Page 20 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective
P. 20

Road Kill

        administration  doesn’t  seem  to  be  bothered  by  that.  I  showed  the
        damage on his desk to the custodian, hoping he would report it. I
        don’t know if he has. Do you?”
            “No.  All  sorts  of  minor  vandalism  occur  around  here,  as  you
        probably are aware.”
            Her hand came out of the book bag with a folded-up newspaper.
        “Have you seen this?”
            I  looked  at  the  page  she  indicated.  “That’s  the  article  on  Ross
        Ewidge in the Sunday edition of the West Valley Reporter, isn’t it?”
            “Right.  It  doesn’t  say  anything  we  don’t  already  know.  But  the
        picture bothers me.”
            “Bothers  you?”  One  of  the  students  had  snapped  a  photo  of
        Ewidge at the ranger station minutes before the group had scattered
        on its quest for botanical edification. The instructor was flanked by
        Stew Potter and Lisa Kondo, his prize pupils; his neatly-tailored safari
        shirt  showed  his  slight  figure  to  advantage,  and  the  Panama  hat
        cocked at a jaunty angle obscured  his receding hairline—as well  as
        provided him enough height to appear taller than Stew, who was no
        giant.  The  Reporter  had  purchased  (I  assume)  and  reproduced  the
        photo, over an egregiously sensationalistic caption,  ‘Farewell  Photo
        of West Valley Educator Snapped Moments before Death Plunge.’
            “Yes. Like, what’s wrong with this picture?”
            “Out of focus?” I suggested, trying to keep it light.
            “Not enough to obscure some essential detail that keeps nagging at
        my brain.” She shook her head, as if to clear it. “What are the police
        up to, Mr. Holloman? Anything new?”
            I put my hands on the desk pad, palms up, showing I had nothing
        to hide. “Really, Labelle: let’s be serious. The coroner has ruled Mr.
        Ewidge’s death an accident. There was no hint of suicide or foul play.
        You  said yourself  he  was  all  alone  on  the  edge  of  that  cliff.  What
        more do you want?”
            “Me?” She seemed genuinely taken aback. “I don’t want anything
        for myself. But I don’t think justice is being served, Mr. Holloman,
        when the police won’t perform a thorough investigation.”
            “So you are certain they have overlooked something?”
            “I am. Really! I suppose they won’t reopen the case just because
        some  high  school  student  wants  them  to,  unless I  can  show  them
        new evidence or point out an inconsistency. But you can help: you’re

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