of the aforementioned activities become stalking? But then, can said activity be categorized as stalking when the subject is deceased? Or at least, presumed to be deceased?
With these questions looping through my mind like an old LP with a bad scratch, I couldn’t decide if I felt guilty or justified as my fingertips hesitated, hovering over the keys. Searching my conscience for a less sleazy verb, I then mollified myself by settling on sleuthing . Sleuthing. It said Nancy Drew, implied innocence—a naïve quest for the truth. Yeah, that’s better.
I typed “Gentry Cannon” into the search bar. Feeling only slightly less slimy, I pressed enter and a few moments later the computer screen unfolded with references to Daniel’s late wife. Scrolling down, I skipped over the pages highlighted in purple, the ones I’d already visited, and stopped on the first source that dealt with her tragic death.
Over the past few days I’d read countless articles about Daniel’s senate campaigns that had included pictures of Gentry standing faithfully by his side. I’d also perused their online wedding albums and learned of her tireless fundraising efforts for public education. She’d been a pillar of the Nashville community, elegant and well-respected—a saint—until near the end.
Until, it seemed, she’d teamed up with Johnny Hutchinson for that benefit concert. Their collective effort had been intended to highlight new talent, giving press to the fledgling country artists Johnny was representing while showcasing inner-city kids with extraordinary talent. But the event had been plagued with rumors from the start. Funds gone missing, the unfortunate suicide of one of the singers, illegal drug use, and whisperings of an affair between Gentry and Johnny. She’d died two days before the ill-fated concert was scheduled to take place.
I clicked on a link that read, “Nashville Mourns the Loss of One of the Music City’s Finest . ” Scanning through the first few paragraphs of the article, I skipped the parts that dealt with the crash and Daniel being a state senator. I read: After a late-night strategy meeting finalizing the preparations for the Music City Benefit, Gentry Cannon crashed when she lost control of her Lexus in the rain, hydroplaning into a ravine. She was not wearing her seatbelt at the time . . .
“Not wearing a seatbelt,” I repeated, remembering how the boys had said she was a “Nazi” about such things. That didn’t sound like the Gentry they described .
. . . and was estimated to have been traveling at speeds upward of 80 mph. She died instantly, leaving behind her husband, State Senator Daniel Cannon, and eleven-year-old twin sons.
County officials will debate the funding needed to redirect a stretch of highway that continues to be the sight of countless lethal accidents.
I continued to skim the details until I came to a picture of a gold Lexus sedan. The front was smashed and leaning into a ditch only yards from a mail box in the shape of a golf ball sitting atop a green tee. My hands shook, my heart rapping against my ribcage as I rolled the page farther down to a grainy photo of a body on a gurney, covered by a white sheet. Hanging down from under the sheet was the hemline of a red dress. I swallowed against a feeling of unease I couldn’t quite define. First the cadaver, then the woman in the cemetery, and now I was seeing ghosts?
From the hallway, the trill of a very distinct voice stole my focus. Electra! I slammed the screen of my laptop closed. Tossing it aside, I leapt from the floor, sloshing some tea down the front of my robe. Stumbling and wiping at the tawny stain darkening the fluffy white fabric, I made my way over to the door.
Herbert’s voice joined Electra’s and something in his tone had my feet skidding to a stop just shy of the door. Sucking in my breath, I held it tight as I zeroed in on the hushed tones drifting through the cracked door.
“So, what do you think of
With these questions looping through my mind like an old LP with a bad scratch, I couldn’t decide if I felt guilty or justified as my fingertips hesitated, hovering over the keys. Searching my conscience for a less sleazy verb, I then mollified myself by settling on sleuthing . Sleuthing. It said Nancy Drew, implied innocence—a naïve quest for the truth. Yeah, that’s better.
I typed “Gentry Cannon” into the search bar. Feeling only slightly less slimy, I pressed enter and a few moments later the computer screen unfolded with references to Daniel’s late wife. Scrolling down, I skipped over the pages highlighted in purple, the ones I’d already visited, and stopped on the first source that dealt with her tragic death.
Over the past few days I’d read countless articles about Daniel’s senate campaigns that had included pictures of Gentry standing faithfully by his side. I’d also perused their online wedding albums and learned of her tireless fundraising efforts for public education. She’d been a pillar of the Nashville community, elegant and well-respected—a saint—until near the end.
Until, it seemed, she’d teamed up with Johnny Hutchinson for that benefit concert. Their collective effort had been intended to highlight new talent, giving press to the fledgling country artists Johnny was representing while showcasing inner-city kids with extraordinary talent. But the event had been plagued with rumors from the start. Funds gone missing, the unfortunate suicide of one of the singers, illegal drug use, and whisperings of an affair between Gentry and Johnny. She’d died two days before the ill-fated concert was scheduled to take place.
I clicked on a link that read, “Nashville Mourns the Loss of One of the Music City’s Finest . ” Scanning through the first few paragraphs of the article, I skipped the parts that dealt with the crash and Daniel being a state senator. I read: After a late-night strategy meeting finalizing the preparations for the Music City Benefit, Gentry Cannon crashed when she lost control of her Lexus in the rain, hydroplaning into a ravine. She was not wearing her seatbelt at the time . . .
“Not wearing a seatbelt,” I repeated, remembering how the boys had said she was a “Nazi” about such things. That didn’t sound like the Gentry they described .
. . . and was estimated to have been traveling at speeds upward of 80 mph. She died instantly, leaving behind her husband, State Senator Daniel Cannon, and eleven-year-old twin sons.
County officials will debate the funding needed to redirect a stretch of highway that continues to be the sight of countless lethal accidents.
I continued to skim the details until I came to a picture of a gold Lexus sedan. The front was smashed and leaning into a ditch only yards from a mail box in the shape of a golf ball sitting atop a green tee. My hands shook, my heart rapping against my ribcage as I rolled the page farther down to a grainy photo of a body on a gurney, covered by a white sheet. Hanging down from under the sheet was the hemline of a red dress. I swallowed against a feeling of unease I couldn’t quite define. First the cadaver, then the woman in the cemetery, and now I was seeing ghosts?
From the hallway, the trill of a very distinct voice stole my focus. Electra! I slammed the screen of my laptop closed. Tossing it aside, I leapt from the floor, sloshing some tea down the front of my robe. Stumbling and wiping at the tawny stain darkening the fluffy white fabric, I made my way over to the door.
Herbert’s voice joined Electra’s and something in his tone had my feet skidding to a stop just shy of the door. Sucking in my breath, I held it tight as I zeroed in on the hushed tones drifting through the cracked door.
“So, what do you think of
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