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sense.” Then, apologetically, since Marge’s little gray eyes had narrowed to glittering slits, as if taking aim with an Uzi, “It seems a rather narrow platform, is all.”
    “What it says here in my meeting notes,” Esther said loudly, “doesn’t only have to do with parking meters. What it says here is that the party platform is to assure free and righteous elections.”
    “Elections?” Quill said.
    “That’s right.” Marge settled back into her chair with the air of a woman who had her target firmly in her sights and was happy to pull the trigger. “I’m running for mayor.”
    Quill came to attention. So this was what all the animosity was about. Elmer was reelected like clockwork every four years, and he usually ran unopposed.
    “No! Like I said before. You’ve never done a thing for this town, Marge Schmidt,” Carol Ann said furiously. “Who’s the only person to have adjudicated fair taxes for this town? Me. Who’s the only person to have kept the streets of this town free of dangerous animals? Me. Anybody notice how many burglaries have been committed in this town the past four weeks?”
    There was an apprehensive murmur.
    “Exactly. Crime is up. And it’s not just burglars. Many people are in violation of important codes in this town.” Carol Anne’s big blue eyes narrowed into icy points. “And you know who you are.”
    Dead silence greeted this alarming statement.
    “So. Who can run this town better than Mr. Chubby over there? Me.” Carol Ann’s perfectly glossed lips firmed into a thin, determined line. “If there’s going to be any political party endorsed by the Chamber of Commerce, it’ll be mine. This town should be headed places, moving on up. Not down. I’m running for mayor, too. And you can bet your bottom dollar when I get in, this town’s going to be run right.”
    The room erupted into argument.
    Early in the summer, Quill had counted up how many Chamber meetings she’d been to over the years. It was more than one hundred. In all that time, the ratio of squabbles to rational discourse was about four to one, in favor of squabble. But this time, the tone was different. Voices were higher. Bodies were tense. Faces were flushed angry-red instead of merely-annoyed-pink.
    Quill leaned sideways and whispered at Miriam. “We’ve got a mayoral election coming up?”
    “Where have you been for the last month?” Miriam said testily.
    “The Adirondacks. With Myles and Jack.”
    “Oh. That’s right. I forgot. How was your trip?”
    “I’m beginning to wish I’d never left. What the heck is going on here?”
    Miriam sighed. “I wish I knew for sure. Howie and I have talked about it some. Take a look at the table, Quill. Do you know what I see? There’s Harland Peterson, biggest dairy farmer for miles around. Farming is a growth industry at the moment. Our farmers are rich, after decades of being poor. Right next to him is Nadine Peterson, whose beauty shop customers are the workers at Walmart, the cashiers at Wegmans, the stock girls at the pharmacy. Those people are victims of the nationwide recession. They aren’t going to Nadine’s as often as they used to because they don’t have the money and she’s had to raise her prices anyway. Then there’s Harvey Bozzel, Hemlock Falls’s only advertising executive, who depends on ad income from the PennySaver and the Hemlock Falls Gazette . You and I both know what’s happening to newspapers these days.”
    They both looked at Harvey. He was tall and slender, and paid a lot of attention to his thick blond hair. His attractive, not-very-intelligent face was glum. Quill liked Harvey, even though most of his advertising campaigns bordered on the lunatic. In a weird way, the lunacy added to his appeal.
    “Next to Harvey is Frieda Arbuckle, who just opened the Balzac Café, and who is making money hand over fist because of all the tourists. Next to her is Pastor Shuttleworth—who’s talking about merging with both the