Cancelled by Murder Read Free Page B

in the war for independence. “Did you know that Henry Knox was the first secretary of war?” I asked, unable to quit defending my small town and its heroes.
    â€œI did not know that.”
    â€œYou mean, ‘Who cares?’ right?”
    â€œIt’s nice that you have Quinn, your California native, now,” Linda said, backing off, but only a bit. “He probably knows nothing about the Revolutionary War and will listen raptly.”
    It was true that Quinn had let me go on and on about the legendary General Knox, my current favorite commemorative stamp honoree. He inserted a “Wow” at appropriate times in my simple version of the tale: twenty-five-year-old Knox on an ox sled, dragging fifty cannons from Fort Ticonderoga in New York, across ice and snow, to deliver them to General George Washington, waiting in Boston to win the war. It was enough to set a patriotic heart thumping.
    â€œHey, do I hear a John Philip Sousa march?” Quinn had asked a few times. In turn, I let him teach me about the manymissionaries who’d shaped California history. I was still struggling to pass his test, naming the twenty-one missions.
    I hadn’t anticipated all these treks through history on my phone call. It took a minute to get my mind back to Linda in the present.
    â€œI think the parade is the last thing on the minds of the government here right now,” I said to Linda. “It’s all about storm damage control. But I’m still planning to put up the display of Knox stamps as soon as they arrive.”
    â€œI thought they were out of print.”
    â€œThey are. But I have my sources.”
    I refrained from mentioning that I’d also hoped to have my patriotic quilt finished in time for the display in the community room on the day of the parade. I’d greatly underestimated the time it would take to finish even a relatively small quilt. Linda had been less than enthusiastic when I told her of my new hobby. Finally, she’d reminded me that there were quilting bees in Boston, too, whenever I was ready to return.
    â€œAs if you would know” was my retort, just before we called a halt to the my-town-is-better-than-yours banter.
    We wrapped up with a mutual hope that the weather would allow her to visit next weekend.
    After I clicked off, I made a tour of my house, checking windows and doors, making sure my flashlights were all in working condition, my candles and matches in strategic locations—all while toweling my hair. A look in my cabinets had me wishing I’d made a stop for groceries. With Quinn, my favorite cook, on his business trip, there was little in the way of leftovers. Peanut butter and homemade (not by me) lemon marmalade would have to do for lunch. Dinner wasmany hours and many inches of rain away. Maybe it would be clear enough by then to venture out again.
    *   *   *
    I carried my PB sandwich and a mug of coffee to the living room and turned on the television. Nothing but talk shows until the top of the hour. For distraction, I left the set tuned to the roundtable talk of five celebrity women, as they were billed. Never mind that their only celebrity as far as I knew was this talk show. I fell asleep halfway through my sandwich and a discussion of how DNA testing was going a long way toward settling problems of paternity in Hollywood.
Glad that’s off my mind
.
    The sound of an ambulance blaring past my front lawn jolted me awake. Sirens followed close behind—a North Ashcot Police Department patrol car, I knew by now.
    I looked out the living room windows, through sheets of rain, in time to catch sight of a fire engine and a second police cruiser joining the convoy traveling west—in the direction of the post office. And an entire downtown of shops, I reminded myself, wondering if I should check on my building.
    I tried again for television news, lucky this time. Our local anchor team, Rick and Erin, took turns