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In Texas each fragile blossom had been cause for celebration. Many times A
The bustle of Rock Harbor came almost as a relief. She was freed from the responsibility of appreciating a beauty so complex it was nearly a burden. “Let’s get small,” A
Jim Tattinger gave her a lift to Mott Island in the Loon, Resource Management’s runabout. He was full of the autopsy and the alibis. It was his contention that the Bradshaws had been let off too lightly. “I thought that Holly might be okay but De
Though she often found herself hoping he was the culprit, in her heart of hearts A
Were he stealing artifacts, destroying their historical significance and robbing the public trust, A
A
Even in this generous and understanding mood, A
Sandra Fox was in the dispatch office. For once both radio and phone were silent. She sat with her feet up on the printer table reading Peyton Place.
“Reviewing the classics, I see.” A
“I only read the underlined parts.” Sandra set the book aside. “It’s sociological research. I’m gathering tons of insight into the Park Service in general and Isle Royale in particular.”
“It’s begi
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” the dispatcher said with a comfortable chuckle. “All part of the grand comedy, A
A
“Oh, A
A
Sandra interrupted with a clucking of her tongue. “You are jumping to conclusions, A
A
“The District Ranger’s daughter was twelve years old.”
A
Sandra looked fire from blind eyes. “Kinda makes you proud to be human, don’t it?”
“What happened to the little girl?” A
“Who knows. Little girls are always spirited away in cases like this. What could happen? Hopefully she wasn’t pregnant. Hopefully she wasn’t punished. Who knows?”
“Why didn’t Jim get ca
“You know the gub’mint. It’s harder to fire somebody than it is to get a tax bill passed in an election year. He was counseled. Had to serve a little time on the couch. That stuff seldom seems to take.”
A
“Let me know when you’re finished with that,” A
“You dig, you get dirt,” Sandra replied philosophically.
Lunchtime had come and gone. A
Twenty yards away Scotty Butkus and Jim Tattinger stood together near the fire-weather box in front of the ranger station. There was just enough of a breeze to move the line on the flagpole, and the low grumble of their words was punctuated by ringing as the metal fasteners hit against the pole.
A
Ducklings-black ducks-feathered now but still in the impossibly cute stage, rocked around the stern of the Loon. As if on cue, they’d all flip bottoms up and for several seconds A
A
The ducklings put her in mind of Do
She pictured Do
A
Then what? A