Please Don't Feed the Mayor Read online

  “Very good. It reminds me of—”

  “Nothing. There is nothing like it in the whole world.”

  Bryce nodded. It was no use arguing with a partisan.

  “You’re right. This beer is sui generis.”

  She reached over and squeezed his cheeks playfully.

  “Look at you. Such a good little lawyer, with your Latin. Here,” she said, signaling for the waiter. “Let me get you another.”

  Bryce rubbed a hand across his face, feeling faintly annoyed. He was too old to be having his cheeks pinched, and he wasn’t comfortable with this overt possessiveness. Helping Sofia settle in at Norcross Daniels didn’t mean she could treat him like her boy toy. He’d thought she wanted to talk about business.

  “So,” he said. “This continuation . . .”

  He popped another olive in his mouth.

  “What’s the problem?”

  She shook her head.

  “The other party is trying to break an agreement they find troublesome. The judge is simply being difficult.”

  Bryce hid a smile. How many times, he wondered, had Sofia herself been described as difficult when she was on the bench?

  He took another sip of the beer. The taste was beginning to grow on him.

  “Is this one of your famous new media clients?”

  She nodded.

  “Innovative Media Solutions,” she said. “More specifically, one of their employees.”

  Sofia topped another piece of bread with butifarra.

  “Daniels was so impressed with my client list. If only he knew what some of these people are like.”

  She took a bite and swooned.

  “Ah, this is heaven.”

  The name caught Bryce’s attention. Hadn’t he just seen it somewhere? Yes, it was on the T-shirt Chad’s cameraman was wearing.

  “It isn’t Chad Chapman, is it?”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “You know him?”

  “No, but I have a friend who’s working with him.”

  Sofia shrugged.

  “Then they have my sympathy,” she said. “The man has built a reputation on the destruction of others’.”

  As Bryce was considering whether or not to share this information with Melanie, the waiter appeared with a tray of croquetas, the Catalan version of croquettes.

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” he said.

  But Sofia was more concerned at that moment with pointing out the delicacies in front of them.

  “These two are eggplant and goat’s cheese,” she said. “The oval ones are mushrooms, pumpkin, and potato.”

  She paused, her eyes glittering as she decided which one to try first.

  “Why should it bother me?”

  Bryce was perplexed. It seemed like an obvious question, to him. Why would anyone want to work with, much less defend, someone they considered repugnant?

  Sofia reached for a croqueta, so small and dark it looked burnt.

  “And these,” she said, “are squid, prawns, and squid ink.”

  He felt his stomach lurch.

  “Ink?”

  “Don’t be a child,” she said. “Try it.”

  Bryce bristled. He was beginning to regret his decision to accept her invitation. Not only was Sofia’s attitude peremptory, but her unquestioning defense of someone like Chad Chapman struck him as almost immoral.

  The waiter set two stemmed glasses in front of them and poured a bit of wine for her approval.

  “Yes. Very good,” she said, turning back toward Bryce. “Marqués de Cáceres is my favorite rosé. It goes very well with croquetas.”

  Reluctantly, Bryce reached for his glass and took a sip. Was this the way the entire evening was going to go, he wondered, with Sofia giving the orders and him following along like a well-trained dog? He smiled, remembering the way Melanie’s border collie had torn off Mr. Stuffy’s head.

  Shep wouldn’t have put up with this crap.

  “I see you smiling,” Sofia purred. “You like it, yes?”

  He took another sip of wine and let it roll around on his tongue while he considered his response. The wine was good, but not exceptional, an opinion he was loath to give under the circumstances. He decided to just tell the truth and hope it derailed this wearisome demand for encomium. Bryce swallowed and set down his glass.

  “I was thinking about my friend’s border collie, Shep. I had no idea they were so smart.”

  Sofia shrugged a shoulder.

  “Really? I find dogs rather stupid, myself.”

  Bryce was surprised by how much her response rankled. Who did she think she was?

  If Sofia suspected how her comment had affected him, though, it didn’t show. She was too busy stage-managing his next move.

  “Let us have no more talk,” she said. “Try the croquetas—and finish your wine. There is still the Opera Prima to accompany our dinner and Don Luciano cava with dessert—very citrusy and light.”

  Bryce gaped at the bottle on the table. When Sofia had ordered their dinner, he assumed the wine would be served by the glass. Now he realized that she’d requested three entire bottles of wine in addition to the cerveza they’d had with their tapas. He chuckled nervously.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “You mustn’t accuse me of such a thing. I only wanted you to experience what Catalunya has to offer. I feel we have been misunderstood.”

  As he turned his attention to the tray of croquetas, Bryce felt a prick of anxiety. First there’d been the touching and teasing, then the abundance of alcohol, and now this ambiguous declaration. The evening was starting to feel less and less like a business dinner and more like a date. Was it Sofia’s country that was misunderstood, he wondered, or herself?

  Sofia was watching him over her glass.

  “How are your new accommodations?”

  Bryce shook his head. He already knew where this was going.

  “Not too bad. I may talk to Glen and see if they can move me someplace quieter, though.”

  Her look was sly.

  “My offer still stands, you know.”

  He nodded, feeling almost relieved. At least the purpose of this evening was out in the open now. Perhaps he’d suspected all along that shop talk wasn’t on the agenda, Bryce thought. Maybe he’d just been looking for some way to soothe his bruised ego.

  Now, though, it was time to turn their conversation around, and Sofia had given him the perfect opening.

  “Speaking of Glen Wheatley, I dropped by his office yesterday afternoon,” he said. “Did that bomb threat affect your arraignment?”

  Sofia hesitated, apparently unwilling to be thrown off track. She began picking through the croquetas.

  “Oh yes. We had to reschedule for January.”

  “So, no Judge Hightower, huh? Wow. What were the chances?”

  She gave him a steely look.

  “You don’t get to where I am by relying upon chance.”

  Bryce felt a chill. Sofia hadn’t called in the threat herself, had she? Surely not. And yet . . .

  And yet there’d been rumors before about Sofia’s questionable ethics. Nothing that would warrant disbarment, but red flags nonetheless. Threatening to bomb a federal building—even in jest—was a felony.

  “Of course,” he said. “But it never hurts to have a little luck.”

  Sofia gulped down the rest of her rosé, then lifted her glass, watching the last drops of wine form legs as they ran down the sides.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “you have to make your own luck.”

  CHAPTER 22

  After the craziness of the last two weeks, the election itself had been something of an anticlimax. In spite of the confusion caused by Chad Chapman’s inquiries, enough votes were cast to pass the referendum and Shep was “sworn in” as Fossett’s mayor. Even Rod Blakely managed to be a fairly gracious loser. At last, Melanie thought, as she drove back into town, everything she�
��d worked for was going to pay off. Chad had called her the night before; their story would be on Weekend Extra that afternoon at four thirty.

  Since Melanie got the good news, there’d been a mad scramble to get the auditorium ready. After years of high hopes and crushing disappointments, she wanted as many people as possible to see what she hoped would be the thing that launched Fossett into a new, more prosperous future. As she pulled up outside the auditorium’s double doors, she saw Pete and Walt carrying folding chairs inside. Tagging along after them was Shep, still carrying Mr. Stuffy.

  Melanie swallowed, feeling a stab of regret. She wished Bryce could have been there to witness this. Without his help, the election might never have taken place. Looking back on that first town meeting, she couldn’t believe how unprepared she’d been for what was to come or how much work would actually be involved. Bryce was right: If you wanted to get results, you had to be willing to do what was hard, not just what was easy. She’d worked hard to make this dream come true, but she’d never have done it without him.

  When she walked inside, Walt was hooking up the cable linking the satellite feed to the projector. Installing a dish on the roof had been part of a previous improvement project, but funds had run out before the town had purchased a projector, so when she found out that the show would be on that night Melanie had hurried out to rent one. Unfortunately, when they’d gotten back to Fossett, Walt had found that the bulb inside had burned out, necessitating the trip from which she’d just returned.

  He looked up.

  “You got it?”

  “Right here.” She held up two bulbs. “Plus a spare, just in case.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “We don’t want to miss this.”

  Pete was up on a ladder, checking the electrical plug in the ceiling to make sure the breaker hadn’t tripped. Once the projector was mounted, everything they’d need to power it and capture the signal would be right there. Finally having the money to complete the projects she’d begun over the last four years was something else Melanie was looking forward to.

  Shep stood at the door, greeting everyone as they came inside. Whether or not he understood the role he’d played in generating this excitement, he did seem to be enjoying it. Other than his meltdown over the pilfered treat on Friday, he’d been more patient and hardworking than anyone could ever have expected, and Melanie was very proud. Mayor or not, however, after the show tonight it would be time to give him a rest.

  People were arriving in anticipation, most of them bringing food or drink to share. As Melanie watched the offerings pile up on the stage, she was reminded of why she’d tried so hard to resuscitate her hometown. Fossett might be small, but it had a big heart. Of all the things Bryce had warned her about, that was the one that had worried her the most: Whatever acclaim or popularity it gained from this show, she hoped the heart of Fossett would still be the same.

  The auditorium was getting full. She glanced at the clock: sixteen minutes until the show started. Melanie had texted Bryce that morning, giving him a heads-up, but hadn’t yet gotten a reply. She took out her phone and checked the status again. It said the text had been delivered, but whether or not he’d actually read it was anyone’s guess. She licked her lips and considered giving him a call to make sure he’d gotten the message. No, she thought, there wasn’t enough time. Chad had warned Melanie that there was no way of knowing when, during the one-hour broadcast, his piece would run; she couldn’t take the chance of missing it. She hurriedly typed in a second message and hit “send.” If Bryce missed the show after this, she thought, at least it wouldn’t be her fault.

  The bulb had been replaced and the projector mounted on the ceiling, the screen above the stage was in place, and Pete was adjusting the angle to make sure the picture would be centered. Everything was in place and ready for the show to start. Walt walked over and stood next to Melanie, the two of them watching as the crowd continued to stream in.

  “How you doing?” he whispered.

  She gave him a nervous smile.

  “Hanging in there. How about you?”

  “About the same.”

  “Looks like the whole town turned out,” she said.

  “Pretty close. We’re missing a few folks from Little Russia, but the Gulins are here. They’ll take word back to the rest.”

  “What about Lou Tsimiak?”

  Walt shook his head.

  “No, he’s up in his tower, still keeping a lookout.”

  Melanie sighed. She’d been hoping to tell him again how grateful she was that he’d saved Bryce after that hornet sting.

  “I hate to see him isolate himself like that,” she said. “People around here don’t blame him for what happened.”

  “Maybe not, but he’s not doing himself any favors standing up in that tower all day.”

  “Poor guy. I wonder if he’ll ever feel like the war is over. Bryce thinks he’s looking for a way to atone for missing that shot.”

  Walt shrugged and continued scanning the room.

  “Did you see Rod?”

  She searched the rows of friends and neighbors.

  “I must have missed him. Where is he?”

  He pointed.

  “First row. Smack dab in the middle.”

  Melanie felt her stomach sink. Of course he was. Probably hoping the whole thing would blow up in her face, too, so he could be right up front to rub it in.

  “It’s like watching a movie with a film critic in the first row.”

  Walt nodded toward the clock.

  “Well, whether he likes it or not, we’ll find out soon enough. Excuse me while I dim the lights.”

  As the room darkened, the voices in the room turned from boisterous chatter to whispers of anticipation. Pete turned the projector on and began adjusting the focus, leaving the sound muted until the show began. Shep finished his rounds and came over to sit beside her, setting Mr. Stuffy at her feet. Melanie gave him a hug and took out her phone again. Still no reply from Bryce.

  “This is going to be fun,” she told Shep. “You’re going to be a star.”

  At last the show’s logo was splashed across the screen and the theme music came on. There were a few scattered demands to, “turn it up!” from the audience, prompting Pete to make a hasty adjustment to the volume, but by the time the show’s impossibly good-looking co-hosts appeared on-screen, the auditorium had fallen silent. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting and wondering to see what would happen. Then suddenly, a picture of Shep flashed across the screen. A chorus of gasps and excited chatter broke the silence and quickly died away as the host introduced the segment.

  “With polls showing that fewer than half of Americans trust their political leaders, perhaps it’s no surprise that some folks are willing to take a chance on a different kind of candidate. Tonight, reporter Chad Chapman takes us to a little town in Oregon where an experiment in democracy is taking place.”

  A brief montage of people yelling across picket lines, arguing on street corners, and punching one another at police rallies filled the screen, accompanied by Chad’s voice-over:

  “You hear it every day on the news: Americans are tired of politics as usual. But what if there was a candidate that nearly everyone approved of ?”

  A second picture of Shep, this one of him sitting at his desk in a collar and tie, went up, provoking a chorus of gasps and excited chatter in the audience that quickly died away as the narration continued.

  “Meet Shep, a five-year-old border collie who’s just been elected mayor of Fossett, Oregon.”

  Melanie bent down and pointed to the screen.

  “Look,” she whispered. “That’s you up there.”

  “A dog might seem to be an unlikely choice for mayor,” Chad continued, “but Shep’s got plenty of fans. We spoke to a few of them to see what they had to say about their mayor-elect.”

  Shep’s picture changed to a series of shots of Chad, interviewing members of the community:

  * *
*

  A stunned-looking Ernest and Francine Stubbs at their goat ranch:

  “Most politicians are all talk, but when our goats get out, Shep’s right there to round them up.”

  * * *

  Jewell Divine holding forth in her cluttered home:

  “Shep has an unusually large amount of compassion for an animal. I sensed it immediately.”

  * * *

  A drone hovering over an amused-looking Chad’s head:

  “I think we’ll assume that’s a ‘no comment.’”

  * * *

  The Griebs sitting in their living room:

  “We’ve known Shep since he first came to Fossett. He’s a good dog.”

  * * *

  Then a breakaway to a close-up shot of a skeptical-looking Chad.

  “But is he, in fact, a good dog?”

  Melanie frowned.

  “What the heck?”

  She glanced at Walt, who shook his head and shrugged.

  Up on the screen was another picture of Shep, this one grainy and poorly lit, as he trotted toward a goat pen and unlatched the gate. Then a freeze-frame of Shep’s guilty face as the goats streamed out of their pen was stamped with the words, “Collie Confidential.”

  Melanie gasped.

  “What? That’s not fair,” she hissed. “They asked Shep to do that.”

  Walt put a finger to his lips.

  “Shh. It’s okay.”

  But Chad wasn’t finished.

  “And is this footage from our hidden-camera evidence of Mayor Shep accepting a bribe?”

  A shot of Mae slipping Shep a treat behind Melanie’s back provoked some guffaws from the audience.

  “Looks like you’re busted, Mae.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Melanie said. “This is ridiculous.”

  “And like any corrupt politician, Mayor Shep isn’t afraid to make his displeasure known when the payoffs are withheld.”

  Melanie gasped as the destruction resulting from Shep’s tantrum splashed across the screen.

  “Oh no.”

  “So, why would a town be willing to vote for such an obviously compromised candidate? Perhaps a few words from Shep’s opponent will give us a clue.”

  Heads craned to get Rod’s reaction as his face filled the screen.

  “The whole election was rigged. This Shep character’s beholden to the dog food lobby. You just wait. Pretty soon, we’ll all be eating kibble around here.”