equipment. As he passed through the crowd, he held up the phone and recorded the crowd on both sides of his vehicle. He now had two dozen vandalism suspects.
The rutted entrance opened to a cleared space littered with puddles and construction debris. Mike’s tires crunched on the gravel of a temporary parking area. He stopped his vehicle facing the lake. Beyond the scarred clearing and the weedy shoreline, water rippled in the late afternoon breeze.Scenic, despite the bulldozer that was parked in the lake’s shallows, the top half of its yellow form visible above the surface of the water.
To his left, a twenty-foot section of chain-link fence surrounding construction equipment was flattened to the ground. In a wooded area next to the enclosure, two mangled port-a-johns lay on their sides, crushed like tin cans. Blue-tinted sewage spilled from gaping holes. A group of construction workers clustered around a guy Mike labeled as the foreman from his in-charge posture.
On his right, three men in their late fifties huddled in a conspiratorial cluster: Mayor Fred Collins, Vince, and a tall, thin guy dressed in the latest ruggedly expensive outdoor apparel.
Mike’s hands twitched on the wheel. He could turn around and drive away, let them fire him, but he didn’t want to give Vince the satisfaction of winning. Though why Vince wanted to get rid of Mike was a mystery. Vince had had it out for Mike since the first day of the new council term. Plus, there was the heavy load of responsibility Mike felt toward the residents of his hometown. He’d let them down once. He didn’t want to do it again.
With irritation pooling, Mike stepped out of his SUV. Protestors’ chants of “Save our lake!” competed with the tweeting of birds and breezy rustle of foliage.
Mayor Fred picked his way around a puddle. His off-the-rack gray suit and wingtips were splattered with mud. Vince was dressed more practically in jeans and work boots. He hung back, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at Mike. Vince wholeheartedly supported the Lost Lake project. Vacationers equaled more business. The rest of the town was divided. Residents who would benefit from the development, especially the large unemployed constructionworkforce, were cheering it on. Environmental concerns were a luxury for those with stable employment.
“You have to do something about this.” Vince waved a wiry arm. “These pranks are costing the developer time and money.”
“Easy, Vince.” Fred gestured toward Moneybags. “Mike, this is Lawrence Harmon, owner of Harmon Properties.”
Well, that explained the expensive duds. As the Coming Soon sign out front clearly stated, Harmon Properties owned Lost Lake Realty.
Harmon held out a hand. Mike shook it.
“As Vince pointed out, Chief O’Connell, this type of activity is costing my company a great deal. We’ve already lost several weeks, and the project is still in its early stages.”
Mike scanned the wooded shoreline. Lost Lake had been little more than a deep, muddy hole until developers had run out of waterfront property on more-accessible lakes in the area. In the past six months, neatly spaced lots had been bulldozed free of trees and awaited construction of oversized vacation McCabins. Periodic blasting took care of rocky areas. An underwater survey was in progress to dredge the swampy lake for boating and fishing. Part of the shore was being cleared. Sand would be hauled in to make pretty, fake beaches for city people who wanted weekend nature retreats without all the mess and fuss of actual nature. Westbury was less than two hours from both Philadelphia and New York. Plus, Harmon Properties had recently announced its desire to build a hotel and resort on the south shore of the lake. The developer was scheduled to make a presentation at Tuesday’s town council meeting, which Mike expected to be a total mess.
He drew in a deep breath. The scents of decaying leaves, moist soil, and pine were decimated
The rutted entrance opened to a cleared space littered with puddles and construction debris. Mike’s tires crunched on the gravel of a temporary parking area. He stopped his vehicle facing the lake. Beyond the scarred clearing and the weedy shoreline, water rippled in the late afternoon breeze.Scenic, despite the bulldozer that was parked in the lake’s shallows, the top half of its yellow form visible above the surface of the water.
To his left, a twenty-foot section of chain-link fence surrounding construction equipment was flattened to the ground. In a wooded area next to the enclosure, two mangled port-a-johns lay on their sides, crushed like tin cans. Blue-tinted sewage spilled from gaping holes. A group of construction workers clustered around a guy Mike labeled as the foreman from his in-charge posture.
On his right, three men in their late fifties huddled in a conspiratorial cluster: Mayor Fred Collins, Vince, and a tall, thin guy dressed in the latest ruggedly expensive outdoor apparel.
Mike’s hands twitched on the wheel. He could turn around and drive away, let them fire him, but he didn’t want to give Vince the satisfaction of winning. Though why Vince wanted to get rid of Mike was a mystery. Vince had had it out for Mike since the first day of the new council term. Plus, there was the heavy load of responsibility Mike felt toward the residents of his hometown. He’d let them down once. He didn’t want to do it again.
With irritation pooling, Mike stepped out of his SUV. Protestors’ chants of “Save our lake!” competed with the tweeting of birds and breezy rustle of foliage.
Mayor Fred picked his way around a puddle. His off-the-rack gray suit and wingtips were splattered with mud. Vince was dressed more practically in jeans and work boots. He hung back, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at Mike. Vince wholeheartedly supported the Lost Lake project. Vacationers equaled more business. The rest of the town was divided. Residents who would benefit from the development, especially the large unemployed constructionworkforce, were cheering it on. Environmental concerns were a luxury for those with stable employment.
“You have to do something about this.” Vince waved a wiry arm. “These pranks are costing the developer time and money.”
“Easy, Vince.” Fred gestured toward Moneybags. “Mike, this is Lawrence Harmon, owner of Harmon Properties.”
Well, that explained the expensive duds. As the Coming Soon sign out front clearly stated, Harmon Properties owned Lost Lake Realty.
Harmon held out a hand. Mike shook it.
“As Vince pointed out, Chief O’Connell, this type of activity is costing my company a great deal. We’ve already lost several weeks, and the project is still in its early stages.”
Mike scanned the wooded shoreline. Lost Lake had been little more than a deep, muddy hole until developers had run out of waterfront property on more-accessible lakes in the area. In the past six months, neatly spaced lots had been bulldozed free of trees and awaited construction of oversized vacation McCabins. Periodic blasting took care of rocky areas. An underwater survey was in progress to dredge the swampy lake for boating and fishing. Part of the shore was being cleared. Sand would be hauled in to make pretty, fake beaches for city people who wanted weekend nature retreats without all the mess and fuss of actual nature. Westbury was less than two hours from both Philadelphia and New York. Plus, Harmon Properties had recently announced its desire to build a hotel and resort on the south shore of the lake. The developer was scheduled to make a presentation at Tuesday’s town council meeting, which Mike expected to be a total mess.
He drew in a deep breath. The scents of decaying leaves, moist soil, and pine were decimated
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