- 3 -
3 -As I parked in Lot B at the Copper Country Community College, I noticed that I had beaten Brenda Koski in—or at least her big, pretentious SUV was not there. When I got to my office, the evil red eye on my phone message light blinked at me. I started some coffee, booted up my computer, and dialed into my voice mail. The first two messages were people asking about getting entry forms for the igloo contest and the third was from someone inquiring about folk dancing lessons. The fourth message took me a while to figure out.
“Yeah,” it began. “Tell that prick—‘scuse my French—tell that jerkwad Weasel Watkins to quit poking around my place, eh? If he’s gotta beef, he needs to come face to face. Next time I call the cops—or worse.”
The gravelly smoker’s voice was unmistakable: Bucky
