The first indication that anything was amiss was a Monday morning phone call from Marge Hildebrandt. She’s a retired schoolteacher lives over on the next block. I’d tell you that Marge has too much time on her hands and not enough to do, but then, my wife might say the very same things about me. I don’t know why Marge called me; it’s not like I’m with the police or anything. I was captain of the Neighborhood Watch quite a few years back, but I’ve since given that up, letting someone younger and more ambitious take the lead. Donald something holds that job now, the Spanish guy in that brick tudor who rarely steps outside his front door. He is not a good fit for the job, but that’s another story. Why I got this particular call, I don’t know. My guess is that Marge’s memory is failing (at least as quickly as my own), a fact that has been apparent for some time. She probably thinks that I am still the Block Captain.
It seems that someone had murdered her snowman. It wasn’t Marge’s snowman, not per se: her grandchildren had built the snowman in Marge’s front yard, sometime over the past weekend. Technically the snowman belonged to the kids.
It seems that someone had murdered her snowman. It wasn’t Marge’s snowman, not per se: her grandchildren had built the snowman in Marge’s front yard, sometime over the past weekend. Technically the snowman belonged to the kids.
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