Vaughan’s secretary, a wholesome, pretty woman named Janet Sumner, sat at a desk outside the mayor’s office. Though he seldom saw her, Brody was paternally fond of Janet, and he was idly mystified that—aged about twenty-six—she was still unmarried. He usually made a point of inquiring about her love life before he entered Vaughan’s office. Today he said simply, “Are they all inside?”

“All that’s coming.” Brody started into the office, and Janet said, “Don’t you want to know who I’m going out with?”

He stopped, smiled, and said, “Sure. I’m sorry. My mind’s a mess today. So who is it?”

“Nobody. I’m in temporary retirement. But I’ll tell you one thing.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “I wouldn’t mind playing footsie with that Mr. Hooper.”

“Is he in there?”

Janet nodded.

“I wonder when he was elected selectman.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But he sure is cute.”

“Sorry, Jan, he’s spoken for.”

“By who?”

“Daisy Wicker.”

Janet laughed.

“What’s funny? I just broke your heart.”

“You don’t know about Daisy Wicker?”

“I guess I don’t.”

Again Janet lowered her voice. “She’s queer. She’s got a lady roommate and everything. She’s not even AC-DC. She’s just plain old DC.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Brody. “You sure do have an interesting job, Jan.” As he entered the office, Brody said to himself: Okay, so where the hell was Hooper yesterday?

As soon as he was inside the office, Brody knew he would be fighting alone. The only selectmen present were longtime friends and allies of Vaughan’s: Tony Catsoulis, a builder who looked like a fire hydrant; Ned Thatcher, a frail old man whose family had owned the Abelard Arms Inn for three generations; Paul Conover, owner of Amity Liquors; and Rafe Lopez (pronounced loops), a dark-skinned Portuguese elected to the board by, and a vocal defender of, the town’s black community.

The four selectmen sat around a coffee table at one end of the immense room. Vaughan sat at his desk at the other end of the room. Hooper stood at a southerly window, staring out at the sea.

“Where’s Albert Morris?” Brody said to Vaughan after perfunctorily greeting the others.

“He couldn’t make it,” said Vaughan. “I don’t think he felt well.”

“And Fred Potter?”

“Same thing. There must be a bug going around.” Vaughan stood up. “Well, I guess we’re all here. Grab a chair and pull it over by the coffee table.”

God, he looks awful, Brody thought as he watched Vaughan drag a straight-back chair across the room. Vaughan’s eyes were sunken and dark. His skin looked like mayonnaise. Either he’s got some fierce hangover, Brody decided, or else he hasn’t slept in a month.

When everyone was seated, Vaughan said, “You all know why we’re here. And I guess it’s safe to say that there’s only one of us that needs convincing about what we should do.”

“You mean me,” said Brody.

Vaughan nodded. “Look at it from our point of view, Martin. The town is dying. People are out of work. Stores that were going to open aren’t. People aren’t renting houses, let alone buying them. And every day we keep the beaches closed, we drive another nail into our own coffin. We’re saying, officially, this town is unsafe: stay away from here. And people are listening.”