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Authors: Betty McMahon
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false or sentimental image anywhere in this
show.>> Have they all fallen for the <>
crap.
I
thanked my lucky stars I’d had the sense not to enter into a
cyberspace shouting match with Eric and had never responded to his
messages; there were no threats from me to Eric in my outbox.
However, I did live to regret my habit of storing files on my
computer to avoid paper clutter. Shaw immediately pounced on a folder
I’d foolishly entitled eric and added more arrows to his growing mass of evidence. Right there,
in plain sight, was a years’ worth of Eric’s columns.
Shaw’s face was
virtually gleaming with this discovery. By the time he’d copied
those articles and e-mails onto CD-R disks he’d brought with him, I
felt tried, convicted, and sent up for the murder of Eric Hartfield.
“ Damn!” I said
to Sanders, after Shaw and his buddy had left. I threw a displaced
pillow back onto the sofa. “ Damn him! My lovely, comfortable carriage house will never be the same,
now that it has been dirtied by Shaw pawing through my personal
belongings. How could I have allowed myself to be so blindsided?”
“ Keep telling
yourself this is routine business, Cassandra. You know you’re
innocent and so do I. Trust me to do my job and don’t let Shaw draw
you into a verbal war.” He headed for the front door. “I’m
going back to my office now. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”
As soon as he had
left, I furiously sprayed shelves with a household cleanser, spritzed
furniture with polish, and did whatever it took to wipe away all
vestiges of the deputies’ intrusion into my life. I couldn’t help
but think of all the television shows I’d seen where innocent
citizens had been railroaded for murder, only to be exonerated years
later. Could that happen to me? I wouldn’t let it. I’d conduct my
own investigation and beat Shaw to the punch.
Jack’s
friend, Randy Pearce, was meeting me at Leo’s Bar at noon. It was a
good place to start.
* * *
Leo’s Bar was like a hundred
other roadhouses strung out along Minnesota’s rural roads. The
one-story building hugged a row of spindly pine trees. Its walls were
a nondescript gray that looked as though they hadn’t been repainted
since the building was erected thirty years before. The windows were
filled with the ubiquitous neon beer signs and appeared dreary in the
noonday sun. Only three pickup trucks were parked in the gravel lot.
I knew who Randy was as soon as I
entered the place. Tall and slender and decked out in jeans and
boots, he could have been a Jack Gardner clone, except for his shy
demeanor. He couldn’t meet my eyes when I introduced myself and
shook his hand. I prattled on, trying to put him at ease, after we
were seated across from each other in a red, cracked-vinyl booth.
“Are you self-employed like I am, so you can get time off in the
middle of the day?” I sipped my fourth cup of coffee for the day.
“ Self-employed. Guess that’s
a fancy way of sayin’ I work when there’s work to be had.”
Sensing Randy’s reluctance to
engage in small talk, I cut to the chase. “Do you sometimes work
with Marty Madigan?”
“ I drive the ambulance for the
city. That’s one of my jobs.” He picked at his fingernails. “It’s
pretty chancy work. You don’t need an ambulance every day in a
place like Colton Mills.”
I waited without speaking, as he
took a drink of his Coors.
“ Now, Madigan, he’s another
sort altogether.” He glanced at me briefly, then focused on the
suds topping his beer. “Not like us grunts, workin’ for a livin’.
He shows up only when the rescue operation needs a chopper. You know
. . . after a bad accident, when someone has to be flown to a
big-city hospital. That’s the only time I see the guy. We’re not
like friends or nothin’ like that.” He attentively wiped the
condensation from his beer bottle.
The waitress heated up my coffee.
“So . . . you drive the ambulance—”
“ I see Marty,
show.>> Have they all fallen for the <
crap.
I
thanked my lucky stars I’d had the sense not to enter into a
cyberspace shouting match with Eric and had never responded to his
messages; there were no threats from me to Eric in my outbox.
However, I did live to regret my habit of storing files on my
computer to avoid paper clutter. Shaw immediately pounced on a folder
I’d foolishly entitled eric and added more arrows to his growing mass of evidence. Right there,
in plain sight, was a years’ worth of Eric’s columns.
Shaw’s face was
virtually gleaming with this discovery. By the time he’d copied
those articles and e-mails onto CD-R disks he’d brought with him, I
felt tried, convicted, and sent up for the murder of Eric Hartfield.
“ Damn!” I said
to Sanders, after Shaw and his buddy had left. I threw a displaced
pillow back onto the sofa. “ Damn him! My lovely, comfortable carriage house will never be the same,
now that it has been dirtied by Shaw pawing through my personal
belongings. How could I have allowed myself to be so blindsided?”
“ Keep telling
yourself this is routine business, Cassandra. You know you’re
innocent and so do I. Trust me to do my job and don’t let Shaw draw
you into a verbal war.” He headed for the front door. “I’m
going back to my office now. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”
As soon as he had
left, I furiously sprayed shelves with a household cleanser, spritzed
furniture with polish, and did whatever it took to wipe away all
vestiges of the deputies’ intrusion into my life. I couldn’t help
but think of all the television shows I’d seen where innocent
citizens had been railroaded for murder, only to be exonerated years
later. Could that happen to me? I wouldn’t let it. I’d conduct my
own investigation and beat Shaw to the punch.
Jack’s
friend, Randy Pearce, was meeting me at Leo’s Bar at noon. It was a
good place to start.
* * *
Leo’s Bar was like a hundred
other roadhouses strung out along Minnesota’s rural roads. The
one-story building hugged a row of spindly pine trees. Its walls were
a nondescript gray that looked as though they hadn’t been repainted
since the building was erected thirty years before. The windows were
filled with the ubiquitous neon beer signs and appeared dreary in the
noonday sun. Only three pickup trucks were parked in the gravel lot.
I knew who Randy was as soon as I
entered the place. Tall and slender and decked out in jeans and
boots, he could have been a Jack Gardner clone, except for his shy
demeanor. He couldn’t meet my eyes when I introduced myself and
shook his hand. I prattled on, trying to put him at ease, after we
were seated across from each other in a red, cracked-vinyl booth.
“Are you self-employed like I am, so you can get time off in the
middle of the day?” I sipped my fourth cup of coffee for the day.
“ Self-employed. Guess that’s
a fancy way of sayin’ I work when there’s work to be had.”
Sensing Randy’s reluctance to
engage in small talk, I cut to the chase. “Do you sometimes work
with Marty Madigan?”
“ I drive the ambulance for the
city. That’s one of my jobs.” He picked at his fingernails. “It’s
pretty chancy work. You don’t need an ambulance every day in a
place like Colton Mills.”
I waited without speaking, as he
took a drink of his Coors.
“ Now, Madigan, he’s another
sort altogether.” He glanced at me briefly, then focused on the
suds topping his beer. “Not like us grunts, workin’ for a livin’.
He shows up only when the rescue operation needs a chopper. You know
. . . after a bad accident, when someone has to be flown to a
big-city hospital. That’s the only time I see the guy. We’re not
like friends or nothin’ like that.” He attentively wiped the
condensation from his beer bottle.
The waitress heated up my coffee.
“So . . . you drive the ambulance—”
“ I see Marty,
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