Apparently she'd expected me to wildly accuse some member of my own family.
“I'm coming to visit you at work tomorrow.”
“But why?”
“I need to interview the mayor, for one thing. Get his comments on the death of a former employee. I'm covering the story.” I actually had no idea if I was covering the story. “And don't call and tell him now. I want him to hear it from me, tomorrow.”
“What's this all about, Madeline?” she asked crisply.
There was no point in telling my mother about the car, the bumper sticker, the tape that said nothing, and the mulberries. She'd use her common sense to try to talk me out of my gut responses, as Jack had wanted to do. “And I need to interview some former coworkers. Find out their feelings on the matter.”
“Well, we're very busy right now, what with the festival this weekend, and the mayor's speech, and his upcoming re-election campaign,” she said.
“Mom! I just wanted to let you know, okay?”
“Yes,” she said, subdued. “The earlier you come, the better. Now I have to go wash the dinner dishes and tell your father this bad news. And then your father and I are watching a video.” The final comment made me realize she wasn't taking it too hard. I promised to be there early in the morning and hung up the phone.
Jack was playing his guitar again, one floor above. The two of us had parted with a kiss, but there was an uneasy feeling that we were on the verge of another argument. Jack seemed concerned that I would somehow be murdered if I asked some questions about Logan Lanford. I wanted to feel free to ask all the questions I wanted to ask. I decided that the less I told Jack, the happier both of us would be.
I tried to determine what potential message he was sending my way via the melodic strings, but I couldn't quite make out the words. It sounded like it might have been “We Can Work It Out.” I sort of hoped not. Normally Jack wasn't that overt.
I walked to the window and opened it a crack. Cold air blew in on my face; it felt good. I could hear Mr. Altschul grumbling down below. He was painting over the scratches on the door. He'd obviously made it to the hardware store in the last two days. I felt sad as I heard German swear words floating up to my window. “ Scheisse ,” he was saying over and over. Shit . The world was full of conflict, full of mysterious intruders. The wind made a howling sound as it slammed against my little fortress.
I suppose I should admit again here, as I did at the start, that it was partly Jack who made me determined to get involved in the whole investigation. That rebellious streak of mine, which appears at odd moments in my life, had surfaced. I wanted to know who had killed Logan Lanford, and I had a good idea where I could start looking.
Mayor Don Paul's office was located in the city hall, a traditional structure with small-town appeal. It looked like a cross between a post office and a cathedral. Carved into its stone facade were its date of construction, 1919, and a quote from Coriolanus : “What is the city but the people?”
It was to this philosophy that Mayor Paul had ostensibly dedicated himself from the start, with increased “Meet the Mayor” town meetings, regular “State of the City” letters published in the Wire , and increased community involvement on a host of new committees. He was a popular mayor, destined probably to be re-elected, although he faced an attractive young opponent, Wendy White, who was currently blazing her own campaign trail.
I was in the minority of people who did not like Mayor Paul. To my mother's astonishment and chagrin, I had difficulty forcing out a greeting when we did meet. My main objections were rooted, again, in my basic intuition about people. From the time I first laid eyes upon the mayor, I realized that I did not trust him. My lack of confidence lay in the conviction that his entire public persona was a fiction. While this was probably true of many
“I'm coming to visit you at work tomorrow.”
“But why?”
“I need to interview the mayor, for one thing. Get his comments on the death of a former employee. I'm covering the story.” I actually had no idea if I was covering the story. “And don't call and tell him now. I want him to hear it from me, tomorrow.”
“What's this all about, Madeline?” she asked crisply.
There was no point in telling my mother about the car, the bumper sticker, the tape that said nothing, and the mulberries. She'd use her common sense to try to talk me out of my gut responses, as Jack had wanted to do. “And I need to interview some former coworkers. Find out their feelings on the matter.”
“Well, we're very busy right now, what with the festival this weekend, and the mayor's speech, and his upcoming re-election campaign,” she said.
“Mom! I just wanted to let you know, okay?”
“Yes,” she said, subdued. “The earlier you come, the better. Now I have to go wash the dinner dishes and tell your father this bad news. And then your father and I are watching a video.” The final comment made me realize she wasn't taking it too hard. I promised to be there early in the morning and hung up the phone.
Jack was playing his guitar again, one floor above. The two of us had parted with a kiss, but there was an uneasy feeling that we were on the verge of another argument. Jack seemed concerned that I would somehow be murdered if I asked some questions about Logan Lanford. I wanted to feel free to ask all the questions I wanted to ask. I decided that the less I told Jack, the happier both of us would be.
I tried to determine what potential message he was sending my way via the melodic strings, but I couldn't quite make out the words. It sounded like it might have been “We Can Work It Out.” I sort of hoped not. Normally Jack wasn't that overt.
I walked to the window and opened it a crack. Cold air blew in on my face; it felt good. I could hear Mr. Altschul grumbling down below. He was painting over the scratches on the door. He'd obviously made it to the hardware store in the last two days. I felt sad as I heard German swear words floating up to my window. “ Scheisse ,” he was saying over and over. Shit . The world was full of conflict, full of mysterious intruders. The wind made a howling sound as it slammed against my little fortress.
I suppose I should admit again here, as I did at the start, that it was partly Jack who made me determined to get involved in the whole investigation. That rebellious streak of mine, which appears at odd moments in my life, had surfaced. I wanted to know who had killed Logan Lanford, and I had a good idea where I could start looking.
Mayor Don Paul's office was located in the city hall, a traditional structure with small-town appeal. It looked like a cross between a post office and a cathedral. Carved into its stone facade were its date of construction, 1919, and a quote from Coriolanus : “What is the city but the people?”
It was to this philosophy that Mayor Paul had ostensibly dedicated himself from the start, with increased “Meet the Mayor” town meetings, regular “State of the City” letters published in the Wire , and increased community involvement on a host of new committees. He was a popular mayor, destined probably to be re-elected, although he faced an attractive young opponent, Wendy White, who was currently blazing her own campaign trail.
I was in the minority of people who did not like Mayor Paul. To my mother's astonishment and chagrin, I had difficulty forcing out a greeting when we did meet. My main objections were rooted, again, in my basic intuition about people. From the time I first laid eyes upon the mayor, I realized that I did not trust him. My lack of confidence lay in the conviction that his entire public persona was a fiction. While this was probably true of many
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