jesus, some people are so damn thoughtless, don’t even keep their goddamn bushes cut back so a car can get through without getting scraped all to hell.…”
    â€œI’ll take it,” said Kitty, the moment the house came in sight. It was a shambling gray saltbox, swaybacked along the ridgepole, leaning a little outward on all sides, disintegrating into the tall golden grass around it. A bittersweet vine was strangling the downspouts and there were lilac suckers sprouting out of the foundation. The privy stood high and conspicuous on a little knoll.
    â€œWell,” said Mr. Flakeley, smiling, cheering up at once. “Day goostibus, that’s all I have to say. Each to his own poison.”

8
    The Good Man pouring from his pitcher
    clear,
    But brims the poisoned well.
    MELVILLE , translation of a
twelfth-century poem

    Dear Mr. Green,
    I am Katharine Clark’s attorney. I am convinced of her innocence. I feel sure you would not like to see her convicted for a crime she did not do. I can understand why you might not wish to talk to me, but