2019-10-05 - Is This A Conspiracy Thing?

The Historical Society doesn't so much have an office exactly, though most of the functions are in the Addington House those sorts of meetings are saved for people who might want to make large donations so they can seem impressive. So it's one of the library conference rooms that Clarissa sits in now, all dressed up in designer labels as usual although since it's just a black dress and heels who would know? People of worth! She's thumbing through what looks like a checklist for some party or other, seated at the long table that's in here and ignoring all the signs that say you shouldn't use your cell phone in here, "Hm, Michael I'm thinking this whole thing actually leans more towards New Years than Halloween. See if they've got anything booked at Addington House for that yet."

If absolutely nothing else, Alexander is a punctual man. He's not a well-dressed man: he's currently wearing a faded Metallic t-shirt in black under an oversized green army jacket, and all of that over black jeans that are sort of hanging from his hips. He's got the look of a man who has lost too much weight too quickly; but then, there's been a nasty flu going around, so maybe he's not a junkie. He's holding a battered leather file case, something that looks fifty years old at least, and approaches the library conference room rather tentatively. He raps on the doorframe, three times, staring at her with dark, almost reptilian eyes.

"Ms. Robbins?" If nothing else, his voice is pleasant - a low baritone that still holds a bit of raspiness from his recent illness.

"Missus," Clarissa corrects before she even looks up. When she does it's with a smile that fades, the expression on her face one of 'oh, you.' "Mister Clayton." Her smile is a little tighter now, "Was there something I could help you with?"

"Missus," Alexander obediently says. He doesn't miss that look, and there's a quick grimace that he does his best to hide, even as he edges into the room, glancing around the conference table as if he expects there to be enemies lurking under the table. His shoulders are hunched a bit defensively, but he says, "Yes. I think so. Maybe. Thank you for seeing me." He moves closer, taking a seat halfway down the conference table, his back to the wall so he can keep his eyes on the door and on her. There's an uncomfortably long silence, before he offers, like reading from a teleprompter. "Are you well?"

"Mostly over that flu that went around town," Clarissa replies, pressing a button on her phone to either mute or end a call. Surely it's to end it. It'd be totally rude if she kept that call on hold the whole time right? "And always busy." The implication in her tone makes it rather clear she does not like her time wasted. "Were you lucky enough to avoid it? I have to say I'm rather sick of chicken soup at this point."

Alexander shakes his head. "No. I was ill. The fever broke a couple of days ago, and I have mostly recovered." He takes a deep breath, eyes on her phone for a moment. "I should be quick about this," he says, maybe to spare her valuable time - although it sounds more like he's talking to himself. He reaches into his satchel, and brings out a couple of coastal maps of the area. "I know that this isn't, strictly speaking, your area of concern, but you're well-connected, and have taken an interest in the town despite being an outsider, so I thought perhaps you might know, or could find out." He nods at the maps. "Do you happen to know if there have been any recent attempts to acquire land or develop land which interfere with local endangered fish species? If you don't, do you think you discover it?"

Clarissa looks a little more interested when Alexander takes out some maps, a little less interested when he starts talking about fish, "My focus has more been on the historical developments in town rather than new ones," she says, sounding a bit skeptical, "But I do have some connections with the Mayor's office and have been in discussions with other town departments concerning the rebuilding of the blocks that were damaged by those gas explosions. They probably wouldn't mind me asking about any new permits that have been pulled. May I ask why? Are you worried about this, ah, fish species?"

"Less about the fish," Alexander admits, "and more about the risk of outside encroachment on the local economy." A pause. "It's possible that an outside party might be attempting an end run around local environmental concerns, putting pressure on locals, and so forth. I'm interested." There's another long, awkward sort of pause. "It might be good press, too. To take an interest in outside exploitation of the town."

"Do you think I need good press?" Clarissa asks lightly, though there's an edge to her tone and the way she looks at him, drumming exquisitely painted nails against the tabletop. Hmph. "Where is this happening? I don't really care who wants to come into this town or why if they're bringing business, but it might hurt some of the outside donations I'm trying to drum up for the rebuilding if it comes out that the town is ignoring environmental issues in order to make money."

Alexander stares at her, like a kid in school who tried to bluff his way through the reading and then got asked a question about it in front of the whole class. "I thought politicians always wanted good press. You're almost a politician." Tact? Not his strong suit. He takes a deep breath lets it out with a huff of his own. "Yes? It might. Yes. That's fine. It will do that." He shifts in place. "Would you be willing to look into it, then, Missus Robbins? And tell me what you happen to find?"

Clarissa purses her lips, "I'd rather stay out of the press. I've had a lifetime of headlines already." She flips a page back and forth in front of her before she shrugs one shoulder, "I can ask around and let you know. Do you have anything to go on other than a location? Do you think it's a company or a person?"

"Oh." Alexander lowers his head, staring at the table for a moment. "Right. I'm sorry." But he gives her a hopeful look at the rest. "You might want to focus on property around the Sea View Hotel. I suspect a corporation, at least on paper, but it might be an individual effort." There's a shrug. "I'm afraid I don't have a lot of concrete evidence at the moment. It's a theoretical construct. More data is required." There's a brief ghost of a smile. "Thank you, though. Missus Robbins."

Oh good, so this might be some conspiracy theory thing. Clarissa doesn't say that, but for just a second that thought is clear from the sour expression on her face, "The Sea View Hotel? I'll take a look. It might be something that could be declared historically significant and then you'd have more of a leg to stand on if you did want to challenge things. If there are any things to challenge." She picks up her phone and gives it a look, "I have some free time today, I can stop by city hall and see what I can find."

Alexander looks resigned at the sour expression, but just nods his head, slowly. "Thank you, Missus Robbins. I do appreciate it." He stands up, equally slowly, as if he has to think about each and every movement. "And that's a good idea, yes. I appreciate it. If there's anything I can do in return, please let me know?" He stops, and stares at her flatly, like she might have something RIGHT NOW that she's just dying to ask Alexander Clayton.

Clarissa's eyebrows go up a bit when he says that. Like, seriously, what could he possibly have to offer her? But instead of saying anything that would be impolite she offers him a pretty, fake smile, "Of course. It shouldn't take me very long. Do keep an eye out for some of our fundraisers coming up," she looks at him, then makes a note to look at his shoes on the way out. Shoes definitely indicate what level of donation she ought to expect. "Everything will go to fund the preservation of historical sites in the town. There ought to be a few coming up around Halloween." Then without otherwise indicating the meeting is over, she hits a button on her phone, "Michael? Did you get that? Make arrangements with the permit office at town hall this afternoon."

Alexander actually doesn't seem to mind the abrupt shift in focus. He's definitely not much of a 'goodbye' person, so he slouches his way to the door. Shoes are revealed, but likely not promising: They're scuffed old work boots, clearly years old. They are ten-dollar donation shoes, at most. He leaves without another word, head ducked down like he's trying to avoid looking at other people.