That evening, we all sat around the shop floor – Mart, Stephen, Walter, Daniel, Woody, Rocky, and I – and passed cartons of Chinese food around. The store had been slammed. The news of the murder had traveled, so that brought more people to town than usual. Plus, the prominent mention on social media and the first of the real tourist trade had meant we were bustling as soon as the street was reopened.
The sheriff had come by late in the afternoon to get my statement about the night before. He’d looked haggard, worn down, raw. Rocky brought him a very large latte with extra, extra cream, and he drank it down in one gulp.
“Hard day, huh?”
“The hardest. Nothing about this job is particularly easy – except maybe the parades,” he said with a weak smile. “But when it’s someone you know . . .”
