Don't Cry Over Killed Milk Read Free Page B

shepherded a cluster of Girl Scouts into the lobby from the exhibit hall. Damon listened as he finished speaking to the girls on the subject of butterflies native to the park. Jeremiah handed off the troop to a tall wiry ranger bearing a name tag that read “Milt,” who led the group outside.
    Jeremiah spotted Damon and raised a hand to him. Damon tried not to stare at his fingers.
    “Beautiful morning for a hike,” Jeremiah said, placing a binder on the rangers’ desk.
    “It is.” Damon moved toward him. “I just finished Cherubim’s Run.”
    “That’s one of my favorite hikes. Are you here about the crepe myrtles?”
    “Actually, I just wanted a change of scenery for my morning exercise. But I sent a post to the listserv yesterday. By last night there were already a number of responses. It seems you’re not alone in having an insect problem.”
    “Well, I knew that,” Jeremiah said testily. “Are they all crepe myrtles?”
    “As far as I can tell, yes. One of the posters thinks it could be aphids or Japanese beetles.”
    “That’s what Lawrence said. He’s the naturalist here. But it doesn’t explain why they keep coming back.”
    A spritely honey-blond in her early-thirties emerged from the doors marked for management and approached the rangers’ desk. She stopped several feet away, presumably waiting for Jeremiah to finish speaking with Damon. Her narrow hips were accentuated by a vertical-striped sundress and tight ponytail.
    Jeremiah waved her closer. “Alex, this is Damon Lassard. He’s a neighbor of mine.”
    Damon extended his hand, and Alex shook it firmly. “Hi, Damon. Welcome to Tripping Falls.” She studied his sweat-soaked shirt. “Looks like you’ve already had a chance to take a good hike this morning.”
    “I did,” he said and wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead. “It’s a beautiful day, and you all keep the park so clean.”
    “Thanks,” she replied crisply. Damon wasn’t certain of Alex’s responsibilities at the park, but she had the air of a person who was tasked with oversight.
    A tall elderly man approached the group and interrupted the conversation. He looked at Alex. “Ms. Rancor, I want to hold another fundraiser for the park at my home next month. Do you have moment to discuss the details?”
    Alex excused herself and shuttled the older man toward the management wing.
    “Sorry he butted in like that,” Jeremiah said to Damon. “Mr. Bertlemann has a home that backs into the parkland and he acts like he owns the place. He’s constantly hiking before the park even opens, but he’s one of our largest donors so we tolerate a few minor transgressions.”
    Damon nodded and excused himself. Less than five hours until his date with Bethany.
    * * *
    Damon met Bethany Krims on the Ballston metro station platform in Arlington forty-five minutes before the first pitch of the Washington Nationals baseball game. Mid-thigh cuffed shorts coupled with low-heeled sandals accentuated the length and tone of Bethany’s legs. She wore a shapeless blue blouse, but a knot tied at one hip tugged the cloth with dramatic effect. Shoulder length chestnut hair flared-out under a fitted red Nationals ball cap. They jostled into a crowded train and, given the crush of riders, kept conversation to a minimum.
    Located in Southeast D.C., Nationals Park was a testament to modern luxury. Their seats were excellent—in the lower level, fifteen rows behind first base. The pair settled down between a salt-and-pepper-haired man with hooded eyes who was listening to headphones and a harried mother trying to control three grade-schoolers. Damon’s knees touched the seat in front of him. He struggled to maintain a two inch gap between his legs and Bethany’s.
    “I haven’t seen you in the library lately,” Damon said. Bethany was a regular reader of thrillers.
    “I started training for a marathon,” she said. “That’s been taking up a lot of my free time. I’m surprised you put