Pieces of Hate (A Wendover House Mystery Book 4) by Melanie Jackson Page A

they could touch. I followed the boards of the Emporium all
the way to the peak and the thick hoisting beam that stuck out like a gallows.
It was black against the sky.
    The public address system had been hooked up, or perhaps was in
process because I am pretty sure that grumblings about quahoggers being plumb brainless were not part of any official speech though
it probably pleased Reverend Ezekiel Burke, a transplant from Salem who
was mostly made of cartilage and ill will and the sourest creature our islands
had ever been encumbered with .
    “They’ll need to fumigate if he stays long,” I muttered. “Can’t
someone pass an ordinance?”
    The reverend was retired, which was a good thing because there was a
lack of takers for his kind of religion and it was generally felt that his
attendance was enough to disfigure any event. In part it was his charmless
personality but it did not help his cause that he looked like someone had
skinned a nightmare and then pulled it on over his skull. Certainly he looked
alarmed and aware of danger. Of course, he always looked this way. I couldn’t
imagine what kept him in the islands.
    I made a point of turning away from him. He doesn’t approve of my godless
family and we don’t often speak. He could disapprove of me from sea to shining
sea so long as he kept a civil tongue in his head when we were in public. In
front of others I demand respect.
    Someone was hanging patriotic bunting on the railing in front of the
Emporium and singing “Grand Old Flag” in a monotone so flat that you couldn’t
get a spatula under it. The Emporium always looks vaguely like a memorial
monument, or at least classical. It was built by a ship’s carpenter just after
the civil war and was the sturdiest building in town. It was also the most
impressive and had a nice echo when you stood under the overhang. It was where
people forgathered when they had some large public event. Whether
the Emporium wanted them or not. Another time and I might have hoisted myself
onto a convenient barrel and watched the train wreck.
    This was apparently a popular idea because Jonas and Saul, local brewmasters , did just that, making sure there was room in
the shade for Amos, the Great Dane. As usual, the dog looked despondent. They
must be out of beer again. Jonas, the jelly-bellied one, pulled out his
portable checkers game and began to set up on the railing. The skeletal Saul,
looking more than ever like he had been picked over by crows, turned to survey
the colorful and strange spectacle with a slightly malicious eye.
    “What on earth are they…?”
    “Rehearsal for the Goose Haven Founders Day Pageant,” Bryson murmured
when I kept gaping and wrinkling my nose at the growing scent of mothballs
which was getting thick now that the choir had gotten organized and
concentrated their smelly costumes in a large mass about ten feet to our right
and downwind.
    His words recalled to mind that we were again due for the traditional,
seasonal celebration. The news wasn’t welcome since I was supposed to give the
keynote speech that year. I had a rough draft started a month ago, but it was
very rough and I needed something polished by Friday. At the moment, that felt
like an impossible goal.
    “God is merciless,” I muttered. “What, no gallows? No pillory? Where
are the typhoid victims? The prohibitionists? I don’t
think this is historically accurate.”
    “Don’t give them any ideas. We already have one Founders Day casualty,”
Bryson muttered back. “Mrs. Biggs isn’t speaking to Mrs. Warwick. They both
want to play the Indian maiden and the committee ruled in favor of Mrs. Warwick
since Mrs. Biggs played her last year. Angered at the decision, Mrs. Biggs has
taken her spear and moccasins and gone home.”
    Big cities have short memories, but not so little towns. These
champions of good, old-fashioned values forgot them fast enough when it came
down to deciding who got to be the princess. Things might be forgiven