The War in Dover's Landing

By Edith Duven Flaherty

"I aint about to let that mule-headed old goat louse up this towns whole future, and you mights well know that right now. I didnt get to be First Selectman by being a doormat, and Im gonna have whats best for this town. And Jud Perry better not dare stand in my way."

Jud Perry, in Ben Mabrys opinion, had been standing in his way the whole of their lifetime and now, no matter what he might have to do, it was going to change. All of Dovers Landing was going to change. It was a declaration of war, waged, at first, behind the scenes in several sneaky anonymous ways. Jud Perry was alone now - his wife dead, his daughter dead from the excesses of the 60s, his only son gone off to Canada rather than fight in Vietnam. No one has heard from him since that final father-son battle. Juds defeat would be easy, Ben thought. Wasnt the whole village on his side?

Well, not quite. There was Juds wifes dearest friend, Martha, who harbored a secret life that no one in Dovers Landing suspected. There was Sam, his one-time English teacher. There was Dr. John, the villages only veterinarian. And - miraculously - there was his son Andy whose surreptitious return to Dovers Landing under a false name, wearing a face-concealing beard, and accompanied by his wife and two children, lent courage to Jud Perrys heart, and strength to his will to fight.

The struggle escalates - as it does in all wars - until arson and attempted murder brings everything to a climax. The mystery of where Andy has been all the missing years is as startling to Jud, as is the long held family secret Jud is finally forced to reveal to Andy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 21, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462823185

Edith Duven Flaherty

Born in Massachusetts, Edith Flaherty married a career submarine sailor and spent sixteen years moving, settling, moving again. A lifetime love of reading ended, finally, in an itch to tell her own stories. Several reams of scrap paper later, she has written– (so far) – four novels, The War in Dover’s Landing being the first to be published. Now widowed and living in New Mexico, she has two sons, a daughter-in-law, a grandson and two cats, and continues to write.

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THE WAR

IN DOVER’S LANDING

Edith Duven Flaherty

Copyright © 2002 by Edith Duven Flaherty.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

For my family; Paul, Sean, David and Joanne

A warm expression of appreciation is certainly due to those who encouraged me throughout the long process that culminated in this book: Mary Blanchard, Betsy Lackmann, Val Lewis, Jan McConaghy, Ronda Sofia, Margaret Tessler, Mary Zerbe, George Anderson and Mel Eisenstadt: thank you all, friends and fellow sojourners.

ONE

Jud aimed a triumphant grin at John and took the red peg from the cribbage board.

Fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair for six, he said. I’m starting down Home Street, John, if you don’t get a move on, I’ll skunk you. I bet I’ve got a quadruple run in the crib.

Wouldn’t be surprised, John mumbled. Way my cards are running tonight, I figure you probably fixed this deck before I got here.

Jud laughed, and tallied the crib count with the speed of long practice. John Skinner, the local veterinarian, and Sam Curran, retired English teacher, were his only social contact these days, except when he and Martha Wheeler could manage to enjoy a little quiet conversation, so he looked forward to these cribbage evenings with an eagerness he would hate to admit.

Jud, don’t you have a birthday coming up pretty soon? I should’ve brought some candles for the Danish pastry. Sure you should be staying up this late? Maybe you need your beauty sleep.

Maybe you’re hoping I’m getting too senile to whomp your butt, you old horse doctor. Look at that - fifteen two, fifteen four, and I’m out.

Actually, there was no one at Jud’s house to care how late he played, now that his beloved Emily was gone. Emily Rogers Perry had died the same day as John F. Kennedy. Not so dramatically, of course. Emily had always been frail and sickly, but still - Jud had never believed she would actually die and leave him. The whole of

that week following her death he had spent dazed hours staring at the televised presidential funeral and from then on, Emily’s simple maple box disappearing into the rain-sodden earth in the family burial ground up in the third pasture, had somehow become entwined with the endless muffled drumbeats and the clopping hooves of the black horse with the reversed boots in the stirrups.

For a long time after that, the point went out of things. He should have had more courage, he thought now. He should have handled it all better. Maybe if he had, Lorraine and Andy - but it was all too late, now.

He realized suddenly that John had been watching him through a lengthening silence. He roused himself and brought the coffee pot over to the table, together with the plate of Danish pastry that was John’s contribution to their evenings.

Guess my brain slips its leash every once in a while, he said. Hold up your cup, I’ll pour you some of my special brewed mud.

Thanks. Maybe it’ll grow hair on my chest. Not my head, sad to say.

John swallowed a mouthful of the hot coffee, leaned back in his chair and pushed the cards and cribbage board out of the way.

Got wind of a weird rumor today, Jud. Think maybe you’d be interested. Alice Wheeler was in the clinic to get a booster shot for that tiger cat of hers, she’d just come from downtown and couldn’t wait to tell me.

How in hell Martha stands to have that witch living with her, I’ll never know. Just because it’s her brother Eli’s widow. Eli would never have asked Martha to make a sacrifice like that. Alice has a tongue like an adder. I always felt like Eli was glad to die, just to escape her.

She’s sure one for the record books, all right. Nobody in the whole town is safe from her mouth. Sort of like the community hair shirt, we all have to wear it, like it or not.

Martha’s too patient for her own good. I’d have told Alice to get her own place after the first six months. After all, Eli left her comfortably off.

John opened his bag of Danish pastry and Oliver stood up, stretched all four legs luxuriously, and came over, tail wagging in anticipation. Jud slipped him a bit of his apple Danish and remembered suddenly, that they had wandered from the subject.

So what rumor was Acid Alice peddling this time? Couldn’t have been good, she never spreads good news.

John shifted in his seat, and a frown creased his suntanned forehead.

Depends how you look at it, I guess, he said. Seems there’s talk started up again about that Northeast Connector highway. But this time, it sounds serious. Alice was full of talk about some New York people coming around, taking options on land, buying up land. Seems like our estimable First Selectman and Town Treasurer are both in a real lather over it.

Jud felt relieved. Oh, that old thing. That stupid highway deal comes up every few years like a rash. Doesn’t mean anything.

John’s frown didn’t go away. I’m not so sure, Jud. I know Alice’s talk needs large doses of salt, but she sounded pretty certain about this. Seems old Sylly Toomey’s already sold these New Yorkers that chunk of land he inherited out on the end of Stanton’s Lane. They seem to think Dover’s Landing is about to become a metropolis. Alice claims Ben Mabry is already figuring how much the First Selectman in a metropolis ought to be paid.

Jud studied John thoughtfully.

There’s something else on your mind. Spit it out, John.

Well, okay. Seems someone or other, probably Mabry, let these New Yorkers know that you own the largest chunk of land in these parts, and Alice claims they’re anxious to see how much you’ll take for the whole thing.

Jud stared at him.

This place? Sell? That’s crazy. Completely nuts.

Yeah, I know that. But maybe Ben Mabry doesn’t. Just think about how Ben’s always been when he smells money. Remember when we were kids, how he used to loan his allowance out at interest?

Jud laughed. Not to me, he didn’t. Anyway, if Mabry makes a bundle selling what land he’s still got, I don’t care. It’s nothing to do with me.

But Jud could tell there was something more to come. After a good stare at the ceiling, John spilled the rest. I’m afraid that’s the thing, Jud, of course Alice’s conversation never tracks really well, but I sure gathered that someway or other, it does have something to do with you. I’m guessing she overheard something and guessed the rest. Anyhow, old pal, a word to the wise. When dealing with Ed Baker and Ben Mabry, it pays to watch your rear, and keep your powder dry.

Much later, Jud listened at the door until he heard John’s car leave his drive and turn onto the paved road. Then he washed up the few dishes, covered the remaining pastry to eat with his breakfast oatmeal, closed the windows part way in case of rain, locked the doors, turned off the lights, and started up the stairs to bed.

Oliver, just in from his final run of the day, curled up in his chosen spot at the foot of the stairs. Jud patted the long silky collie- fur, scratched behind his ears, and smoothed the shining white bib of fur that stretched halfway down his forelegs. Oliver had been with him several years now. He had turned up one fiercely hot summer day, limping up the long driveway, holding one injured leg in the air. The long fur was matted and filthy, the pads of his paws were cracked and seeping blood. When Jud came out to look at him, the dog cowered to the ground and whimpered softly.

Jud, like most rural dwellers, was used to this, although on another level he never grew hardened to it. People would drive by, slow down, then speed quickly away. And there would be another unwanted dog or cat, sometimes litters of kittens crying pitifully in the long grass that bordered the road. Andy or Lorraine used to haul them up into the house, sometimes getting bitten or scratched by sick, injured, or terrified animals, often having to watch the sickest ones die, and occasionally salvaging one to add to the number already living in the old barn.

This dog was so far gone Jud was sure John would have to put him to sleep. But he had been alone for months now, slipping ever deeper into the bottle, becoming more isolated each day. He had studied the dog for several minutes, then decided to try a drink of water, a meal, and a bath in that order. It was while he was sluicing the dog down that he discovered under the wet fur the thick ridges of white scar tissue criss-crossed on its back. Someone, sometime, had savagely whipped this poor animal. In that moment, he decided to save him if it could be done. John’s skill managed to return him to health and Sam Curran, ever the English teacher, named him after another homeless wanderer. Oliver Twist.

Miss Lucy meowed a greeting from the top of the stairs, then watched through half-closed yellow eyes while Jud padded down the hall, showered, climbed into his pajamas, opened wide his window, thumped his pillow into position, and finally opened his book with a sigh of pure comfort. Thanks to Sam Curran he had recently discovered Dorothy Sayers’s mystery books. Sam had poked gentle fun at his endlessly re-read Agatha Christie books and suggested he broaden his diet a little.

What’s the point, m’boy, Sam had urged, If you already know who did it? Here, read this one. I have the whole series, if you like it.

This was now the best time of the day, a time when he could most completely forget himself and drift off into a world where death never seemed quite real, and life was neatly organized. So, the flood- waters were rising in Fenchurch St. Paul, church bells were ringing the alarm, and Lord Peter Wimsey was climbing the bell tower that shook wildly with the noise of the bells.

Gradually he realized that he had read the same paragraph three times. He gave up then, and turned off the lamp. He lay quietly mulling over his conversation with John. How could even Baker and greedy Mabry ever imagine he would sell any part of this place? Probably because he was alone now, they thought he no longer cared. They thought, probably, that he had given up all hope of Andy ever - even so, they should know better. Without meaning to, not wanting to, his thoughts drifted to the last time he had seen Lorraine. And the last time he had seen Andy.

He twisted sharply in the bed and Lucy, who had curled up behind his knees, ceased purring and came alert. He forced himself to lie still then and in a few minutes the purring resumed deep in her throat, filling the room with the sound. The shrill chorus of peepers came in the open window and a distant dog barked sharply twice, then fell silent. Jud wiped his wet eyes harshly with the hem of his pillowcase, gouging into the sockets and making lights and colors dance behind his eyelids.

Damn it all to hell anyway, he muttered aloud.

Lucy made a soft trilling sound, stretched out her full length, and the purring slowly drifted off into silence.

TWO

Mabry’s General Store, remodeled into a Ye Olde New England Quainte Shoppe when Ben had inherited it from his father, would be the place to hear any schemes that were in progress. Jud might not even have to ask a question, or even appear to care. For reasons he did not think about, his car had been up on blocks in the garage for a few years now. So he put on the thinnest shirt he owned, climbed onto Andy’s old Humber bicycle, and pedaled into the village center. His wiry muscles had no trouble keeping a constant speed after a few years of doing this, but even so, by the time he parked the bike against the trunk of the ancient beech tree in front of the store, his shirt was sweat-plastered to his back.

He stood for a moment and stretched the kinks from his back and legs, then leaned against the long cedar railing. It was purely atmosphere, no horses and teams had been hitched to that railing for many years now. Ben was keen on atmosphere. Ed Baker’s Buick was parked out front, he noticed. Perfect car for a Town Treasurer - solid, conservative, rich but not flashy. Ben’s Lincoln Continental was discreetly parked out behind the store as it didn’t quite lend itself to Colonial New England décor. Jud smiled to himself, climbed the wooden steps, and opened the door.

As it closed behind him the bell that hung over it swung into frenzied jangling. He stood just inside while his eyes adjusted to the gentler light and the chill of Ben’s air conditioning system dried the sweat on his body, leaving him momentarily chilly. Almost immedi-

ately he heard Alice Wheeler’s high-pitched voice babbling to someone.

To Ed Baker. The man stood quietly listening to her, his thin yellowy face creased into a wry smile. Ben Mabry stood behind the counter in a red and white striped shirt partially covered by a butcher’s apron. Looked like a barber pole, Jud thought. Ben called out a casual greeting and Ed Baker added, "How are you, Jud? Hotter’n the hinges of Hades, isn’t it?»

Jud nodded briefly, and as he started back toward the counter he caught sight of Martha Wheeler over by the wire bookrack. He hesitated, then decided not to speak in front of all the flapping ears. They exchanged a quick smile before he moved to the back of the store with his grocery list in his hand. Alice began talking again in a loud self-conscious tone, clearly for his benefit.

"I’m sure Sylly Toomey will never regret it, Eddy. That Rocky Brook Road property’s been going down-hill ever since young Jimmy Spence was killed in Viet Nam. That no-good brother of his would never take any care of it.»

She said Veet Nam with the flat ‘a’ rhymed with jam. Caught unawares, Jud had no time to brace himself against the sudden twist of pain. He could control his face, however, and long practice aided him in showing blank indifference to the varied looks sent his way - Ben Mabry’s curious, Ed Baker’s mildly interested, and Alice’s frankly malicious. He turned to the shelves of canned goods, picked up four cans of B & M Baked Beans and set them on the counter in front of Ben.

Wrap me up a couple pounds stew beef,» he said. And maybe a couple pork chops and a pound ground beef, leanest you got. And maybe eight or ten potatoes and some carrots.»

"Have you gotten any phone calls from anyone about your land yet, Jud?» Ben asked.

Ben’s hands were busy selecting, weighing, wrapping, and the words came out with throw-away casualness, but Jud heard the note of eagerness. When he looked up, Mabry, Alice, and Ed Baker were all watching him. For a few seconds he studied each of them in turn.

Ed Baker - well, he was at least honest. Lots of towns couldn’t say the same about their elected officials. Ed looked back at him, a slight smile rearranging the wrinkles in the beak-nosed Yankee face. Ben - well, Ben always wore that look of badly concealed greed coupled with too much eagerness to please, but today there was - something - in addition. As for Alice - he looked at the fierce eyes, the meanly pinched mouth, and wondered as he always did, how someone as nice as Martha could bear such a sister-in-law, much less have her in her home.

"What about my land?» he asked now.

Alice ignored warning frowns from both men and leaped in

"Because of that new Northeast Connector highway of course. Don’t pretend you don’t know, Jud Perry.»

"You’re not making sense,» he said. He turned away as though indifferent, but alarm bells had begun to ring.

"Gimme a couple soup bones too, Ben. I boil them up for the dog, he likes to gnaw on them.»

I’m glad you happened in, Jud,» Ed Baker began. Detached. Business-like. I was going to call you about something that’s come up recently.»

Alice gave signs of interrupting and Baker silenced her with a peremptory wave of one hand that gave the lie to his air of indifference.

"Seems there’s renewed agitation afoot about that highway that’s been on the table off and on for years. Probably won’t come to anything. But seems there’s a New York firm that thinks it’s certain this time and they’re interested in acquiring some land in the general area. They offered Sylly Toomey a good price for his and he really didn’t want it, so I advised him to sell. We all know he could use the money.»

Ben decided it was time the First Selectman made his voice heard.

"It’s like this, Jud. Word is, we’re just near enough to the projected route the highway will take, to make this dead-and-alive old place wake up and smell the coffee.»

The bell over the door did its jangling dance again and a young woman entered - a stranger to Dover’s Landing, which fact was agreed upon by the quick questioning glances between Alice, Ben, and Ed. As if she sensed their intense interest, the young woman’s steps slowed and she glanced at each of the company gathered around the rear counter. It was a calm, almost measuring glance from large light brown eyes.

"I don’t see a grocery cart,» she said.

Don’t got ‘em,» Ben called out in his loud, ‘aw shucks’ personna. You can gimme your list and I’ll round up the stuff for you, or you can pick it up yourself and plunk it all right down here by the cash register. That’s the way we do it here, this is just a plain old country store.»

She hesitated. "I’ll just pick up a few things and bring them over then.»

"New in town, are you?»

"Yes.»

They waited, but when she turned to the shelves of canned goods, clearly not going to add anything, Ben focused his attention on Jud once more.

"Like I was saying, that new highway could be the making of this town. Hell, we’d be an ideal spot for growth, housing developments, one of them big-time Malls, maybe even an electronics firm would locate here. Nice clean industry, just what we want.»

"Not in my lifetime, I hope,» Jud said.

There was a startled silence. Then, "Just what do you mean by that?» It was Alice, of course.

"Just what I said.»

Jud knew she would ignore Baker’s and Mabry’s warning frowns, and she did.

"I must say, that’s just exactly the tone I knew you’d take, Judson Perry, and I told you both so. Didn’t I tell you? He doesn’t care one tiny little bit about this town. All he cares about is himself, and that’s all. . . .»

"Alice!»

They had all forgotten Martha Wheeler, up in front of the store. Her tone was mild but it carried an undertone that halted Alice in mid-sentence. There was an awkward silence. Ed Baker and Ben Mabry exchanged unreadable glances, and Alice pretended to search in her handbag for something, her cheeks suffused with a dull red. Jud caught Martha’s eye across the store’s length and winked quickly. The stranger stood unmoving with a loaf of bread in one hand, looking fixedly at Jud. He felt the stare and turned to face her.

"Figure to know me when you see me again?»

She turned a faint pink and started to move away. Instantly, Jud was ashamed. It was Alice he wanted to snarl at, and couldn’t because of hurting Martha. But it gave him no right at all to hurt someone else.

Sorry,» he said. Rude and uncalled for.»

Her smile was brief. He turned back to the counter and Ben began to stuff his groceries into a large brown bag, working so slowly that Jud knew there was more to come.

So you haven’t heard from them I gather,» he said. I mean those New York people. Kleeverly and Associates, that’s their name.»

"Nope. Not a word.»

Ed Baker joined in. "You could do worse than listen to them, Jud. If they approach you, I mean. You could wind up becoming a rich man if you played your cards right.»

He couldn’t resist. "Now you know me better than that, Ed. When have you ever known me to play my cards right?»

He knew it was petty, but Ed’s discomfiture pleased him. Ben, however, was made of rougher fiber.

"Hell, Jud, none of us do everything right all the time. But this might just be a Godsend.»

"Oh? Are you selling them those forty acres your father grabbed back in the Depression?»

Mabry’s round face turned mottled red. "He did nothing lots of others didn’t do. Anyhow, they ain’t made me an offer. If they do, I’ll give it serious thought I can tell you.»

"Ben, we’ve known each other all our lives. Will you ever learn not to snow me? You know darn well you’d hold out for the highest bidder, and that won’t be any greedy developer. That’ll be someone like Walmart, or Jordan Marsh, down the road a few years. Say, don’t you think if I was to play my cards right, I should do that too? Hold out for the highest bidder? Wouldn’t you agree, Ed?»

Baker’s face betrayed nothing, but anger quickly tightened Ben’s mouth and narrowed his eyes. Quite suddenly, Jud wearied of baiting them. It was too easy. He paid his bill, picked up his bag and turned to leave. He caught the eye of the quiet young woman as he walked by, and nodded politely. At the front of the store he smiled at Martha Wheeler, but her answering smile was brief and troubled. He went out, and once again the bell did its little dance.

Martha walked back to the rear counter. "I asked you to leave him alone. I told you he wouldn’t be interested.»

Ed Baker answered. "Listen, Ben dove in head first as always, instead of being a little subtle. And Alice, you were no help. Martha, we all know how scratchy he’s been to deal with ever since - well, you know as well as I do. But I think he will be interested, if he isn’t jumped on like a cat on a grasshopper.»

That’s damn nonsense, Ed.» Ben was angry. You know me, I don’t pussyfoot around like I’m walking on eggs, I believe in speaking my mind.»

He sent Martha a defiant glare and added, I ain’t about to let that mule-headed old goat louse up this town’s whole future, and you might’s well know that right now. I didn’t get to be First Selectman by being a doormat, and I’m gonna have what’s best for this town. He better not stand in my way.» He glared at Martha. And you can tell him I said so, for all I care.»

THREE

Jud’s tires made a smacking sound on the heat-softened black top road, and before he had gone any distance salty sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes. He guided the bike with one hand and quickly mopped his face with the other. Dover Square, where Granby Road was bisected by Church Street, drowsed in the sun, and even the spanking new flag that flew over the Soldiers and Sailors Memorial hung in limp folds. Jud carefully avoided looking at the memorial even though its granite face had his name carved among the roll-call of World War II veterans.

The heat, the motion, lulled him into a near-hypnotic trance. Granby Street. How many times had he covered this very route? Thousands? Tens of thousands? And his father before him and his father before that. So many Perrys over all the years. Ephraim, that was his great-grandfather‘s name. No, it was Ethan. That was it. Ethan had ten children, eight of them sons, six of them living to grow up. That‘s when the hundreds and hundreds of acres were first divided so the men could all have a farm-place of their own. They all farmed, back then. The teachers, the blacksmiths, the run-away musician, the one who went to Harvard and became a lawyer, all came along much later.

Then, when Jud‘s father inherited it all, the cows and sheep gradually disappeared, dying of old age mostly. Gideon could never bear to send them off to market. But he had kept the two Clydesdales, Champ and Brown Betty, to plow the land. Quite suddenly, Jud remembered the feel of Champ‘s broad back beneath his skinny

six year old legs; the ripple of powerful muscles, the heavy thud of his hooves as they hit the ground, sending up little dust clouds with each step, and the wagon full of sweet-smelling hay that scented the air around them. The feel of his father’s calloused hand holding him in place as he walked along beside Champ, got mixed up with the feel of Andy’s small back beneath his own rough hand.

Blasted heat, he thought. It’s making my mind wander. He rode over the clackety wooden bridge that spanned Rocky Brook, and the jolting roused him from his heat-daze. Nearly home. He turned up Meetinghouse Road. Stanton’s house faced Granby Street as it wandered off to the west, but Stanton’s apple orchard lay between both roads. MacIntosh apples, mostly, although Jud preferred Baldwins. Getting scarce, nowadays. Harry