Page 68 of Hottie on Her Shelf
Chapter Fourteen
Fitz sat on his haunches, dipping his hand into a plastic baggie and tossing feed to the swans.
It was less fun than ripping off bread pieces the way he had as a kid. But back then, their swans died of a horrible diet pretty much every year, until a zoologist on a shore excursion watched it happen. He marched straight into the then mayor’s office and called out the entire town as swan murderers who needed to stop fattening their swans like foie gras gooses in a feeding chute.
Now the town’s eponymous swans had their own dietician. No Feeding signs were posted at the base of the wrought-iron fence encircling the pond. Sometimes being an adult and knowing things sucked the fun out of life.
“Mr. Mayor.” The Gazette’seditor touched his fingers to the brim of his straw hat.
“Thanks for coming out.”
Bronson Shepherd hitched up the knees of his pants to hunker down next to Fitz. “I haven’t done an off-the-record park meeting since I left the Boston Globe. This is a nice flashback. It’d be even nicer if you’re about to give me a scoop that’ll get me a Pulitzer.”
“I’m all for shooting for the stars, Bronson, but a Pulitzer? Really? C’mon.” Fitz hoped the man was kidding, but…Bronson wasn’t known for his sense of humor. He was known for spending all day, every day, and many nights at the Gazette offices. And doing anything to chase down even the smallest story.
“Then why’d you drag me out here on the low down?”
Right. Because it was such a hardship to sit in the spring sun for a seven-minute chat. “Need to ask you a favor.”
His bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows inched up. “Officially?”
Fitz looked around at the gazebo, the trees ringing the square, and the quartet of swans fighting for the feed he’d thrown. “If it was official, would we be shin deep in swan shit?”
“Hopefully not.”
“I read the Gazette today.”
“I should hope so. Don’t you read it every day?” Bronson’s voice rose. The aroma of the anise mints he constantly had tucked in his cheek wafted through the air. “How the hell else do you keep a finger on the pulse of this town without reading the paper?”
“I am the mayor,” Fitz said drily. “Knowledge is reported to me without always going through the filter of the fourth estate first.”
“Don’t be cheeky. That was your uncle’s shtick.”
Huh. Nobody ever talked about Uncle Jeremiah. It was like when he moved to Miami, he’d been erased from the collective town memory. “What do you mean?”
“Eh. Don’t mind me.”
The guy was a talker. Stepping back from a topic wasn’t something Fitz had ever heard him do. “Bronson. What about my uncle?”
“He didn’t take his job seriously. He mouthed off, got cute about town business. Smarting off doesn’t actually prove that you’re smart, especially when your actions prove otherwise.”
That was curious, and pointed. “Did Uncle Jeremiah do something wrong as mayor?”
“Ha! More like did he do a single damn thing right.”
Coming from the objective editor, that sounded like the tip of an iceberg. “Is there something I should know?”
“Doesn’t matter now. He’s gone. His mess was cleaned up.”
Fitz stood and brushed off his hands. A cold anger moved through him at being kept in the dark. How was he supposed to do right by the town if important things were kept from him? He might not want to be mayor, might even resent it some days, but as long as he held the office, he would damn well do his very best for Swan Cove, every single day.
“I think it does matter. I think I deserve to know, both as mayor and as his nephew.”
Bronson straightened, then tipped back his hat. “You should ask your father. Or that tame accountant of yours that does all the work. Since he did the cleanup.”
Holy shit. There really was something big. Everyone said there wasn’t a single secret in Swan Cove that Bronson wasn’t aware of. “I’m asking you. Clearly, neither David nor my dad saw to bring me into the loop.”
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Bronson said, “That’s not why you called me out here today.”
