Mourning In Miniature by Margaret Grace

indulged in a worst-case scenario—if Rosie Norman were going to kill anyone, the victim would have been Cheryl Mellace. Poor David had been much more civil to Rosie in the doorway of his hotel room, even inviting her in for a drink. It was the petite, popular Cheryl who’d mocked her so mercilessly.
    Frank called us to order, his voice booming over the PA system. The crowd quieted, and I knew it would grow even quieter in a moment.
    “Welcome to the future site of our new athletic field and modern stadium. It’s great to see so many Lincoln Point residents and friends. I want to extend a special welcome and thank-you to the alumni of the thirty-year reunion class. Your fund-raising drive gave us the largest single contribution to the project.”
    Loud applause, whistling, and the cheering appropriate to a stadium erupted. I tried to imagine my tutoring sessions in the library with an even better PA system at full volume like this at game time.
    When the noise died down, Frank began what must have been one of the most difficult addresses of his career—announcing the death of a classmate. “And now I have a very sad duty. I’ve just learned that one of our most illustrious alumni and a friend to all of us, David Bridges, who was to address us today, has passed away unexpectedly.” Frank stepped away from the mike. I imagined how shaken he must be. “That’s all we know at the moment,” he continued, with a shaky voice.
    A mixture of gasps and groans rippled through the crowd. I hadn’t looked at the program carefully, finding it more useful as a fan, so this was the first I’d realized that David was to speak. I wasn’t surprised, however. I knew that more than just his own classmates had appreciated David’s fame as a football star. I thought of the large number of glassed-in cases in the ALHS hallways that were dedicated to displays of sports trophies and photographs of teams in action. Even all these years later, top athletes like David were embedded in the school’s memory and credited with giving the school status in the county.
    How would his fans and friends react if they knew that David didn’t just pass quietly away, but died at the hands of a murderer?
    Maddie tugged my arm. “Grandma? Do you know that man? Isn’t that the one Mrs. Norman talks about on crafts night?”
    “Yes, sweetheart, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
    Maddie looked up at me, squinting into the sunny sky. “I heard you say Uncle Skip’s name, you know, on that phone call. Was it about the man’s death? Did he call you for help investigating? You know how helpful I can be,” she said.
    Maddie had adopted the perfect combination of techniques used by her father and his cousin at that age. My son, Richard, used intimidation, drilling us with questions that demanded straight answers. Ken and I were sure he was going to be a prosecuting attorney some day, not the orthopedic surgeon he became. His cousin, Skip, took the calm road to getting what he wanted. He remained soft-spoken, teasing, and charming, your best friend—who ended up a cop. Go figure.
    I had to remain strong in the face of a young opponent who’d mastered both approaches.
    “There’s nothing for us to do, Maddie. All we know is that the man passed away.”
    She sank back in her chair and picked up her fanning, appeased for now.
    I caught Henry’s eye. He seemed to be aware of my conversation with Maddie. We shared looks of sadness and confusion. He stroked Taylor’s head, his fingers reaching to her ears, as if to protect her from any further unpleasant news.
    But there was no more information coming from the stage. Frank closed by asking us all to take a moment of silence to think of David and to pray for his family and loved ones. While we reflected, the high school band played a few somber notes, sounding like a modified “Taps.”
    Barry Cannon, class president and Rosie’s current best friend among her classmates, it seemed, stepped to