The teacher’s murder hung over the town all summer.

My neighbour pulled a red-stained popsicle stick from her mouth and used it as a baton as she talked, leaning over our shared fence.

“The police know who did it,” she said. “But they can’t do anything about it.”

I was down on my knees, working in the garden, and stopped pulling weeds, dandelions mostly, to ask her why.

“Don’t even get me started,” she said.

It’s all anyone talked about. At church, the supermarket, the tavern and on the street. Everyone had a theory. Everyone thought everyone else was wrong.


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