The next morning Lydia and Asch rode into Easthaven for a meeting of the Easthaven Garden Club. It was about the first time Asch had put on long pants and a collared shirt since he had arrived on the island, and carrying a portfolio no less. About 30 people showed up, about half well-dressed ladies, most of the rest younger gals, and about half a dozen men. Asch figured one was a henpecked husband and the rest were older men looking to make time with the ladies. And they all seemed to care about Easthaven. Lydia handed out sheets with council email addresses, and the URLs of about four relevant websites. One or two of the ladies looked at the URLs and bent over their smart phones.
The outcome of the presentation was a lot of angry looks and remarks directed at the non-present mayor and city council, and murmurs to tell so-and-so and what's-her-name about the scandal. One lady was a councilman's wife, and she was especially determined "to get to the bottom of this." Mrs. Needle from the paper was there, and she had taken copious notes. She approached Asch, "I was going to skip this meeting, figuring I had already covered the Garden Club enough this season, but I heard about the distinguished, handsome speaker from the states, and figured I'd come take a look. Now I'm really glad I came. This is going into the paper!" She cocked an eye at him, "and your appearance wasn't misrepresented, either."
"Well, thank you for the compliment, though I'm not sure that salt-and-pepper hair should really score me any points, but—"
They were interrupted by the door slamming. Sharon came running in, streaming tears. "Oh, Lydia, Mr. Jones, hi, Mrs. Needle. You can cancel that article about my scholarship. Asch, Lydia, my dad already signed the agreement! I knew I should have gone home yesterday. Now all those posters are wasted. I got there just too late to talk to him about it. In fact, the guy from the corporation was just leaving the house. When Dad started to tell me what he thought would be good news, I exploded! I told him what I thought about his SUV and the scholarship, even waving my finger under Mr. Oily's nose. His actual name is Ivan Skavar, by the way—I probably embarrassed Dad in front of the guy, but Oily wasn't the least bit upset—he said I could go to Harvard or not, he had what he wanted, and he waved the paper at me! I slammed the door in his face and then really started in on Dad. I accused him of accepting bribes, making decisions that would hurt the community, and what about his oath of office? Could I ever trust him again? I yelled everything I could think of at him. Betrayal of trust, selfishness, malfeasance, draining our mountain dry, foreign instead of local laborers, everything. Then I stomped out and came here." She sniffled some more and Asch handed her a hanky. "Oh I wish I had come home last night. We-we could have had an adult talk," she sobbed, "and maybe I could have persuaded him. Instead I blew my stack and was too late to do any good anyway. I-I'm sorry I let you guys down." She blew her nose and sniffled, tears streaming down her face.
The rest of the room was silent. Lydia gathered the girl into her arms. "There, there. All might not be lost just yet. Technically the paper might be subject to council approval. A lot of people in this town know what's going on and they're up in arms about it. Even if the agreement stands, they might have a lot of trouble pulling off their project in an uncooperative community. So let's don't give up hope yet, okay, Sweetie?"
Mrs. Needle looked ferocious. "Just wait until I pit my pen against his sword!"
Lydia choked down a laugh. Mrs. needle looked at her puzzled, and so did Asch and Sharon, but then Asch figured it out and just smiled. "Sorry. A fly" Lydia said. It was Asch's turn to stifle a laugh.
Asch frowned. "You say his name is Ivan Skavar?
"Sharon looked up. "Yes, why?"
"I wonder if that might be a pseudonym." He saw puzzled, curious looks. "When I was a kid I knew a song that featured a Russian named Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. His enemy was a Turk named Abdul Abulbul Amir." He started to say something else, but didn't.
"Think we could get him for signing a fake name?" asked someone. Several people murmured about that being an attractive idea.
"Of course we'd have to find out if it is a pseudonym," muttered Lydia.
"I know! The airline. He has to ID himself to get on the plane."
"Someone call the airport. He's probably still on the ground."
"I can call them," offered Asch. "I have it in my phone." He placed the call.
"Island Airlines, Mary Ashton speaking, how may I help you?"
Asch gulped, and in his most professional voice, said. "Hello. I'm calling from a community meeting in Easthaven and we're trying to track someone down who may be headed for the states on the next flight out, probably in first class. It's very urgent. Can you check for us?"
Mary picked up on the situation, but Asch could hear the smile in her voice, "We have some restrictions about giving out information, but if you can give me the person's name, we can issue a page."
"The name is Ivan Skavar, but don't page him just yet, if possible. This might become a police issue."
Pause. "I'm sorry sir, but there's no one with that name on any of our manifests." Another pause, "What's going on, Asch?"
Asch spoke to the room, letting Mary hear, "No one of that name on any of their manifests." He turned to the phone. "Do you happen to know if any private planes, such as a corporate jet, is scheduled to fly out today?"
Mary picked up on his urgency and got serious. "Um, lemme check some stuff. Only thing scheduled is a training flight by one of the instructors, and that's a pretty light plane. It would have to do a lot of island hopping to go anywhere. Um, I can give you three names of people who just bought tickets if you promise not to tell anyone."
"Well, it would be a man, if that helps."
"That reduces it to two. I took the reservations myself; what does he look like?"
Asch handed the phone to Sharon. "Describe the guy."
Sharon timidly took the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, Sweetie. Can you tell me what your friend looks like?
Sharon got her dander up. "He's not my friend, he's a crook! But he's kind of dark, some grey at the temples, slightly overweight, but not obese. Maybe five and a half feet tall. Um, Midwestern accent, I guess."
"Might his name be—let me talk to the nice man again, okay?"
Asch took the phone. "I'm here."
Mary lowered her voice. "You're not going for three of us, are you? Wait don't answer that. We can wait until this evening, and by the way, Octavia doesn't know I'm in town. Now it's her turn for a surprise. But down to business: Might the name be Simon Waheed? The other man is a fair-haired Scandinavian type, Gunnar Gunnarsen. Looks like a college kid on vacation. Mr. Waheed looks kind of greasy. Anything else I can do? Hold the plane? Have him detained by Security?"
"Um, when does the plane leave?"
"In about two hours, unless there's a delay." Her tone of voice hinted that a delay could be arranged.
He spoke to the room again. It looks like we have two hours, folks. And his name appears to be Simon Waheed." He turned to the phone. "Thank you very very much for your help. You just might have saved a town. If I need to, can I reach you at this number?
