Murder on the Road Less Traveled. Robert W. Gregg

      CHAPTER 11

      The car radio was tuned to a local channel, although the sheriff’s mind was still on the Kennedys’ problem. It was not until the announcer, Ben Barber, a better DJ than a news reporter, said something about a lake accident that Carol turned her attention to the radio voice. Barber was talking about someone who had hit his head on the dock while somersaulting into the lake. She thought Barber had mentioned a name, but she had missed it because her thoughts had been on Martin Kennedy’s parents. What had gotten her attention was word that the injured diver was in a local hospital and that his carelessness just might have resulted in a serious injury.

      Boys will be boys, she thought; she hoped that this one would be okay, that he had learned a lesson rather than caused his family sleepless nights as Martin had. But the accident was apparently important enough that it warranted more than a twenty second reference. So Barber, who obviously had few facts at his disposal, repeated the victim’s name and the hospital where he was presumably recovering.

      “All we know is that Maurice Heaslip is now at St. Agnes Hospital. We will keep you posted when we have more information. Now back to Music Through the Years, this time one of Nat King Cole’s famous hits, ‘Mona Lisa.’” Carol turned the radio off and let her thoughts return to the Kennedys. She had never heard of Heaslip.

      She had not been back at the office more than fifteen minutes when JoAnne told her she had a call from Joe Reiger. What would the Chamber of Commerce man want of her? Perhaps he had learned something about the Eakins case. She hoped so.

      “Hi, Joe. I hope this a good news call.”

      “I’m afraid not. At least it has nothing to do with Eakins. But we do have another problem with one of the Gravel Grinder riders. It’s not that somebody else is missing, and you may not be interested. But another cyclist is in trouble. Name’s Maurice Heaslip. He’s not even a Crooked Lake guy. Home’s in South Dakota and for some reason he came east for our event. Just thought you might find it interesting that the Gravel Grinder seems to be taking a toll on its participants.” Joe chuckled.

      “I just heard about this man Heaslip on the radio. Banged his head doing a crazy dive off a dock somewhere. Sorry your call doesn’t tell us about Eakins. Do you know Heaslip? Did you even know he rode in your race? Not a race, but you know what I mean.”

      “I met him briefly. Probably talked for three minutes, long enough to know he’s from the Dakotas. He seems to spend much of his spare time traveling the country for things cyclists do. But hearing about him gave me an excuse to do something I should have done before. I made a copy of my list of who was in the Gravel Grinder - thought you might be interested in it. Mostly locals, or at least Finger Lakes types.”

      “Thanks, Joe. You’re suggesting I get off my butt and start interviewing well over a hundred people, a few of them not even from around here. One of them now in the hospital. You want to help?”

      “Not really. That’s why I’m giving you a list of those who rode last week. But of course I’ll pass along anything I hear that could help you find Eakins.”

      “Like Maurice Heaslip’s accident, right?”

      “Okay, score one for our sheriff. No, Heaslip had nothing to do with Eakins going missing. Remember, he’s from South Dakota.”

      Carol had an idea, or rather a question.

      “What’s a guy who came all the way from South Dakota for the Gravel Grinder doing on Crooked Lake a week afterwards? You’d think he’d have headed home or off to Colorado or someplace else for another ride. I think I’ll make a trip over to St. Agnes.”

      “That’s interesting,” Joe said. “Maybe he’s got friends or family here. Maybe that’s why he came to our Gravel Grinder - kill two birds with one stone.”

      “That’s probably what happened.” Carol agreed with Reiger, but she still intended to pay the careless diver a visit. If he was still in the hospital. And after she’d gone back to Adolph Slocomb’s to see if he’d seen Eakins during the Gravel Grinder. That was much more important than looking in on a citizen of South Dakota who was spending the week on Crooked Lake.

      Carol spent much of the next hour thinking about her priorities. And more importantly about the task of interviewing more than one hundred cyclists who had accompanied Ernie Eakins on the recent Gravel Grinder. Heaslip was the least of her worries. How on earth was she going to talk to so many locals, most of whom would know Eakins, many of whom would be his friend?

      Not surprisingly, one thought led to another. Why had she let herself become so entangled in an issue which was unlikely to have anything to do with maintaining law and order in Cumberland County? This was a question which had been bothering her for more than a week. She thought about it as she drove back to the cottage at the end of the day, but she already knew the answer: she was not only a law enforcement professional, she was also a human being with a strong moral compass. Now she would have to add Joe Reiger’s long list of cyclists who had participated in the Gravel Grinder to the search for Ernie Eakins and Martin Kennedy.