This story started here. When my employer emerged from the bathroom, trailing clouds of steam, I reported, briefly, on my conversations with the sheriff and the reporter. She listened politely. I did not mention my final visitor on the deck. … Continue reading
This story started here. Rhonda got out of her car and walked toward the steps to the porch. “Sheriff,” I said, rising. “We’re short on chairs here.” I looked at Miss Lane. “Shall we three adjourn to the rear deck? … Continue reading
This story started here. My employer opened her eyes, just enough to see the morning sun streaming into our room. She groaned and threw her forearm across her eyes as she said, “Your tasks for this morning: One: Get me … Continue reading
This story started here. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” The sheriff shrugged, conveying that she didn’t know (or possibly that she didn’t care). “The Deacon girls have just lost their father, and their uncle for that matter. … Continue reading
This story started here. “Can I know what’s been going on here?” That’s the question I almost asked, but I stopped myself. Instead, I said, “FYI: If the body downstairs is Fred Deacon, it may turn out to be important, … Continue reading
This story started here. Sheriff Rhonda White was not happy. Of course, she had at least one dead body to deal with – in a church, no less – and it seemed that there were about four things she wanted … Continue reading