Murder at the Company Picnic: Hannah Scrabble Cozy Mysteries

By Marty Donnellan

It's 1974 in Mountain City, North Carolina. Watergate and Richard Nixon, no cell phones or personal computers, and car windows that hand-crank. Goat-loving typesetter, spy thriller author, and amateur sleuth Hannah Scrabble is taking photos of Dickson's annual picnic for the company newsletter when a sudden storm causes the party tent to collapse on the guests inside. In the mayhem that follows she sees someone slipping out of the tent and running away. Later in the wreckage a body is discovered – none other than Sheldon Sharpe, Dickson's new Chief Financial Officer and the man everyone loves to hate.

Who killed Mr. Sharpe? What accounted for the strange hold he had on William Dickson, the company's founder and president? What's in those pictures she took? Complicating things are a new man in Hannah's life. When she takes her investigation to the next level, it starts costing her more than she bargained for.

This novel is rated "G" for General Audiences. Don't miss the exciting novella-sized companions to the Hannah Scrabble Series, "Thursday Mystery" and "Saturday Mystery"!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marty Donnellan
• Release date: Oct 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215280393

Marty Donnellan

Marty Donnellan is a lifelong resident of Atlanta, GA, USA. She is a writer and illustrator, doll maker, skater and skating teacher, nursing home art teacher, grain growing enthusiast and founder/director of Joy Community Kitchen, Inc., a 501(c)3 non-profit food charity. She is the author of seven books. Four are stories set in the imaginary world of frendibles, two are non-fiction "how-to" manuals (teaching doll making and roller skating), and the latest is a cozy mystery.

Book preview

Murder

at the Company Picnic

A Hannah Scrabble

Cozy Mystery

by

Marty Donnellan

jpg_pinebranch.jpg

Pine Cone Press

Copyright © 2017 Marty Donnellan

All rights reserved.

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended. Mountain City, NC is a fictitious location.

Cover Art: Cricket Press, www.cricket-press.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter  1

Chapter  2

Chapter  3

Chapter  4

Chapter  5

Chapter  6

Chapter  7

Chapter  8

Chapter  9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

About the Author

Other Books by Marty Donnellan

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Comments? I’d love to hear from you. [e-mail]

Murder at the Company Picnic

A Hannah Scrabble Cozy Mystery

By Marty Donnellan

Chapter 1

Saturday, July 20, 1974

Ugh. There he is. Balancing a cup of blood red punch in one hand, Hannah Scrabble nudged her best friend and co-worker Debbie Jackson with the other.

Umm humm, Debbie responded with a sideways glance at the man slipping into the spacious white party tent. Sheldon Sharpe was tall and bony, with a tanned, reptilian face, slits for eyes, and a goatee that always looked too brown. He wore a lightweight, moss-green leisure suit, perfect for the summer heat, though Hannah thought a cloak and partially hidden dagger might have suited him better. He was only thirty-two but appeared much older. Restlessly he scanned the festive crowd.

He’s over there, fool, Debbie muttered.

As if he had heard Debbie’s directions, Mr. Sharpe’s gaze came to rest on the far side of the tent. Baring his teeth in a smile, he strode through the parting crowd to William Dickson, Sr., the frail, elderly founder and president of Dickson’s Printing and Graphics Corporation, who stood holding court with a small group of subordinates.

Feeling the familiar long fingers resting lightly on his elbow, Mr. Dickson looked up and smiled in return. Mr. Sharpe greeted him with an obsequious bow, and the two began to converse. The group around them quietly dispersed.

It’s weird how he always sticks so close, Hannah said to Debbie. She adjusted her flowing, geometrically-patterned maxi-dress and tucked a damp tendril of copper-colored hair into her floppy straw hat. The tent was warm, made even warmer because the side walls had been lowered earlier due to a sudden storm. Adjusting the lens of her father’s old 35mm Nikon camera around her neck, Hannah snapped a photo of the two men for the company newsletter.

Got the boss under his thumb, all right, Debbie agreed. Never lets him out of his sight, won’t let anyone else near.

I wonder why? Hannah snapped another picture. It’s true Mr. Sharpe is Chief Financial Officer, but technically he’s just a hired hand. A pretty expensive one, I’ve heard.

I know that’s right. Can’t nobody figure out what he does to earn all that pay. I heard he just bought a yacht!

Hannah looked up from the viewfinder. A yacht? Where would anyone sail a yacht in the North Carolina mountains? Even Black Lake isn’t that big.

Debbie shrugged. Well, it was some kind of fancy boat. Maybe he’s got something on the old man.

Blackmail?

Who knows? Self-made millionaire like Mr. Dickson, bound to have ruffled a few feathers along the way.

As they watched, a young female server in a crisp blue apron and matching baseball cap approached the two men, bearing a tray of punch. Hannah snapped another shot as Mr. Dickson took two of the small paper cups on the tray, and handed one to Mr. Sharpe. He slipped a burnished silver flask from the lining of his summer jacket, tossed the contents of his cup to the ground with an impish wink, and motioned for Mr. Sharpe to do the same. She snapped another shot as he poured something from the flask into both cups. The men traded a conspiratorial smile, made some sort of toast, and raised their cups to their lips. Finishing, they tossed them into a nearby trash can.

Debbie shook her head. Will you look at that old dog. But what’s he got to celebrate? He’s practically handed over the company to Mr. Sharpe – at least it looks that way to me.

Me, too, Hannah said. Wasn’t that awards ceremony earlier something? Mr. Dickson presenting him with that fancy plaque and big silver envelope full of goodies? What did he ever do to deserve that? All he does is play golf, from what I hear.

Mr. Dickson said he ‘saved the company from ruin’. Debbie gestured dramatically.

Hannah sighed. No wonder Jerry Dickson drinks so much.

Speaking of which – here he comes.

Jerry Dickson, the oldest of William Dickson’s two living sons and the one who served as Dickson’s Chief Executive Officer and Director of Sales, had entered the crowded tent. Though his face was red and somewhat puffy, he was smartly put together as always. He wore a fitted yellow polo shirt tucked neatly into pressed tan pants, and his mutton-chop sideburns and full head of dyed brown hair had been blow-dried and sculpted to perfection.

Scowling and nursing a beer, he surveyed the noisy crowd. After a moment he located his father in a corner, absorbed in conversation with Mr. Sharpe. Downing a last swig from the green bottle, he startled the passing server by plunking it onto her nearly empty tray. He took a few wobbly steps toward his father but found himself distracted by Molly Smart, Dickson’s buxom young receptionist, who minced toward him in kitten heels, short-shorts, and a tightly fitting halter top. Reaching her quarry, she clutched his arm and smiled up at him raptly.

Across the room Debbie chuckled. There’s a good photo for the newsletter.

Hannah elbowed her friend. Troublemaker. You know I’m only supposed to show the Dicksons in a good light. She snapped a picture anyway.

Choosy mothers want to know. You think Molly’ll ever get Jerry to marry her? And, just how plastered will he get today?

I don’t know about choosy mothers since the only kids I’ll ever have are the goat kind, Hannah replied with a smile. But it looks like he’s already three sheets to the wind. That little Molly better watch out.

You know he’s never gonna marry her, Debbie scoffed. Like my mama says, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? But hopefully no one’ll end up half-drowned in the lake today. Remember last year?

All too well. Imagine everyone’s surprise when Jerry’s ex-wife showed up and proved that someone really can get drunker than Jerry.

And ended up duking it out with Molly in the lake! Debbie chortled. And you didn’t take a single picture!

I didn’t want to get fired. Besides, I didn’t find it all that entertaining.

Neither did Jerry. Or the old man! Debbie was laughing so hard her black curls were shaking and she nearly spilled her drink. But it wouldn’t be a Dickson’s annual company picnic without some kind of crazy deal going down, would it? Oh, Lord. The whole family is nuts, plain and simple. I decided a long time ago just to keep my head down and do my job. No detective work for me, she added, arching a brow at Hannah.

Hannah, who was swallowing a sip of punch, nearly spit it out. It’s not my fault things keep happening! Like that day I found the ransom note for a kidnap victim misplaced in my work folder. Or when I went looking for glass cleaner and found the ink salesman bound and gagged in the closet. Or the –

Hey, there he is! Debbie interrupted. She grabbed Hannah’s arm and began pulling her toward the tent flap.

There who is?

The guy you need to meet!

Stop pulling me, you’re making me spill punch on my camera!

Seriously, you need to meet this guy, Debbie insisted, her own punch sloshing in its cup. He’s the new head of the engraving department. New in town, just started last week. He’s exactly your type. Or at least he should be.

Will you stop? I don’t have a type. Hannah struggled as Debbie dragged and then shoved her toward a man standing alone by a table of punch, cold drinks, and hors d'oeuvres. Wide-shouldered and of medium but stocky build, he looked to be in his late thirties. He had a craggy, kind face, a thick mustache, and eyes that would probably have been nice if they didn’t look so sad, Hannah thought. With both hands stuffed in his pockets, he stood looking out over the crowd with a wry half-smile.

Hi, Melvin, Debbie said brightly, pushing Hannah forward.

Hi, Debbie, Melvin greeted her. Having fun?

No. Melvin Pearl, this is Hannah Scrabble. Hannah and I work together in typesetting. She’s single like you. You should get to know her.

Debbie! Hannah reproved, as she and Melvin both blushed. She saw now that his eyes were blue.

With a good-natured smile, he stuck out a large, strong hand. Nice to meet you, Hannah. But I don’t know about the dating part. I mean, we just met.

Who said anything about dating? Hannah snapped. I don’t date people from work anyway, she added, trying to make her first statement seem less peevish.

Now what guy from work has ever asked you out? Debbie said in surprise. Look at the way she dresses, she confided to Melvin. Like some old hippie chick.

Hannah drew in a sharp breath. Not everyone likes clothing as tight as sausage casings.

At least people can see there’s something in there, Debbie snapped back, though she unconsciously tugged at her form-fitting Bermuda shorts. You got to let people know you got more going on than them goats and detective cases, girl. And Melvin’s wife done run off with the electrician. At least that’s what I heard. Debbie voice trailed off and her eyes grew round at the look of pain exploding over Melvin’s face.

Who raised you, Debbie, trolls under a rock? Hannah cried. Marvin, I apologize on Debbie’s behalf.

Melvin.

Melvin. She really is very nice, except when she’s acting like this, which is most of the time. I know she didn’t mean to offend you. Debbie nodded vigorously, and Hannah groped for further words of comfort as Melvin struggled to recover. Well, it was nice meeting you, she said, at a loss. I need to go outside and get some more pictures for the newsletter. Welcome to Dickson’s. I hope you enjoy the party.

Her face stinging with embarrassment, she fled the tent, bumping into another man on his way in and sending what remained of the red punch in her cup flying onto his white polo shirt.

Billy! she exclaimed.

Chapter 2

Oh, look at your shirt. I’m so sorry! Quickly Hannah laid her cup on the ground and groped in her shoulder bag for a tissue. But what are you – I mean – I didn’t know you were –

Out of prison? Hello, Hannah, Billy said with a wan smile. Formally named William Dickson II, Billy was Mr. Dickson’s youngest son. He had been Dickson’s Chief Financial Officer before his arrest and conviction for tax fraud several years earlier. Billy had always been slender but federal prison had made him sunken and gaunt.

He held up a palm as Hannah found a handkerchief. Oh, darling, don’t worry about the shirt. I’m sure it’ll suffer worse abuse than this before the day is done.

Oh. All right. But I’m just so happy to see you! Saddened by his wasted appearance, Hannah searched Billy’s intense blue eyes. But when were you released?

Yesterday. There was very little warning – or notice, I should say. It wasn’t supposed to be for another few months. But I sure wasn’t going to argue. Stepping back, he took in Hannah’s plain, intelligent face, loosely fitting maxi-dress and floppy hat, and the old camera he remembered so well. You haven’t changed a bit, he noted. Still got that independent earth girl thing going on. You’ll make a good wife.

Is that a proposal? Hannah joked.

You know it isn’t.

Good, Hannah said, and they both laughed. They clasped hands and laughed again.

Hannah’s friendship with Billy had never really made sense to her, partly because he was a Dickson and partly because everyone knew he was at least as untrustworthy as his older brother. And of course she was nothing like the flashy, shallow girls he dated. She knew Billy didn’t find her attractive so much as quaint and amusing. She also knew she had two other qualities he seemed to treasure – intelligence, and a sort of resilient honesty he apparently hadn’t had much experience with.

Hannah had never thought of Billy in a romantic way, yet had always been able to be fully herself around him, conversing with him deeply and often and even making dinner for him a few times. When both her parents lost their lives in a car accident three years prior, Billy was one of the few people from work to whom she could freely express her grief. She hadn’t been overly surprised when he was convicted of tax fraud, but had sincerely missed him in his absence.

How long have you been away? she asked.

Exactly two years and three months and... Billy pretended to count his fingers. Twelve days. He looked up and faked a radio announcer’s voice. Because even us white collar criminals, whom everyone knows are the very worst kind, are eventually unleashed back onto a helpless and unsuspecting society. Or is it hapless? Helpless, hapless...

Hannah smiled. I see you haven’t lost your way with words.

Lost every way but that one, Billy agreed. And what about you, Hannah? How have you been?

Finding my way again, too. Still trying to sort out life with no parents, but I’m better than I was. Got two new Togs last year.

Togs?

Toggenburg goats. One was a sickly little kid I nursed back to health. His expression is baleful and his eyes look in different directions – I cheer up every time I see him. And I’ve been experimenting with some new heirloom grains – have you ever heard of sorghum? I’m growing a half-acre of it.

Most girls like cars and clothes, but Hannah likes land, Billy observed affectionately.

And sorghum, Hannah said. Oh, and I’m also finishing up my first spy novel! The hero’s name is Trick Parker.

Billy chuckled. Trick Parker? That’s my girl. Don’t ever change. His attention began to wander and he looked past Hannah toward the tent. By the way, have you seen Pop? He doesn’t know I’ve been sprung.

He’s inside with Mr. Sharpe. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you. She started. I’m assuming you know about Sheldon Sharpe...?

Indeed I do, Billy replied. The illustrious Mr. Sharpe, my shockingly overcompensated replacement, Rasputin to my father’s Czar Nicholas... I hear the old man no longer makes a move without him.

I’m afraid it’s true.

So much for getting my old job back. But I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting the guy. What do you think of him?

Hannah’s gray eyes locked with Billy’s blue ones. Well... I worry about your father relying on one person so much. I guess that’s all I care to say.

Tactful as ever, I see.

No, just likes her job and doesn’t want to lose it.

Pop thinks a lot of you.

And I think a lot of him. Hannah reached down and picked up her cup. Welcome home, Billy, she said with feeling. Her face clouded as she remembered Jerry, and she glanced nervously toward the tent.

I see Jerry’s in there, too, and drinking heavily, Billy read her mind, and she nodded. Let’s see, he summarized with a bitter smile. We’ve got Jerry, Jerry’s bourbon, Jerry’s women, Rasputin, and Pop. Oh, and me. All the ingredients for a perfect Dickson’s company picnic. Just don’t take any unflattering photos of us.

I would never do that.

You promise? I heard what happened last year, the ladies of the lake and all.

Hannah held up a palm. Not a single unflattering photo was taken, not by me anyway.

Billy took Hannah’s free hand and, to her surprise, kissed it. I was innocent, you know, he said softly.

Hannah’s mouth opened. Billy, I – I don’t know what to say.

No need to say anything. Just know it’s the truth. Releasing her hand and nodding goodbye, he pushed past her into the tent.

Touched by Billy’s gesture and reflecting on the changes federal prison had wrought in her friend, Hannah began to wander through the picnic grounds. Dickson’s annual July picnic was always a well-attended, all day affair, old Mr. Dickson’s way of thanking his two hundred-plus employees and their families for their faithful service to one of the area’s largest employers.

The sky was clear, though earlier there had been a brief, pelting rain and gusts of wind so strong they had whipped the walls of the tent, alarming the guests inside. The wind had tapered to a breeze and the rain to a gentle sun-shower and a dramatic sky unveiled, a sky glowering darkly in the west but shining clear and blue in the east. After a few minutes the display faded and the hot summer day went on as before.

The air was thick with humidity and the tantalizing aromas of grilling meats, but Hannah found she wasn’t hungry. She strolled past one of the larger pavilions, tossing her cup into a metal trash bin and snapping two photos of a group from the bindery grilling chicken and ribs over charcoal.

Hannah Scrabble. Over here. I need a quote! someone yelled.

Hannah turned to see the burly form of Roz Briscoe churning toward her. Roz was Dickson’s office manager and the author of the article that would accompany Hannah’s photos in the newsletter. She wore orange Capri slacks, sandals, and a short-sleeved, oversized Hawaiian shirt with green vines snaking through giant pink and purple blossoms.

Roz whipped out a pen and a small notebook from her enormous shoulder bag. How are you liking the party this year? she said in her gruff baritone.

Hannah smiled and lied, It’s great. This has to be the best company picnic yet.

Good, good, Roz said, writing in her notebook. She looked up. Do you have a favorite dessert from all the entries in the contest? Besides your own, of course. What did you call it?

Wheatberry and Dried Cherry Salad.

Right. Roz’s brow furrowed. Why do they call them berries, Hannah? I thought wheat is a grain.

It is, and I’ve wondered the same thing, Hannah said, laughing. But to answer your question, Sarah Bozeman’s Cool Whip and Lime Jello Delight was my favorite. How’s that?

Perfect! Roz beamed.

Can I take a photo of you writing into your reporter’s notebook? Hannah asked.

Sure, why not?

Okay, say cheese.

Smiling broadly, Roz held out the notebook and pretended to write while Hannah snapped several pictures.

All done, Hannah told her. How’s the interviewing going? Have you gotten to everyone yet?

Everyone but Jerry Dickson. Have you seen him?

Well, yes, but you may not want to interview him just yet.

Drunk as a skunk?

Getting there.

Too bad. You know, I’ve known Jerry since he was a kid. He had potential, real potential. Still does, actually. He’ll never realize it, though. At least not around here.

You may be right about that, Hannah said, reflecting how money and family connections weren’t always a blessing.

Well, gotta go, Roz said with a wink. She turned and began to bustle toward the tent. She looked so lumpily cute from behind that Hannah snapped a picture of her.

Roz was one-of-a-kind and one of her favorite co-workers, Hannah reflected as she turned and meandered toward the lake. Blunt and hardworking and dependable, Roz had worked for William Dickson since he started the company over twenty-six years ago. She had helped interview Hannah, and it was her thumbs up which had landed her the job – to hear Roz tell it, anyway. Fifty-two and never married, she seemed comfortable with her life, a quality Hannah admired.

Hannah was still thinking about Roz when she reached the pebbly shores of Black Lake. Black Lake was a popular, deep mountain lake which she’d visited many times in her twenty-eight years. To her right, a small, shallow section had been roped off for swimming, and was filled with laughing, splashing Dickson’s families. She snapped a couple of shots for the newsletter. To her left was a weathered dock, and on the shore beside it a fleet of small paddleboats.

She stood gazing across the glittering, dark water to the familiar western North Carolina mountains rising in the distance. A feeling of depression and unease nudged at her. Why did she have to come to this silly picnic every year? Her thoughts rested on Billy, then Melvin, both of them broken by life but bravely moving forward. And then there was Debbie.

I’m going to smack her! Hannah exclaimed. That Debbie – she had a heart of gold and always meant well, but could be uncouth. And her meddling! Why couldn’t she accept the fact that Hannah liked her life the way it was, just the way Debbie liked her life the way it was?

The two women were the same age and enjoyed working together, and both had side jobs in addition to their primary employment at Dickson’s, but there the similarities ended. Debbie had a small house in town and a cherished eight-year-old son named Henry, while Hannah had a small house on a mountainside on thirty-six acres and an assortment of outdoor cats, chickens, and goats. Debbie lived in the moment while Hannah lived with a head full of stories, committed to paper in her guest room on her grandfather’s old Royal Varsity typewriter.

Debbie had a large extended family, while Hannah’s only immediate relative was her younger brother Ben. Ben had recently moved back to Mountain City after completing law school and beginning an important new job as Assistant District Attorney. A precocious, driven person, Ben was only twenty-three. He had floundered as much if not more than Hannah after the loss of their parents, and she’d taken on a new responsibility to be both mother and sister to him.

None of the paddleboats were in use, so Hannah decided to take one out on the lake. She selected a faded, blue one-seater and heaved it halfway into the water. She lifted her long dress and stepped in, steadying the craft as it rocked. She slid her feet into the stirrups and slowly pedaled out onto the lake, taking renewed pleasure in the day and in the water parting placidly before the bow.

The lake was especially beautiful, a sparkling dark expanse that promised to absorb her discontent. About fifty yards from shore, she stopped to rest her legs. A warm burst of breeze set the craft bobbing and drifting. She wondered how she looked, an oddly-dressed woman out on the lake alone, purposely facing the mountains while the party percolated on shore.

Suddenly self-conscious, she maneuvered the boat around to at least face anyone who might be watching. She sat gazing at the back of the white tent in the distance. The tent was so large it seemed to puff out of the ground like a giant marshmallow. She snapped a picture of it.

Beyond the tent and to the right, she could see a section of the parking lot packed with vehicles as well as the small concrete restrooms. The faraway laughter and tempting aromas of grilling meat and corn wafted out to her as the late July sun beat pleasantly on her shoulders, her wide-brimmed hat protecting her scalp and face. She reached down and dipped her hand in the cool, dark green water. Her fingers traced a graceful figure eight as she allowed her thoughts to wander.

A flash of lightning startled her, quickly followed by a strong peal of thunder. She looked up – not another storm! Dark clouds were moving back in, and quickly. A strong gust of wind hit the lake, sending an army of tiny, foamed peaks scudding across the surface. Hannah’s hat lifted off her head and sailed away as the paddleboat rocked. Time to get back.

At least the wind was blowing more or less toward shore. She began pedaling, aware that the people in floats and inner tubes were also pumping back to safety. Cool raindrops spattered onto her head and arms. She reached her hat which had landed in the water, and plucked it out as she pedaled past. The rain fell harder, hitting her skin with the force of pellets. The wind picked up, buffeting and bullying the trees on shore. Every panel of the white tent was billowing. To Hannah it looked alive, gasping for breath.

Her mouth dropped. What in the world! she cried.

To her horror she heard a series of loud, sharp snaps over the rain and wind. She screamed as the tent lifted off the ground. It swayed as if drunk, moving horizontally and then upward again, no higher than a few feet but enough to set the people inside screaming as well. Its shape became even more distorted as it lost height and began to settle. Hannah screamed again. The tent was collapsing on itself!

She stopped pedaling to quickly snap a picture of it through the rain. She heard more cracks, a soft whooshing noise, and then more screams as the tent settled on the people inside.

Then she heard what sounded like a shot.

Chapter 3

Debbie! Hannah cried. She looked at her watch. It was 4:36pm. Assisted by the wind, she continued to pedal toward shore. The steady rain continued though the expected downpour held off.

Her eyes fastened on the tent, she blinked to see what looked like a person crawling out from underneath it. Was it a man or woman? She couldn’t tell. She took several pictures. To her astonishment, the person stood and broke into a run, not toward the crowd of picnic-goers but away from it, toward the parking lot. She took another picture.

She lost sight of the runner. She put the lens cap back on her camera and willed her burning thighs to keep pedaling. A minute later she heard the sputter and roar of a car or motorcycle engine over the wind, followed by the squealing of tires. The runaway was making a getaway!

Her thoughts returned to Debbie. If anything had happened to her... Hannah took back everything she had thought about her earlier. And what about Melvin, who she had just met but who surely didn’t deserve another misfortune? And Billy, having served his time in prison only to be injured or killed by a gunshot or cracking tent pole or whatever that was she heard?

Her mind teeming with terrifying possibilities, Hannah reached the shore. She jumped out of the boat, soaking her legs, the wind whipping her dress and sending her floppy hat bouncing along the ground. This time she let it go. She dragged the small craft onto the sand and raced toward the tent. She passed the large pavilion which had erupted into chaos. Screaming parents were shuttling their children away from the catastrophe, while adults without children were running toward it.

Trying to quell her own panic, she merged with the swift tide of rescuers, all drawn by the screams of the trapped from inside the tent. The rain was increasing, but the howling wind was beginning to abate. Along parts of the flattened tarp were moving bumps which would have looked comical had she not known they were desperate co-workers trying to find a way out. Five or six men reached the site ahead of her and began slashing at the tarp with pocket knives.

Stop, you’re going to cut someone! she cried, catching up.

Barry, the packing and shipping supervisor, stopped and snapped, You got a better idea?

Yes! Have everyone make a line and lift up the bottom. I’ll crawl in and get people out.

You ain’t crawling anywhere in that long wet dress.

Hannah looked down at her sodden dress. Barry was right. Why couldn’t she have worn shorts like the other women? Debbie was always saying she was too self-conscious. Why so bashful, there ain’t nothing wrong with your legs, Debbie would say.

I’ll go in, a male voice behind Hannah offered.

Hannah turned. Melvin! I thought you were inside.

Rainwater drizzled down