Nguyen which, while not entirely telegraphic in nature, was certainly terse and to the point.
“From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subj: WINSLOW MURDERED
Col O Winslow has been murdered, found in our vineyard. Understand you are researching, would apprec any info you have. Who enemies, etc. Cecilia Rayburn at [email protected] ”
I know that some surfers of the ‘net write incredibly lengthy screeds, but I was trained back in the Memory Is Money days, when you edited out every unnecessary word to save space in the computer’s expensive and tiny memory. The kids laugh when I remind them that I once served as handmaiden and attendant to a gazillion dollar computer that boasted a memory of 512K. I predict that in the future, parents won’t tell their kids how far they walked to school, but rather, “when I was your age, my PC only had two meg of memory.”
I sent my message into cyberspace, and now it was up to the unseen Mary to log on and read her mail. I wondered where she was. When I think of freelance writers, I always think of Katmandu.
In the next few days, I was surprised at how little we were bothered by the press. The Passatonnack Journal is a weekly, and didn’t feel the Winslow murder rated a special edition. Just two years ago, they had issued a special when Craig Martin got drunk and fell down his well. As the editor explained to me when gathering information about Winslow for the regular Wednesday edition, “After all, folks around here knew Craig.”
Of course the story was on the news service wires and several of the big city dailies did call us for a reaction. I expressed dismay and mystification, and that seemed to satisfy them.
When I told Jack I was surprised that more reporters hadn’t shown up at the house, he said, “That’s because this is the boondocks. A reporter is more likely to take a redeye flight to Moscow than a four hour drive into the boondocks. Anyway, I’m going to put off having the winery signs put back up.”
Last fall, we had taken down the signs along the state route and county road which pointed the way to our vineyard. They have been repainted and are waiting in the barn. Jack had intended to put them back up this week, but now we would wait.
In fact, the only member of the Fourth Estate who actually arrived at our doorstep was Jerome Withers, the Post’s wine columnist. I suspect Jerome could find his way to any mid-Atlantic winery on a moonless night. But sending Jerome did have its drawbacks, from a news point of view. I managed to sidetrack him into his real area of interest, so that the article the Post published has as much information about the cultivation of the Merlot grape as it did about the murder. But what the hell – it was an exclusive.
Julia and I wandered the perimeter of the property, looking for signs of any vehicles both on the gravel road and on the dirt road along the river. But it had been a dry spring and whatever signs of intrusion that remained eluded our elementary woodcraft.
Meanwhile, I took the kitten to the vet. Doc Harding is never surprised to see me arrive with a cat carrier. “Let’s see,” she consulted my file, “this must be Rayburn 11.”
“Actually, we’re calling him Tough Stuff. Polly has sort of adopted him, so we’re letting him be a house cat.”
Doc examined Tough Stuff and pronounced him healthy, though a bit undernourished and parasite-ridden. Your typical stray cat. I left her office with worming pills, ear drops, and a flea comb. (Jack had been right on target, as usual.) In the parking lot, I encountered Luther Dawson, bringing in his dog.
Dawson himself is so basset-like that I was taken aback to discover that his dog of choice is a hyperactive Jack Russell Terrier. Holding the squirming, licking little dog, he informed me that the investigation was progressing.
“That new Commonwealth’s Attorney, Albert Long, was all hyped for an indictment, but he really pissed off the
“From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subj: WINSLOW MURDERED
Col O Winslow has been murdered, found in our vineyard. Understand you are researching, would apprec any info you have. Who enemies, etc. Cecilia Rayburn at [email protected] ”
I know that some surfers of the ‘net write incredibly lengthy screeds, but I was trained back in the Memory Is Money days, when you edited out every unnecessary word to save space in the computer’s expensive and tiny memory. The kids laugh when I remind them that I once served as handmaiden and attendant to a gazillion dollar computer that boasted a memory of 512K. I predict that in the future, parents won’t tell their kids how far they walked to school, but rather, “when I was your age, my PC only had two meg of memory.”
I sent my message into cyberspace, and now it was up to the unseen Mary to log on and read her mail. I wondered where she was. When I think of freelance writers, I always think of Katmandu.
In the next few days, I was surprised at how little we were bothered by the press. The Passatonnack Journal is a weekly, and didn’t feel the Winslow murder rated a special edition. Just two years ago, they had issued a special when Craig Martin got drunk and fell down his well. As the editor explained to me when gathering information about Winslow for the regular Wednesday edition, “After all, folks around here knew Craig.”
Of course the story was on the news service wires and several of the big city dailies did call us for a reaction. I expressed dismay and mystification, and that seemed to satisfy them.
When I told Jack I was surprised that more reporters hadn’t shown up at the house, he said, “That’s because this is the boondocks. A reporter is more likely to take a redeye flight to Moscow than a four hour drive into the boondocks. Anyway, I’m going to put off having the winery signs put back up.”
Last fall, we had taken down the signs along the state route and county road which pointed the way to our vineyard. They have been repainted and are waiting in the barn. Jack had intended to put them back up this week, but now we would wait.
In fact, the only member of the Fourth Estate who actually arrived at our doorstep was Jerome Withers, the Post’s wine columnist. I suspect Jerome could find his way to any mid-Atlantic winery on a moonless night. But sending Jerome did have its drawbacks, from a news point of view. I managed to sidetrack him into his real area of interest, so that the article the Post published has as much information about the cultivation of the Merlot grape as it did about the murder. But what the hell – it was an exclusive.
Julia and I wandered the perimeter of the property, looking for signs of any vehicles both on the gravel road and on the dirt road along the river. But it had been a dry spring and whatever signs of intrusion that remained eluded our elementary woodcraft.
Meanwhile, I took the kitten to the vet. Doc Harding is never surprised to see me arrive with a cat carrier. “Let’s see,” she consulted my file, “this must be Rayburn 11.”
“Actually, we’re calling him Tough Stuff. Polly has sort of adopted him, so we’re letting him be a house cat.”
Doc examined Tough Stuff and pronounced him healthy, though a bit undernourished and parasite-ridden. Your typical stray cat. I left her office with worming pills, ear drops, and a flea comb. (Jack had been right on target, as usual.) In the parking lot, I encountered Luther Dawson, bringing in his dog.
Dawson himself is so basset-like that I was taken aback to discover that his dog of choice is a hyperactive Jack Russell Terrier. Holding the squirming, licking little dog, he informed me that the investigation was progressing.
“That new Commonwealth’s Attorney, Albert Long, was all hyped for an indictment, but he really pissed off the
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