A Spirited Gift

“I don’t know. I only know that you and I aren’t ever going to be romantically involved. You know that too. That’s why you keep trying other people. We just have to move on.”

“My mom still believes we’ll end up together,” he said.

I waved as I walked briskly away. There was no use talking to him when he got this way—usually between girlfriends. I was always “the one” when he wasn’t dating someone else. It was kind of depressing.

So was thinking about Sandi being shot behind the Blue Whale while the rest of us cowered inside, afraid of the storm. I wished I could say I was surprised by the news, but I’d felt it in my bones before Kevin confirmed it.

The killer must have forced her outside—maybe Matthew, maybe someone else. It was probably to use the storm to shield the sound of the pistol. He or she lucked out with the shed collapsing on Sandi and conveniently covering up the crime.

I wished for the millionth time that my visions were more precise. It would’ve been more helpful to have seen the killer’s face than to have seen the gun. Surely Sandi had enemies—everyone in political office did. But there was a big difference between Martha Segall writing down my faults as mayor in her little book and someone dragging Sandi outside the Blue Whale and shooting her.

It seemed so obvious that Matthew Wright was guilty of shooting Sandi. He was there with her—they were lovers who were quarreling over their relationship. He had motive, means (possibly) and opportunity.

But I knew the obvious answer wasn’t always the right answer. How many times had I seen Gramps convinced that he knew what was going on in a case only to find out he had to go in another direction. Chief Michaels would have to prove Matthew had a .22-caliber pistol and find some way to put him in back of the Blue Whale with her when she died. That probably wasn’t going to be easy.

Halfway home, I decided to turn around and go back to take a look at the collapsed shed and the area around it again. It might not officially be a crime scene yet—they’d just received the medical examiner’s report.

If the police had already roped it off, I’d cross that stream when I got there. Everything I’d heard so far had been secondhand reports. How was I supposed to know that I shouldn’t go back there? That was my story and I was sticking to it.

But there might be something left behind that I could pick up on and give the chief a hand. Not that he’d be happy about it, but I knew he’d take any help he could get. The shed had been such a mess, and finding Sandi dead out there had been a shock. I was bound to have overlooked some potential clues.

I wasn’t born a crime solver. Somehow it had happened to me, kind of like being the mayor. One day, Gramps said I should run. I hadn’t planned for it. I had to learn on the fly—just as I was learning to do more than find lost jewelry.

I saw Town Councilman Mad Dog Wilson on the road coming toward me from the Blue Whale. No doubt he’d been looking over the crime scene. I almost turned back, but he waved and I knew he’d seen me. Too late to escape.

I knew he was going to be trouble. He was looking for any ammunition to use against me in the upcoming election. Sandi’s murder, tragic though it was, wouldn’t be off the table for him. We’d never exactly been friends—he was much older than me. But lately we’d become adversaries.

“Mayor.” He nodded and paused, leaning heavily on his oak walking stick.

Gramps said Randall “Mad Dog” Wilson was a fearless stock car driver in his youth—until a terrible wreck had almost killed him. Hence the nickname—Mad Dog—and the cane.

“Councilman.”

“This is some bad business,” he said. “Bad news for Duck.”

“Yes it is.” I could have pretended that he was talking about the storm, but what was the point? Better to get it over with. “I hope we can clear it up quickly and put it behind us.”

“I hope so too. You know, I don’t have any choice but to point out how much civil unrest there has been during your term as mayor when I write my blog this week. The people expect the truth.”

I groaned inwardly but kept my cheerful mayor’s smile on my face. Mad Dog’s blog—Duck Notes—had become infamous since he announced his decision to run for mayor. He sent email alerts to everyone in town—and a few media people too—whenever he posted an update. Mostly the media ignored him, but I had heard people in town talking about the blog.

“You have to do what you think is right,” I told him. “But I’m wondering how much it will hurt the town to publicize the murder. This could stay quiet, Councilman, at least for now. I know you want to use this tragedy in the campaign, but it could end up hurting you too.”