The town hall of Lüttmoorsiel smelled of cold coffee, dusty paper, and the faint mustiness of a building that had seen its best days at roughly the same time as Helmut Schmidt.
Mayor Henning Clausen sat behind his desk, studying the village population register with satisfaction.
767 residents.
Correction. Since the day before yesterday, 768.
If old Mrs. Hinrichsen did him the favor of hanging on, it would hopefully stay that way until at least the end of the month.
Henning drummed his fingers on the desk. The local elections were three weeks away.
And he intended to win them.
True, he was only an honorary mayor and didn’t earn a cent from the position. But as a master electrician, he had discovered over the years that holding public office had a remarkably reliable way of keeping his order books full.
After all, if you couldn’t trust the mayor to fix your washing machine, who could you trust?
The town hall’s only employee sat at the desk opposite him.
John McDoven, originally from England, had moved to Lüttmoorsiel for love more than twenty years ago. To this day, he remained the only person within a fifty-kilometer radius capable of making even the word “Moin” sound like an official statement from the British royal family.
“Old people die,” Clausen said thoughtfully as he leafed through the papers.
McDoven looked up.
“I am quite aware of that, Mr. Mayor.”
“Yes, of course.” Clausen waved impatiently. “I mean Hinrichsen. Broken hip. Old people often die after that.”
McDoven nodded slowly. “Most unfortunate.”
“Perhaps she’ll stay with us a little longer,” Clausen murmured. “At least until after the election. Every signature counts.”
McDoven looked out of the window.
“Oh.”
Clausen was only half listening. His gaze had settled on the election posters leaning against the wall.
He had been mayor for almost twenty years. People had always been happy with him.
Until Bertels showed up.
Young.
Dynamic.
Moved here with his wife four years ago.
And, of all people, he was the one Lüttmoorsiel had to thank for its 768th resident.
At first, Clausen had thought: Let him talk. He doesn’t stand a chance.
But lately, he could clearly sense something changing.
Bertels was constantly talking about tourism, investment, and new ideas.
“The future,” he called it.
Clausen called it “unnecessary trouble.”
“The veterinarian is walking very quickly,” McDoven remarked, pointing out of the window. “That way.” He extended one thin index finger to the left.
“Mhm.”
“I am sure it has something to do with the four eggs.”
Clausen looked up.
“What four eggs?”
“I ran into Dr. Kruse earlier.” McDoven folded his hands in front of him. “She informed me that Anke Lorenz’s hens laid only four eggs today instead of the usual five. Apparently, the price of organic eggs has already risen from one euro twenty to one euro eighty.”
Clausen stared at him.
“Only four?”
“Yes.”
“Anke’s hens always lay five.”
McDoven nodded gravely.
“I imagine the entire village knows by now. Which would presumably explain the veterinarian’s haste.”
Slowly, the color drained from Clausen’s face.
This was all he needed.
First Bertels, and now rising egg prices.
Before long, people would hold him personally responsible. And if the mayor went down, his electrical business would go down with him.
Clausen shot to his feet.
“McDoven.”
“Yes, Mr. Mayor?”
“Come on. We’re going to see the chickens.”
McDoven rose slowly.
“Of course. The mayor himself, personally searching for an egg.”
He picked up his notepad.
“Very good, sir.”