sickeningly sweet odor I had first smelled on the golf course the other day. I forced myself to breathe through my mouth lest I suffer a similar consequence to what Monica had. My sneakers weren’t brand-new, but they didn’t deserve the same fate as Monica’s FootJoys.
I read once, or maybe saw on TV, that police officers and other crime-scene investigators rub Vicks VapoRub under their nostrils to help deal with such smells. Sure wished I had some right now.
“Cordon off the area,” Sheriff Wiggins ordered.
I watched in fascination as one of the deputies unrolled a spool of yellow crime-scene tape and began winding it around an area roughly the size of my laundry room.
The sheriff turned to the second deputy. “Call the coroner. Tell him to get here ASAP.”
“Yessir.” The deputy turned away, pulled out a cell phone, and began punching in numbers.
What had they stumbled across? I wondered. But deep down I already knew. I peered out from my hiding place, trying to get a better look.
“Better call SLED as well.” Not once did the sheriff raise that deep Southern baritone—he didn’t have to. His well-trained deputies jumped to obey each command.
SLED? I frowned. What did that mean? Was sled another name for a stretcher or gurney? A device used to transport a body? I made a mental note to check this out later.
Sheriff Wiggins pulled out his little black book and turned his attention to the campers/fishermen. “Did you, or anyone else, do anything that might have disturbed the site?”
“No, sir,” the oldest of the trio replied. He was about retirement age with thinning hair and a ruddy complexion. “No, sir,” he repeated more emphatically. “We kept our distance, except for Sherlock here.”
I studied the dog lying near a fallen log. It was black with a pink tongue and bright eyes. Drawing on my rather limited knowledge of the species, I’d say Sherlock was a mutt. Maybe part Lab, part springer spaniel? Or maybe not. He, or she, could be almost any large-dog combo. Like I said, when it comes to dogs, my knowledge is limited. Don’t get me wrong. I love animals, dogs especially, but Jim claimed to be allergic, so we never had pets. Not even when the kids were little.
The youngest camper spoke for the first time. “Wasn’t for Sherlock nosin’ around, we woulda kept right on walkin’.”
“Thought at first a deer might’ve died and been left to rot,” the third man ventured. Someone should tell the guy his shirt was one size too small. It bore the image of an outdoor grill and the message BORN TO BARBECUE. By the looks of him, he had eaten a few barbecues too many.
“Couldn’t have been buried more than two feet deep.” This from the first man to speak.
The sheriff, I noted, scribbled all this down in his little spiral notebook. Next time I visited an office-supply store, I’d have to get me one of those. Use it as kind of a journal to record the facts of the case.
“Only a corner of a trash bag was sticking out of the ground until ol’ Sherlock started digging.”
The youngest one pulled off a ball cap bearing an At lanta Braves logo and wiped his brow. “Even then we couldn’t tell what was inside.”
Trash bags certainly seemed used for a lot more jobs these days than hauling out trash. I craned my neck for a better view. Thank goodness the men were too focused on one another to notice little old me peeking out from around an oak.
“Almost screamed like a girl when I got an eyeful of what’s in it,” said man number two.
I wanted to scream like a girl myself. And I would any minute now if someone didn’t just come out and say what was inside the bag.
The sound of leaves crunching on the trail behind me accompanied by the murmur of voices alerted me to the fact that I had company. A backward glance confirmed that I had company indeed. Lots and lots. Too much, in fact. To my dismay, the group I had seen earlier at the campground had apparently decided to join
I read once, or maybe saw on TV, that police officers and other crime-scene investigators rub Vicks VapoRub under their nostrils to help deal with such smells. Sure wished I had some right now.
“Cordon off the area,” Sheriff Wiggins ordered.
I watched in fascination as one of the deputies unrolled a spool of yellow crime-scene tape and began winding it around an area roughly the size of my laundry room.
The sheriff turned to the second deputy. “Call the coroner. Tell him to get here ASAP.”
“Yessir.” The deputy turned away, pulled out a cell phone, and began punching in numbers.
What had they stumbled across? I wondered. But deep down I already knew. I peered out from my hiding place, trying to get a better look.
“Better call SLED as well.” Not once did the sheriff raise that deep Southern baritone—he didn’t have to. His well-trained deputies jumped to obey each command.
SLED? I frowned. What did that mean? Was sled another name for a stretcher or gurney? A device used to transport a body? I made a mental note to check this out later.
Sheriff Wiggins pulled out his little black book and turned his attention to the campers/fishermen. “Did you, or anyone else, do anything that might have disturbed the site?”
“No, sir,” the oldest of the trio replied. He was about retirement age with thinning hair and a ruddy complexion. “No, sir,” he repeated more emphatically. “We kept our distance, except for Sherlock here.”
I studied the dog lying near a fallen log. It was black with a pink tongue and bright eyes. Drawing on my rather limited knowledge of the species, I’d say Sherlock was a mutt. Maybe part Lab, part springer spaniel? Or maybe not. He, or she, could be almost any large-dog combo. Like I said, when it comes to dogs, my knowledge is limited. Don’t get me wrong. I love animals, dogs especially, but Jim claimed to be allergic, so we never had pets. Not even when the kids were little.
The youngest camper spoke for the first time. “Wasn’t for Sherlock nosin’ around, we woulda kept right on walkin’.”
“Thought at first a deer might’ve died and been left to rot,” the third man ventured. Someone should tell the guy his shirt was one size too small. It bore the image of an outdoor grill and the message BORN TO BARBECUE. By the looks of him, he had eaten a few barbecues too many.
“Couldn’t have been buried more than two feet deep.” This from the first man to speak.
The sheriff, I noted, scribbled all this down in his little spiral notebook. Next time I visited an office-supply store, I’d have to get me one of those. Use it as kind of a journal to record the facts of the case.
“Only a corner of a trash bag was sticking out of the ground until ol’ Sherlock started digging.”
The youngest one pulled off a ball cap bearing an At lanta Braves logo and wiped his brow. “Even then we couldn’t tell what was inside.”
Trash bags certainly seemed used for a lot more jobs these days than hauling out trash. I craned my neck for a better view. Thank goodness the men were too focused on one another to notice little old me peeking out from around an oak.
“Almost screamed like a girl when I got an eyeful of what’s in it,” said man number two.
I wanted to scream like a girl myself. And I would any minute now if someone didn’t just come out and say what was inside the bag.
The sound of leaves crunching on the trail behind me accompanied by the murmur of voices alerted me to the fact that I had company. A backward glance confirmed that I had company indeed. Lots and lots. Too much, in fact. To my dismay, the group I had seen earlier at the campground had apparently decided to join
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