hunker down at the bar there and maybe have a margarita. Or two. Or
three. Well, probably, not three… I didn’t have much tolerance for alcohol. In
all honestly, even two seemed a little high for me.
— –
Apparently, the Packers win hadn’t been
enough to kick this story to the curb on the Sunday night news. I got to the
cantina just as they aired the press conference on Harry’s murder. Wow! That
was fast! I guess (thankfully), not many people get killed in Door County, so
it is major news.
Unfortunately, they did show a picture
of me as a possible suspect. Oh my gosh!? Where did they get that picture? I
looked like a homeless person. I really needed to rethink my wardrobe choices.
Oh, and I needed to jumpstart my efforts to find Harry’s killer (probably the
bigger priority, right?).
One of the bar patrons happened to turn
around and see me right after the report. He piped up, “Hey! You’re the girl
from the news report!”
Then I heard a chorus of:
“You didn’t do it, did you?”
“What did he do to you to make you so
mad?”
“Should we call the cops?”
I looked around the room in horror. I
really hadn’t expected this kind of reaction. Being a peaceable kind of person,
I typically didn’t behave badly and, as you know, I don’t like being the center
of attention. Plus, killing someone didn’t even register remotely on my radar.
So, I was in very unpleasant territory and had no idea what to do.
“C’mon, guys! I don’t even own a gun!” I
tried to shout over the din.
A woman sporting a mullet shouted out, “So,
was it a crime of passion?” I turned bright red. Mullet-head looked at the guy
who started it all, “Wilbur, just look at how red she is!”
“Irene! How could you think that! Just
look at her! She can’t be older than 22!” said the apparent ring-leader,
Wilbur.
Suddenly, I heard Millicent join the
cacophony, “Actually, she told me that they were lovers.”
Inwardly I groaned. I tell one little
white lie to get me out of an awkward situation and it comes back to slap me.
Typical.
I wasn’t sure if I should stay and
defend myself or flee with my tail between my legs. It wasn’t like I had been
arrested or read my Miranda rights, but I probably shouldn’t talk about this in
public. Who knew who could be listening? I decided to split the difference and
sat down to order a drink. I figured if I didn’t give in to their questions,
they’d let up eventually.
An older couple in their seventies sat
next to me at the bar. He had thinning hair with a bit of a stooped back, but I
was struck by the mischievous glint in his eyes. She smiled at me and reached
over him to pat my hand.
“There, there, dear,” the lady said
sympathetically. “It sounds like you’ve been through quite a bit today.”
I smiled back at her, “Oh, I’ll be okay.
I just feel bad for Harry. Not a good way to die.” The bartender came by and I
gave my order of a double strawberry margarita. I noticed that the other
patrons had started to ignore me already.
“I’m Edgar and this is my wife, Marian,”
said the old man. We shook hands and I formally told them my name.
“Well, you seem to have the right
attitude,” said Edgar. “Don’t let this crowd upset you. They’re half in the bag
anyway.”
“Oh yes, most of the older people in Egg
Harbor come here every night.”
“So, it’s kind of like that show ‘Cheers’?”
My margarita appeared in front of me and I settled the bill right away.
“You could say that,” said Marian.
At that moment, all eyes turned to the entrance
and, as if on cue, everyone yelled out “Doc!” Yep, completely like Cheers, and
apparently Doc was their “Norm.” I watched as another older gentleman with a
full head of curly white hair and wire glasses raced to take his spot at the
bar. The bartender immediately brought him a glass of something clear and a
twist of lemon. Wait? Was the glass engraved with “Doc”? Wow—now that was a
three. Well, probably, not three… I didn’t have much tolerance for alcohol. In
all honestly, even two seemed a little high for me.
— –
Apparently, the Packers win hadn’t been
enough to kick this story to the curb on the Sunday night news. I got to the
cantina just as they aired the press conference on Harry’s murder. Wow! That
was fast! I guess (thankfully), not many people get killed in Door County, so
it is major news.
Unfortunately, they did show a picture
of me as a possible suspect. Oh my gosh!? Where did they get that picture? I
looked like a homeless person. I really needed to rethink my wardrobe choices.
Oh, and I needed to jumpstart my efforts to find Harry’s killer (probably the
bigger priority, right?).
One of the bar patrons happened to turn
around and see me right after the report. He piped up, “Hey! You’re the girl
from the news report!”
Then I heard a chorus of:
“You didn’t do it, did you?”
“What did he do to you to make you so
mad?”
“Should we call the cops?”
I looked around the room in horror. I
really hadn’t expected this kind of reaction. Being a peaceable kind of person,
I typically didn’t behave badly and, as you know, I don’t like being the center
of attention. Plus, killing someone didn’t even register remotely on my radar.
So, I was in very unpleasant territory and had no idea what to do.
“C’mon, guys! I don’t even own a gun!” I
tried to shout over the din.
A woman sporting a mullet shouted out, “So,
was it a crime of passion?” I turned bright red. Mullet-head looked at the guy
who started it all, “Wilbur, just look at how red she is!”
“Irene! How could you think that! Just
look at her! She can’t be older than 22!” said the apparent ring-leader,
Wilbur.
Suddenly, I heard Millicent join the
cacophony, “Actually, she told me that they were lovers.”
Inwardly I groaned. I tell one little
white lie to get me out of an awkward situation and it comes back to slap me.
Typical.
I wasn’t sure if I should stay and
defend myself or flee with my tail between my legs. It wasn’t like I had been
arrested or read my Miranda rights, but I probably shouldn’t talk about this in
public. Who knew who could be listening? I decided to split the difference and
sat down to order a drink. I figured if I didn’t give in to their questions,
they’d let up eventually.
An older couple in their seventies sat
next to me at the bar. He had thinning hair with a bit of a stooped back, but I
was struck by the mischievous glint in his eyes. She smiled at me and reached
over him to pat my hand.
“There, there, dear,” the lady said
sympathetically. “It sounds like you’ve been through quite a bit today.”
I smiled back at her, “Oh, I’ll be okay.
I just feel bad for Harry. Not a good way to die.” The bartender came by and I
gave my order of a double strawberry margarita. I noticed that the other
patrons had started to ignore me already.
“I’m Edgar and this is my wife, Marian,”
said the old man. We shook hands and I formally told them my name.
“Well, you seem to have the right
attitude,” said Edgar. “Don’t let this crowd upset you. They’re half in the bag
anyway.”
“Oh yes, most of the older people in Egg
Harbor come here every night.”
“So, it’s kind of like that show ‘Cheers’?”
My margarita appeared in front of me and I settled the bill right away.
“You could say that,” said Marian.
At that moment, all eyes turned to the entrance
and, as if on cue, everyone yelled out “Doc!” Yep, completely like Cheers, and
apparently Doc was their “Norm.” I watched as another older gentleman with a
full head of curly white hair and wire glasses raced to take his spot at the
bar. The bartender immediately brought him a glass of something clear and a
twist of lemon. Wait? Was the glass engraved with “Doc”? Wow—now that was a
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