Please Don't Feed the Mayor

by Sue Pethick

Genres: Animals; Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

When the lumber mill closes, laying off most everyone in Fossett, Oregon, Melanie MacDonald plans to revitalize her beloved but beleaguered homestead by running her border collie Shep in Fossett’s mayoral race . . . Shep wins by a landslide. A lover of democracy and dog treats, Shep is rapidly earning the goodwill of Fossett’s citizens. Tourists are streaming in and everyone wants to glad-paw the new mayor. Suddenly Melanie and Shep are media darlings, with requests for interviews, game shows, and personal appearances through the roof. But there’s trouble in paradise. Determined to win back his former wife, Bryce MacDonald discovers a rival in tabloid reporter Chad Cameron, who’s in Fossett to dig up dirt on Melanie and Shep. He finds a willing co-conspirator in the malcontent who lost the election. Hounded by the press and desperate to head off a potential dog-napping, Melanie unwittingly puts herself in danger. Shep comes to the rescue, proving his mettle to save his faithful human at the risk of his own life . . . and new political career. Acclaim for Sue Pethick’s Pet Friendly “Quirky and endearing . . . This is a light, heartwarming read perfect for a wintry afternoon at home or a sunny beach vacation.” — RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars

Release date: February 26, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 238

Sample

Melanie MacDonald woke that morning with a start. Maybe it was a bad dream that had caused it or just the mysterious workings of her subconscious, but the second she opened her eyes a terrible certainty clutched at her heart: Fossett—the town she loved best in all the world—was dying. Blinking back tears, her heart pounding, she groped toward the foot of the bed where her border collie, Shep, was sleeping. As he lifted his head and nuzzled her hand, Melanie took a deep breath and felt the constriction in her chest begin to ease.

“We can’t let it happen, boy,” she whispered. “We’ve got to find a way to save this place.”

A glance at the clock told her she’d beaten the alarm by twenty minutes—something Melanie would ordinarily have spent on some extra shut-eye—but sleep would be impossible now. Better to get up than to lie there in the darkness and fret, she thought. Plus, it would give her time to think before she headed in to work. There was still time to save her little town, she told herself. The only question was: How?

The brisk October air made her face tingle as she opened the back door for Shep. It was her favorite time of year, a period of growing anticipation between the enervating heat of summer and the first snowfall. Songbirds were emptying her feeders as fast as she could fill them, and in spite of Shep’s best efforts the squirrels had already buried an orchard’s worth of nuts in her backyard. Down in the river, the last of the late-season Chinook were racing upstream, and the pumpkins she’d planted in July would be jack-o’-lanterns before long. If only other people could see the town the way she did, Melanie thought as she headed back inside, Fossett’s problems would be over.

Shep continued to romp in the backyard while Melanie made breakfast. She stood at the kitchen window, watching him zigzag across the lawn, guiding his soccer ball around a stile and into an upturned orange crate. The border collie’s previous owners had given him away when he refused to stop herding their small children around like sheep, and she’d made it a priority to channel those instincts toward something less objectionable. Much as she enjoyed having him with her at work, Melanie knew that being inside all day was hard on a working dog and letting him tire himself out a bit first made life at the coffee shop easier for everyone.

When her toast came up, Melanie sat down at the table and began racking her brain once again for ways to save Fossett from extinction. The town’s troubles weren’t news to anyone; its residents had already spent time and money trying to improve its fading prospects. The old Fossett House, a Victorian mansion built for a railroad baron’s mistress, had been remodeled into a bed-and-breakfast, money had been raised to modernize the school, and Main Street had undergone a complete overhaul with fountains, bubblers, and wrought iron benches for people to enjoy during their shopping trips. But in spite of those improvements, folks were still moving away and the future seemed bleaker than ever. If something drastic wasn’t done, Fossett would soon be nothing but a historical footnote.

She hung her head and fought the urge to cry. Had moving back there been a mistake? It was so easy at times like that to start second-guessing herself. It wasn’t just that she’d sunk her life savings into the coffee shop; she’d given up everything else, too: friends, a good job, even her marriage had fallen to the wayside. Melanie had bet her entire future on making things work in her hometown. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t just mean that her business had failed; it would also mean she’d sacrificed everything for a foolish dream. She didn’t think she could face that.

Melanie looked up and frowned; Shep was pawing anxiously at the front door. He must have let himself in while she was brooding, she thought, but what on earth was he so worked up about? Then she glanced at her watch.

“Oh, my gosh, look at the time!”

She grabbed her coat and the two of them ran out the door.

Ground Central was in the heart of Fossett’s downtown, one of a dwindling number of shops still thriving on Main Street. Even as other businesses closed, Melanie had managed to hang on, a fact she attributed to Shep. As the shop’s official greeter, he made everyone who walked through the door feel welcome.

Melanie turned on the television and started filling the two large coffee urns while Shep walked through the dining area, nudging chairs into place around the tables. The constant drone of entertainment news hadn’t been part of her original plan when she opened Ground Central—she’d been picturing more of a quiet coffee bar like the ones they had in Portland and Seattle—but resistance on the part of Fossett’s populace and the need to meet her financial obligations had convinced her that compromise was necessary to her survival. As frustrating as it felt sometimes, she could at least console herself that Ground Central had achieved its main purpose: to become an informal neighborhood gathering place.

The smell of coffee brewing filled the air as Melanie made a last pass through the shop, refilling stir sticks and sweetener packets while Shep waited patiently for Walt Gunderson to arrive. Walt was the owner of Gunderson’s, the grocery/hardware /feed store that had been the heart and soul of Fossett for five generations, and his wife, Mae, made the baked goods that Melanie sold in her shop. Walt had been both mentor and father figure to her the last four years, and as owner of one of the few thriving businesses in town, he was as keen to find a way of improving Fossett’s prospects as she was. He was also, as Shep knew, a soft touch when it came to giving out his wife’s homemade dog treats.

When Walt’s truck arrived, Shep’s ears pricked up. Licking his chops in anticipation, he trotted toward the front door to greet his benefactor and, with his head lowered obligingly and his bottom wiggling, Shep stretched his upper lip into an unmistakable doggie grin. Melanie scolded him as she hurried over to unlock the door.

“Shep,” she said. “Don’t be a beggar.”

“It’s fine,” Walt said, holding the box aloft. “Hold on, boy. Let me put these down and we’ll see what Mae’s sent for you today.”

He set the box on the counter and reached into his pocket as Shep swallowed dramatically.

“Well, well. What’s this?” Walt said, holding the bone-shaped biscuit to his nose. “Smells like peanut butter.”

Shep whimpered and squirmed impatiently.

“Oh, all right. Here you go.”

He tossed the treat into the air.

Shep leaped, grabbed the proffered treat in his mouth, and hurried over to his bed in the corner to enjoy it in peace.

Walt laughed. “I think that’s the highest I’ve ever seen him jump. Mae will be pleased.”

Melanie poured Walt the cup of coffee he took in exchange for a discount on the baked goods and pushed it across the counter.

“So,” she said, indicating the box on the counter, “what have you brought me today?”

“Blueberry muffins and oatmeal scones.”

She lifted the lid and felt her mouth form an o in surprise.

“What are those?”

“Selma’s latest creation. She asked me to include them in this week’s deliveries.”

Selma Haas was the manager of the newly renovated Fossett House B and B. With business slower than expected, she spent her time thinking up ways to enhance the enjoyment of her imaginary guests.

“She calls ’em Beavertails.”

Melanie poked one with her finger. “But what are they?”

“Brownies. She told Mae she cooks ’em in a muffin pan and then flattens ’em with a spatula while they’re still warm.” Walt pointed. “That’s what gives them their crisscross pattern.”

“And . . . they’re supposed to look like a beaver’s tail?”

“Something like. She thinks they’ll give the tourists ‘an authentic Northwest experience.’”

“Assuming we ever get any tourists around here.”

Walt nodded. “The woman’s got an imagination; I’ll give her that.”

A slow smile spread across Melanie’s face.

“Maybe we should call them Eaverbay Eeltays.”

The two of them shared a guilty chuckle. Selma had been hired as manager of the B and B on the strength of her claim that she was bilingual. It was only later that anyone discovered the “foreign language” she spoke was pig Latin.

The moment of levity passed, leaving Melanie as dispirited as she’d been when she woke up that morning. She sighed and slumped against the counter.

“Oh, Walt, what are we going to do? I’ve been cogitating till my brains are scrambled, trying to figure out how to save this place.”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure there’s anything we can do. At the moment, my plan is to wait till Social Security kicks in, then close up shop and move to someplace warmer.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Why not? This place has broken my heart too many times, Mel. There comes a time when a man has to admit defeat.”

She shook her head, unwilling to adopt his pessimistic attitude. There had to be a way, Melanie thought. She just hadn’t found it yet.

Walt reached across the counter and patted her arm.

“I know how you feel, but at this point, I’m not really sure this place is salvageable. Look at the folks we’ve lost: professionals, small-business owners, families with children—the people a town needs to build a foundation on.” He looked askance at the Beavertails. “Aside from the two of us and the guy who owns the bar, the most successful people in town are a pet psychic and the gals with the pot farm.”

Melanie held up a hand in protest.

“Okay, first of all, it’s not a pot farm; they grow medicinal marijuana.”

Walt rolled his eyes as she continued.

“And sure, Fossett’s got its fair share of oddballs—maybe even more than its fair share—but that’s just local color. People like Jewell Divine add a dash of whimsy that’s charming,” she said. “We just need to find a way to attract some normal people to Fossett, to sort of... dilute the ones that are already here.”

Walt wasn’t buying it.

“People don’t want to live around a bunch of weirdos,” he said. “I’m sorry, but short of a miracle, I don’t think Fossett’s got a chance in hell.”

The morning breakfast crowd started arriving as soon as Walt drove away, and it was almost ten o’clock before the place emptied out again. Someone had cranked up the volume on the TV set and with no human voices to cover the sound, the reporter’s voice was giving her a headache. She grabbed the remote and was about to turn it down when she saw the headline at the bottom of the screen:


“This is Chad Chapman, reporting to you from the tiny English village of Croton-by-the-Sea, where its single seat on the county council has been given to Reginald, a ten-year-old tabby cat belonging to Miss Pansy Suggitt.”

The camera angle widened to show an orange-and-white tabby, lying on a pillow in what appeared to be a tobacconist’s shop. A man with a microphone stood next to him, facing the camera.

“Since his election, ‘Reggie’ has become something of a celebrity in his little town. Dozens of tourists arrive by bus each day, hoping to meet the new ‘councilfeline.’”

Dozens every day? Melanie thought. A shiver of excitement passed through her.

“Cards and letters addressed to ‘Councilman Reggie’ quickly overwhelmed the local postal authorities, who have had to bring in extra help to handle the overload, but few people are complaining, as sales of merchandise with the tabby’s likeness have boosted the local economy and put this sleepy little hamlet on the map.”

Melanie’s heart was racing. This was exactly the sort of thing that Fossett needed: a bold move that would get people excited again. They might not have a town council, but they could figure something out. All they really needed was the right animal to fill the position. And that, she thought, glancing over at Shep, would be easy.

Melanie’s hands shook as she set out the last of the folding chairs. In the three days since she’d come up with her plan, she’d lost two pounds and chewed off all but one of her fingernails. If this town hall meeting didn’t go well, she feared she’d never come up with another idea as promising. There’d be no other option then but to watch Fossett continue its downhill slide.

A bead of sweat snaked its way down her temple. Melanie wiped it away as she counted the number of seats crowding the floor of her coffee shop. How many people would show up? she wondered. Folks in Fossett weren’t particularly “churchy,” but most still thought of Sundays as sacred, even if all it meant was getting an extra hour or two of sleep. She’d posted flyers on every street corner and several people had told her they’d be there, but saying and doing were two very different things. What she needed was a representative sample of residents to test her idea on, but with five minutes to go and no one in sight, she feared even that modest goal had been too ambitious.

If only she’d been able to convince Walt.

In spite of his admission that her plan had merit, Walt Gunderson remained stubbornly convinced that any idea—even one as unconventional as making Shep the mayor—was doomed to failure. The last time they’d spoken, he advised her not to look for him at the meeting. As Melanie grabbed another chair and set it in place, she tried to ignore the knot in her stomach.

“Where do you want these cookies?” Kayla said.

Melanie looked up at the girl in the heavy metal T-shirt. For the first few years after opening Ground Central, Melanie had labored alone, unable to afford even part-time help. Then five months ago, she’d finally hired her first permanent employee. Kayla Maas might be only eighteen and her fashion choices somewhat questionable, but she showed up on time, didn’t cop an attitude with the customers, and adored Shep, for whom the feeling was mutual.

“The front counter is fine,” Melanie said. “Are the coffee urns ready?”

“Yep. Regular on the right, Unleaded on the left.” Kayla set the tray down and covered it with plastic wrap. “How many people will come, you think?”

“Who knows? Twenty? Thirty? None?”

There was a handprint on the front door. Melanie walked into the back room to get some vinegar water and a rag.

“You think Mr. Gunderson will change his mind?” Kayla said.

She shook her head.

“I doubt it.”

“I don’t get it,” the girl said, dusting crumbs off the counter. “That story about the cat said it brought a lot of people into the town. If it worked there, why not here?”

“It’s not that he thinks having Shep as the mayor won’t work,” Melanie said. “It’s just that, well, he’s not sure that anything will help save Fossett at this point.”

“Why not?”

She bit her lip, wondering how to paraphrase Walt’s position without giving offense. After all, it wasn’t as if his objections were unfounded.

“Because we don’t just need people to come and visit; we need for them to move here permanently. I think he’s afraid that most folks won’t find Fossett all that appealing.”

Kayla scrunched up her nose.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, you know. It’s a small town. People in small towns can be a bit . . . different.” She chuckled. “I mean, it’s not every place that has a pet psychic.”

“But people love Jewell!” Kayla said. “And she’s really good, too. When our cockatiel, Stevie, stopped eating, Mom asked Jewell to come over and take a look at him. Right away, she knew what was wrong.”

Melanie nodded feebly. She could just picture Jewell Divine, showing up on Kayla’s doorstep in one of her tie-dyed caftans, ready to reveal the thoughts and feelings of the anorexic bird.

“Jewell told us that Stevie had been smuggled in from South America in some guy’s smelly coat and then sold to a pet store where the other birds were mean to him. It was real sad.”

“And did he start eating again?”

“Oh no, he died,” Kayla said. “But at least we understood him better, and Jewell said sometimes that’s all an animal really wants. Plus, after all he’d been through, we could sort of understand why he’d want to end it all.”

“So . . . it was suicide?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Melanie was about to say something about the chances that a bird would willfully self-destruct when the girl’s phone rang. As Kayla went off to answer it, Melanie started cleaning the window, going over what she planned to say at the meeting as she wiped away the handprints. Now wasn’t the time to worry about whether or not Walt was right, she told herself. Making Shep the mayor was going to be enough of a stretch without complicating matters, and it was important that the idea get more than a grudging endorsement. For her plan to work, Fossett’s residents would need to know they had a stake in the outcome. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to feel they’d been buffaloed.

Kayla returned and glanced at the door.

“I’m surprised there’s nobody here yet.”

Melanie felt the knot in her stomach tighten.

“Yeah. I guess free coffee and cookies weren’t as enticing as I thought.”

“Mind if I take off, then? I told Cal I’d go kayaking with him today.”

“No, you go on,” Melanie said. “I appreciate your helping out. See you tomorrow.”

As Kayla disappeared around the corner, Melanie sauntered up to the front counter, lifted the plastic wrap from the cookies, and slid one off the tray. To help keep her strength up when everyone arrived, she told herself, taking a bite. Or as consolation, if no one did.

Then, like the first drops of rain after a long drought, people began to arrive. A trickle at first, then groups of two and three came in, chatting amiably a. . .