Page 67 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Well, I have a theory, lass,” he said.

“Lay it on me, old man.”

His blue eyes danced, and he gave me a broad smile. “You must have blinked.”

FORTY

three months before the funeral

The first five months of my administration turned out to be a nonstop series of blinks. They flew by in a blur.

But that second Thursday in June is etched in stone. It started with the storm of the century. And then came the devastating one-two punch.

First, Rachel Horton hit me with a left jab. “Dr. Byrne needs some more blood.”

The chief followed up with a right cross. “Minna Schultz is dead. Her body was found this morning floating in Magic Pond.”

Driving to the crime scene I kept thinking about that day a lifetime ago when Misty, still raw from the loss of her parents and her brother, told me that Minna’s role in their deaths would not go unpunished.

“One day, I’m going to make that bitch pay,” she’d sworn.

“Don’t go around repeating that to the rest of the world,” I told her. “Or one day it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass.’”

But Misty was too angry to keep quiet. She vented her rage to anyone and everyone who would listen. And today, I thought as I parked my car at Magic Pond, is the day I had warned her about.

My sister Lizzie, who only had to walk from the hospital, was already there when I arrived. “This has got to be the biggest crowd Minna ever drew,” she said. “So far, I’ve counted fourteen cop cars—local, state, and sheriff’s department, plus EMS, the ME, and a dive team from the county.”

“And a pack of bloodthirsty jackals,” I said, pointing at the cluster of reporters, news vans, and camera crews.

“You know what they say, Maggie—give the people what they want, and they will come.”

“Mayor Dunn! Dr. McCormick!” It was the chief. He waved us through the perimeter and led us behind a privacy screen that had been set up to block the macabre scene from public view. Maureen Jessup, the medical examiner, was kneeling beside the body.

“Maureen,” I said, “I need?—”

“I’m not done yet, Maggie,” she said without looking up. “I need a little time.”

“I know, I know. Just give me some good news I can feed to the public.”

Maureen lifted her head and looked to me. “You want good news? Tell them she’s dead. That ought to make a lot of people happy.” She turned back to her work.

I looked at Lizzie. “Do you see those vultures over my shoulder? If I don’t tell them something, they’ll make up their own shit.”

“Ignore them, Mags,” she said. “This isn’t your first media circus. You’ve done this a hundred times.”

“As a prosecutor. This is my first one as mayor.”

“You want me to help you lose your virginity?” she said. “Get out there with a bullhorn and tell them what they want to hear.”

“Which is what?”

“I don’t know,” Lizzie said. “How about something like this: ‘The bloated and bludgeoned cadaver of my biggest political rival was just pulled from the very same body of water that had been at the core of our venomous conflict. So lock up your womenfolk and children and grab your pitchforks and torches. There’s a homicidal maniac on the loose.’”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re no help.”

“Maggie, in a town like Heartstone, where three people getting food poisoning at the firehouse potluck dinner is front-page news, that’s exactly what they’re hoping for.”

“I know, but I need to give them something reassuring.”

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