Still Life With Crows by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

the room, Art Ridder caught his eye. Ridder was wearing a maroon-and-white polyester suit, and the usual smile was plastered on his unnaturally smooth face. His body was as solid as a chunk of suet, and he moved through the crowd slowly, without deviating from his path. People moved for Art Ridder, thought Ludwig, not the other way around. Maybe it was the faint smell of slaughtered turkey that seemed to hang around him, despite heavy doses of Old Spice; or maybe it was that he was the town’s richest man. Ridder had sold the turkey plant to Gro-Bain Agricultural Products and had stayed on as its manager, though they’d written him a nice fat check. He said he “liked the work.” Ludwig thought it was more probable Ridder liked the Town Father status that being plant boss conveyed.
    Ridder was still approaching, eye on the reporter, the smile stamped on his face. Of all people, he was probably the least likely to appreciate yesterday’s article on the murder. Ludwig braced himself.
    Out of nowhere, salvation—Mrs. Bender Lang darted up, whispered something in Ridder’s ear. Abruptly, the two veered off. This fellow Chauncy must be about to arrive, Ludwig thought. Nothing else would have made Ridder move that fast.
    In all thirty-three years of the Sociable’s history, this was the first year that the guest of honor had not been selected from among the town’s own. That in itself demonstrated the importance that Medicine Creek placed in impressing Dr. Stanton Chauncy of Kansas State University. It was Chauncy who’d decide, by next Monday, whether or not Medicine Creek would become the test site for several acres of genetically modified corn, or . . .
    A high, shrill voice intruded on his thoughts. “Smit Ludwig, how dare you!” He turned to find Klick Rasmussen at his elbow, her beehive hairdo bobbing at about the level of his shoulder. “How could it be one of us?”
    He turned to face her. “Now, Klick, I didn’t say I believed—”
    “If you didn’t believe it,” cried Klick Rasmussen, “then why did you print it?”
    “Because it’s my duty to report all the theories—”
    “What happened to all the nice articles you used to print? The Courier used to be such a lovely paper.”
    “Not all news is nice, Klick—”
    But Klick wouldn’t let him finish. “If you want to write trash, why don’t you write about that FBI agent wandering about town, asking questions, poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, filling your head with darn-fool ideas? Let’s see how he likes it. And on top of that, raising the whole business of the Ghost Warriors, the curse of the Forty-Fives—”
    “There wasn’t anything in the paper about that.”
    “Not exactly in so many words, but with that business about the old Indian arrows, what else are people going to think? That’s all we need, a resurrection of that old story.”
    “Please, let’s be reasonable—” Ludwig took a step back. In the distance, he could see Swede Cahill’s wife, Gladys, approaching them, preparing to wade in. This was worse than he’d imagined.
    Suddenly Maisie appeared from nowhere, her bulk covered by a white apron. “Klick, leave Smitty alone,” she said. “We’re lucky to have him. Most counties our size don’t even have a newspaper, let alone a daily.”
    Klick took a step backward. Ludwig felt doubly grateful to Maisie, because of the awkwardness he knew existed between the two women. Maisie was perhaps the only person in the room who could have called Klick Rasmussen off so quickly. Klick shot one dark glance at Ludwig, then turned toward the approaching Gladys Cahill, and the two drifted off toward the turkey tables, talking in low voices.
    Ludwig turned to Maisie. “Thanks a lot. You saved me.”
    “I always take care of you, Smit.” She winked and went back toward the carving station.
    As Ludwig turned to follow, he noticed that a hush was falling over the room. All eyes had swiveled in the direction of the door.