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My schedule continued to be thrown to the dogs. After dropping off the victuals at the resort, I next found myself in the downtown law offices of Linda Carruthers. She's not just the legal beagle for Barracuda Beach Naturist Resort, she's on the Boards of Directors of both the resort and of the residential co-op that makes up almost a sixth of the property: a clothes-free community within walking distance of downtown Manatee Bay. A widow, she has two small children who like my youngest, go to Willow Lane Elementary.
Linda's tidy storefront office was bereft of clients when I entered. Her legal secretary, Alice, ushered me through the door into Linda's inner sanctum immediately.
Linda listened to me relate the minutes of this morning's meeting with increasing incredulity and amusement. She finally bursting into laughter as I described Janet's facial gymnastics as the Manatee Bay Board of Education Chairman had tried to keep from melting down in front of the merciless gaze of both the town's mayor and its most successful entrepreneur.
"OK," she demanded as I wrapped up the tale, "let's see your notes."
I handed over the tiny pocket notebook I'd written the bullet points on. Fortunately, Linda burst into snickers rather than indignation at the minuscule scrap that was as close as I had been able to find to actual writing paper.
It didn't take her long to write up the proposal in legal but clear English, expanding on the issues of insurance, damages, costs and escort by adults, and creating a special section covering the need for class lectures on the subjects of family naturism and social nudity. We faxed it off to Janet's office, and sat back to enjoy tea and scones, and talk about issues at hand while we waited for a reply.
"Do you REALLY think they'll go for it?" Linda was just like me on the sceptic score.
"Not enthusiastically, no. I'm aware we're being used to try to extort money from our other pocket, the one the State sticks its hand into. Better that than having to stick their own hands down our pockets directly. Failing that, then their next best hope is to get the State to give them a bye on the whole idea. However, they seem to be between a rock and a hard place, with no public swimming pools in town and five hundred kids to train on the delicate art of not drowning. And with neither money nor time with which to build a suitable facility, we're their least worst option."
She grinned an evil grin. "You intend to convert five hundred kids into naturists in one go, don't you?"
"Make hay while the sun shines," I grinned back.
"We'd better call Walt," she advised. Walt Cheevers was proprietor, publisher, editor and chief reporter of the local fishwrap, the Manatee Monitor. "We need an information campaign to start up, post-haste, to nip any Textile backlash in the bud."
With that, she started dialling.
The Manatee Monitor comes out every Wednesday, filled with the latest goings-on in our mighty metropolis. It's usually completely uninteresting to any individual who doesn't actually reside here, as is typical of most local papers, and its idea of a major scoop is to correctly predict the price of oranges at harvest-time. Its employees consist of Walt Cheevers, his wife Mary who handles the books and takes the advertising, two representatives from the high school doing on-the-job training for Media Class credit during the school year, and a lugubrious bloodhound named Baskerville. Walt likes to boast that Baskerville sniffs out the paper's most interesting stories. It's telling of the quality of our local outlet of the fourth estate that Baskerville's olfactory sensor hasn't worked right since he was a pup.
One not-well-reported news item: Walt and his wife are neighbours of Linda. Walt, as editor, considers this little tidbit of information not vital to the safety and comfort of his readership. Their kids are long-grown and have moved away from Manatee Bay, but when they return with the grandkids for family reunions, that's where the entire clan stays. As a result, I don't think I've ever seen the second generation of Cheevers, their spouses or children ever actually wearing anything.
So we had a propaganda ace in the hole, as it were. Walt would have to dance carefully when writing his editorial this week, lest he give the game away and accidentally "out" himself.
Walt's voice rattled over the speaker on Linda's phone. "I was just trying to get in touch with Paul!" he shouted, obviously on a cell phone somewhere. "Mr. Whiting was having breakfast at Horace's, and overheard the most fascinating conversation that he just had to pass on to Manatee Bay's ace reporter."
No, Walt has no modesty about his reporting skills. And yes, men can be just as gossipy as women.
"He's right here, Walt," Linda advised, instinctively raising her voice as well.
"Hi, Paul! Another no-comment? I've already tried to rip the story from Janet and Roger, and got stonewalled. I should write an editorial about overdoing secrecy in government."
"Yes," I agreed, rolling my eyes to the ceiling, "you do that." I then repeated, for the second time that day, the gist of the agreement reached at breakfast between the Manatee Bay County School Board and Barracuda Beach Naturist Resort.
"Wow! That's a scoop!"
"No kidding," I agreed wearily. "But if we don't spin this right, it could result in bad blood between the Resort and the town. That's is the last thing I need." I then noted, "I bet the reason why local officialdom doesn't want to comment is that they hadn't yet received the formal offer. It just got sent to them by fax, just now." I gathered my thoughts. "If you call them back now, Janet might be in a position to give you a bit more."
"I just want to make sure I've got this clear, though," Walt responded. "It's an agreement that includes no profit to Barracuda Beach, just cost recovery. And it saves the local school board a mint."
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