two tiers of people at these open space meetings—the first being what I call notable locals. People like Tom Spangler, manager of Stony Flats—he’ll be here because the land-use people would like river land near that plant for the wildlife passage. Payne, the local developer, because the county is looking at quite a hunk of his properties for the same purpose. Josef Reingold is even bigger. He’s with DRB, a German conglomerate that owns a lot of land in the West. He was one of the contenders for Jimmy’s land, too. Even Harriet: She’ll also be asked to relinquish some acreage for this wildlife plan.”
They had reached the big conference room, which had a curved wooden platform on which the open-space committee members were beginning to assemble. “How about the other tier?”
“They’re the environmentalists—what Pete Fitzsimmons calls ‘bunny huggers.’ There’re lots of them in Boulderand Boulder County. People are genuinely interested in preserving natural habitats.” She smiled. “That’s why this place has more designated open space than a lot of others.”
Louise thought darkly of jimmy Porter, splayed over the fence. “Too bad people have to get killed over it.”
Louise regretted her words, as Ann shuddered guiltily and bowed her head. “You’re confirming my worst fears,” she said, in a low voice. “Do you really think that’s why Jimmy was killed?”
Louise shrugged. “How can I help thinking that? It just makes sense.” She gave a wry smile. “In fact, there’s probably a lot of prospective murderers here tonight.” She had meant it as a half-joke. But Ann’s alarmed face told Louise it was no joke to either one of them.
The senior land officer had her own table at the rear of the room. Louise sat in the row in front of it, realizing now why Ann needed to regain control of herself: She was the puppet-master here. The fourteen illustrious members of the Parks and Open Space Advisory Committee followed her guidance as they decided the fate of undeveloped land in Boulder County. Ann had fastened the buttons on her linen suit jacket, to give herself a more kick-ass appearance, Louise supposed. She’d drawn half-glasses out and perched them on her nose, immediately aging herself by five years. When she arrived, she was handed her notes by her secretary. Only because Louise sat so near could she see the faint trembling of the papers in Ann’s slender hands.
The young woman, though totally composed on the surface, was a mass of nerves underneath.
She identified the players for Louise as they came in. Mark Payne, whom Louise recognized, glad-handed everyone in the room as if he were the host at a cocktail party, making a wide, deliberate circle around Ann. Up close,Louise noted that Payne missed being handsome because of some flaw that was hard to put a finger on. It could have been the overly strong jawline, perhaps, or the hooded eyes, strange in a blue-eyed, blond type. His sandy, almost invisible eyelashes gave the man a faintly sinister look. Maybe this was why he smiled at one and all, but avoided direct eye contact. Except, of course, with people like Sheriff Tatum.
Tom Spangler, a big, confident-looking man, hurried in next. He was heavyset and balding, about fifty, wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt. Louise’s heart beat faster: Bill must have something to do with this man, since he ran Stony Flats; was he helping Bill and his team, or could he be in on the plot to steal the plutonium shipment? She turned to Ann. “What kind of a man is he? It must take something special to run a plant like that.”
“Tom’s a terrific man,” said Ann, “a down-to-earth guy, originally from Oklahoma. He’s overseeing the dismantling of the plant, and apparently is doing a good job. He’s had a little picketing—people complaining about safety—but he hasn’t taken the brunt of nuclear protesters: For years, they’ve been making other plant managers’ lives miserable. And
They had reached the big conference room, which had a curved wooden platform on which the open-space committee members were beginning to assemble. “How about the other tier?”
“They’re the environmentalists—what Pete Fitzsimmons calls ‘bunny huggers.’ There’re lots of them in Boulderand Boulder County. People are genuinely interested in preserving natural habitats.” She smiled. “That’s why this place has more designated open space than a lot of others.”
Louise thought darkly of jimmy Porter, splayed over the fence. “Too bad people have to get killed over it.”
Louise regretted her words, as Ann shuddered guiltily and bowed her head. “You’re confirming my worst fears,” she said, in a low voice. “Do you really think that’s why Jimmy was killed?”
Louise shrugged. “How can I help thinking that? It just makes sense.” She gave a wry smile. “In fact, there’s probably a lot of prospective murderers here tonight.” She had meant it as a half-joke. But Ann’s alarmed face told Louise it was no joke to either one of them.
The senior land officer had her own table at the rear of the room. Louise sat in the row in front of it, realizing now why Ann needed to regain control of herself: She was the puppet-master here. The fourteen illustrious members of the Parks and Open Space Advisory Committee followed her guidance as they decided the fate of undeveloped land in Boulder County. Ann had fastened the buttons on her linen suit jacket, to give herself a more kick-ass appearance, Louise supposed. She’d drawn half-glasses out and perched them on her nose, immediately aging herself by five years. When she arrived, she was handed her notes by her secretary. Only because Louise sat so near could she see the faint trembling of the papers in Ann’s slender hands.
The young woman, though totally composed on the surface, was a mass of nerves underneath.
She identified the players for Louise as they came in. Mark Payne, whom Louise recognized, glad-handed everyone in the room as if he were the host at a cocktail party, making a wide, deliberate circle around Ann. Up close,Louise noted that Payne missed being handsome because of some flaw that was hard to put a finger on. It could have been the overly strong jawline, perhaps, or the hooded eyes, strange in a blue-eyed, blond type. His sandy, almost invisible eyelashes gave the man a faintly sinister look. Maybe this was why he smiled at one and all, but avoided direct eye contact. Except, of course, with people like Sheriff Tatum.
Tom Spangler, a big, confident-looking man, hurried in next. He was heavyset and balding, about fifty, wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt. Louise’s heart beat faster: Bill must have something to do with this man, since he ran Stony Flats; was he helping Bill and his team, or could he be in on the plot to steal the plutonium shipment? She turned to Ann. “What kind of a man is he? It must take something special to run a plant like that.”
“Tom’s a terrific man,” said Ann, “a down-to-earth guy, originally from Oklahoma. He’s overseeing the dismantling of the plant, and apparently is doing a good job. He’s had a little picketing—people complaining about safety—but he hasn’t taken the brunt of nuclear protesters: For years, they’ve been making other plant managers’ lives miserable. And
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