The sound of the band was not quite as intense over at the chili pots, but quite a crowd had gathered around as Kirsten, Mike, and Bud walked over from the bandstand. “We better get us some beer,” Bud told the other two. “If this stuff is as hot as last year’s, we may need something to put the fire out.”

There were seventeen entrants in the chili contest, and each had to make a minimum of five gallons of chili, so the crowd could have their fill. The judges got first crack at the chili, and were expected to award first, second, and third places.

With a crowd hanging around, the three set their beers down at the first table, and took Styrofoam bowls. “What do you call this stuff?” Bud asked.

“Buzzard’s Breath Chili,” the cook said, filling a ladle.

“Just a little bit, no more than a tablespoon full,” Bud said. “I’ve got to work my way clear down through this line.”

The cook obliged, ladling out rather more than a tablespoon full, but not really a lot. Bud stuck a plastic spoon lightly into the chili, held it up, and studied the contents carefully, without tasting it. “Christ,” he said finally. “I thought I’d shitcanned all the Thai hot peppers in town.”

“Had ’em left over from last year,” the cook protested.

“Be honest,” Bud said. “Is there any lutefisk in here?”

“What’s lutefisk?”

“All right, I’ll try it,” Bud said. He dumped the spoon, which had a small flake of hot pepper in it, and tried another spoonful. He sniffed it carefully, then, throwing caution to the winds, plunged the spoon into his mouth. “Jesus, God, that’s hot,” he said, sipping at his beer to kill the burning sensation. “How much Tabasco sauce is there in this?”

“A bottle,” the cook said.

“Quart or gallon?”

“Let me try,” Mike said, taking a bowl, and having the cook ladle out about as much as Bud’s.

“You need to say something like, ‘We who are about to die salute you,’” Bud said.

Mike took a taste. “Yeah, that is a little on the hot side,” Mike said. Nice taste otherwise, though. Is that venison I’m tasting in there?”

“Nice buck from last fall,” the cook said proudly.

“Well not bad, other than a little too hot,” Mike said. “Kirsten, you want to try some?”

Kirsten looked at the bowl for a moment, then studied the contents of a spoon about as studiously as Bud had, before taking the plunge. “Ye, gods, that’s hot,” she said, grabbing frantically for a beer. “Mike,” she said finally. “If that’s just a little hot, will you warn me when you think something is real hot?”

“This isn’t real bad,” Mike said. “I like stuff with a little bite to it.”

“Kid,” Bud said, “your asshole must hate you.”

“Let’s try the next one,” Kirsten said, diplomatically, but hopefully, as well.

The three went up to the next pot. “What do you call your chili?” Kirsten asked.

“Orion Nebula Chili,” the cook said.

“Sounds innocent enough,” Mike noted.

“Kid, did you ever take astronomy in college?” Bud asked.

“Yeah, it was a science gut course.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“No.”

“Do you remember anything about the Orion Nebula?” Bud asked, knowing that it was a trick question, but he liked to fool around with a telescope after dark sometimes, and got Sky and Telescope magazine monthly.

“Not particularly,” Mike said, “Other than it’s in Orion.”

“The Orion Nebula is a gaseous emission nebula,” Bud said.

“Caught me,” the cook nodded.

“You got a telescope?” Bud asked.

“Celestron C-8.”

“Then I’ll try it. A little bit of it.”

On they went on down the line of chili pots. Some looked better than others, some looked really hideous, and Bud managed to find a disparaging remark to make about each one.

Forked Tongue Chili.

Fire in the Hole Chili.

Thunderbutt Chili, the previous year’s winner. Bud had to agree that it was well named, but again this year, it was too hot for his taste. To think that this was the best of the bunch last year … well, it wouldn’t have been bad this year, either, if about half the peppers had stayed in Louisiana.

Recoilless Chili … Bud asked the cook, an older man, “Were you in the infantry?”

“Korea, during the war.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Kirsten asked.

“A recoilless rifle is kind of an artillery piece,” Bud said. “It has a helluva backblast. It’s damn near as dangerous to be behind the damn thing as it is to be in front of it.”

“Worse,” the cook said.

Thundering Herd Buffalo Tail Chili.

Oil Burner Chili.

Retrofire Chili. At that one, Kirsten paused. The cook was the young roofer she’d been infatuated with a couple of weeks earlier, Hjalmer Lindahlsen. He had a nice butt on him, she knew …

“You up to any tricks this year?” Bud asked.

“No,” Hjalmer said. “I had my laughs last year. This year I tried to play it straight.”

“Mike, in case you didn’t know, this young man is the person sho inflicted Lutefisk Chili on the world last year. The world has not been the same since. There isn’t any stinking lutefisk in here, is there, Hjalmer?”

“No, no lutefisk. I did it for laughs, last year,” Lindahlsen protested. “I didn’t think it tasted that bad, though.”

“You damn Norwegian,” Bud said, “If you don’t think that lutefisk tastes bad, how the hell would you know if anything tastes good?”

“It’s an acquired taste,” the cook said. “Except that I think you’ve got to be Norwegian to acquire it.”

“Then what’s this Retrofire shit?”

“Actually,” Hjalmer said, “It really is pretty mild, but you know how it is. You’ve got to have some kind of hotter than hell name for the chili, whether it’s hot or not, and it should have some kind of a fart joke attached, too.”

“I will probably live to regret this,” Bud said. “but I’ll give it a try.” He held out a bowl, and Lindahlsen ladled a little into it. As always, Bud took a spoonful, and studied it for a moment. Amazingly, he could see no pieces of hot pepper floating in it. It smelled good, too, not hot at all. Wondering if he were doing the right thing, he gave it a taste.

“Hey, not bad,” Bud said. “You’re right, that’s not hot at all, but really has a nice flavor. It just shows that you can make chili without an army course in running a flamethrower.”

Mike took a taste. “That’s pretty darn good,” he said. “Italian sausage?”

“That, and mooseburger,” Lindahlsen said.

“Where the hell did you come up with moose?” Bud wanted to know.

“Friend of mine got one up in Canada last year,” Hjalmer said. “He gave me a couple of pounds of it, just for the sake of something exotic. You could probably use plain old cow hamburger, and it wouldn’t affect the taste that much.”

Kirsten tried a taste of it. “Hey, that’s not bad,” she agreed, and took another spoonful. It was the first time all day that she had taken a second spoonful, and not a drink of her beer. “I think I could eat this,” she said, winking at Lindahlsen.

“It’s got beans, too,” Mike said. “Not a lot of the ones that we’ve seen have had many in them. I like beans.”

Once they had worked their way down through the line of chili pots, the three judges sat down at a picnic table to decide on a winner. “Most of that stuff is too hot for me,” Kirsten said. “I think we ought to go for a mild one.”

“That would mean Hjalmer’s Retrofire Chili,” Bud said. “After the trick he pulled last year, I’m not so sure I want to reward him this year.”

“I think it’s a little too mild,” Mike protested. “I think I like that guy Lawson and his Thunderbutt Chili. That had some taste, and it had some bite, but I agree, the Retrofire Chili had an overall better flavor.”

“If we’re going to go for a hot chili, then maybe we ought to take a look at that Gaseous Emission Chili,” Bud said.

“You mean the Orion Nebula Chili,” Mike said.

“Right, Orion Nebula Chili,” Bud agreed. “It really wasn’t that hot, considering some of the stuff that’s out there. When I think of the heartburn that this stuff is going to cause, I’m glad my shipment of Maalox got in yesterday.”

“Did the labels come off your old ones?” Kirsten asked.

“Yeah, I had to dump it with the Thai hot peppers,” Bud said. “Let me tell you, with this chili contest coming up, losing all the Maalox in the store had me worried.”

In a few minutes, they had thrashed out the winners and losers. “You want to make the announcement?” Kirsten asked Bud.

“Naw, I did the beauty contest,” Bud said. “You’re prettier, you make the announcement about the chili contest.” He signaled his wife that they had reached a verdict.

A couple of minutes later, the cooks gathered around the bandstand. The band had come to a stop, and Kate Ellsberg mounted the bandstand, and took the microphone from the band leader, “The judges have reached a decision,” she said, her voice booming through the town. “Here’s judge Kirsten Langenderfer to announce the winner.”

Kate handed the microphone to Kirsten, who took the microphone and shyly announced, “It was very hard coming to a decision, since many of the entries had a lot going for them, but we were finally able to come to an agreement. Third place goes to Ron Lawson of Camden, and his Thunderbutt Chili.”

The crowd gave some polite applause, and Lawson climbed up to the stand, to receive a ten-gallon aluminum cookpot from Spearfish Lake Hardware, and a kiss on the cheek from the judge.

As Lawson left the stand, Kirsten, by now getting into the spirit a little, said into the microphone, “Second Place goes to Tom Macomber of Freemont and his Orion Nebula Chili.” Macomber received a set of camping cooking utensils from Northern Sportfitters, and a peck on the cheek, as well.

“Finally,” Kirsten’s voice boomed through the park, “The moment we’ve all been waiting for. The winner of the chili competition will receive a couple of useful items for when they’re out camping, a gas cook stove and a porta-potty, both from Smith’s Sporting Goods. The winner is …” she turned to the waiting cooks … “Hjalmer Lindahlsen of Spearfish Lake, with his Retrofire Chili.” Lindahlsen stepped up to receive his peck on the cheek, but Kirsten reached up, turned his head, and gave him a big kiss on the lips, to the roars of the crowd.

After the noise died down, Kate Ellsberg took the microphone back from Kirsten. “I’d like to thank our judges for helping us out today,” she said. “Judges for the Queen Contest and for the Chili Judging, in addition to our lovely Kirsten Langenderfer, were Mike McMahon and Bud Ellsberg. Let’s have a round of applause for the judges.” The crowd gave some polite applause. “For the judges, we’re going to have a big bowl of the winner’s chili, for free. I’d like to remind everyone else that they can sample any of the competitor’s chilis at a dollar a bowl.”

Bud, Mike, and Kirsten found some space at a picnic table, and Lindahlsen brought each of them a beer and a big bowl of chili – not the little bowls that had been used for the judging, but big bowls that must have held over a pint of chili each.

Bud looked at his bowl. “I really don’t want any, he said. “My stomach is acting up, already.”

“I didn’t have lunch,” Mike said. “Leave it, and I’ll eat some of it.”

“I didn’t have any lunch, either,” Kirsten said, digging into the bowl in front of her. “I’ll help. That really is pretty good chili.”

“Thanks, kids, both of you. This went a lot better than last year,” Bud said. “I honestly think the chili was better, too.”

“You know,” Mike remarked between spoonfuls, “This really does have the makings of a pretty good festival, if they held it a month or six weeks later, when the leaves are turning and the air has some bite to it.”

“Yeah,” Kirsten added. “Maybe if they hired a good country-western band, instead of that noise machine, it would work out pretty good. There’s some other fun things that could be added on, too.”

“The queen contest worked out well, considering that Kate only came up with it yesterday,” Bud commented.

“Give the kids a little more practice, maybe some taped accompaniment for the singers, and it would work better,” Mike said. “God, that Evachevski kid is cute. Would you tell Kate that I’ll be glad to judge next year if she needs help?”

Bud nodded. “I’ll pass that along to Kate. She’ll be glad of a volunteer.”

Kirsten looked at her watch. “Mike,” she said, “we need to finish our chili and then we’ve got to get moving.”

“Is it getting that late already?” Mike said, and looked at his own watch. “Yeah, I guess it is. Let’s eat fast.”

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, August 20, 1975

CHILI RECIPES

“Retrofire Chili”
1975 Spearfish Lake Chili Contest Winner
from Hjalmer Lindahlsen

1½ pounds cubed pork
2½ pounds shredded Italian sausage
3½ pounds moose burger
¼ cup cooking oil
1 10½ ounce can beef broth
1 10½ ounce can chicken broth
1 bottle Heiniken Beer
2 12 ounce cans, pinto beans
2 12 ounce cans, red kidney beans
1 46-ounce can, V-8 vegetable juice
1 large onion
1 small red pepper, chopped
12 cloves garlic, minced.
3 14¼ ounce cans tomato sauce
1½ cup chili powder
1 seasoning package, “Hamburger Stew” Hamburger Helper
1 Tablespoon MSG
2 teaspoons salt
2 packages dry yeast
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon molasses
1 teaspoon ground organo
1½ teaspoon ground ainse seed
1½ tablespoons ground cumin
1 tablespoon paprika
1½ teaspoon black pepper

In large pot, brown meat. Drain excess grease. Add beef and chicken broth. Cook one half hour on simmer. Add beer. Cook one half hour longer than before and add vegetables.

While cooking meat, rub separate pot with two tablespoons of minced garlic. Saute chopped vegetables in ¼ cup oil until soft. Add vegetables to meat mixture with tomato sauce, garlic, and remaining ingredients. Stir well and bring to boil. Reduce heat and cook 1½ hours.

Mike and Kirsten walked the several blocks toward where Mike had left his car parked at the office. As soon as they were away from the festival, Mike asked, “All right, what’s this stuff about Jennifer Evachevski’s career plans?”

“You hadn’t heard about that?” Kirsten asked.

“Everybody in this town assumes that I’ve heard everything,” Mike said. “No, I haven’t heard.”

“You know Kathy Webb? George’s wife? She’s the guidance counselor at the school, and Jennifer told Kathy, quite seriously, that she wants to be a prostitute when she grows up.”

Mike let out a low whistle, then said, “You’re kidding!”

Kirsten summed up the story in a few brief sentences. “I think she’s putting everybody on,” Kirsten summed up, “Although nobody knows for sure. Carrie and Gil don’t know whether to ignore her in hopes that it will go away, or lock her up.”

“You say this story is all over town?”

“I don’t know,” Kirsten said. “Mr. Ellsberg didn’t know, or if he did, he didn’t let on. It’s not the kind of thing that people talk about in public.”

They finally got to Mike’s car, which was an oven from sitting out all day in the midsummer sun, even in spite of the windows being left open a crack. They left the doors open for a minute to let out some of the heat before they got in then rolled the windows down all the way before Mike even started the engine.

Once they got out on the highway, the air blowing through the car made it a little more bearable, if somewhat harder to talk. “Are you planning on coming right back to town?” Kirsten asked over the noise in the car.

“No reason to stick around,” Mike said.

“You could hang around for the golf match,” Kirsten replied.

This golf grudge game had begun to bother Mike. “What’s the deal on that, anyway?”

“You know this Sam LeBlanc?” Kirsten asked.

“I’ve met him a couple of times, but I can’t say that I know him,” Mike said.

“He’s crude and foulmouthed. He knows every dirty joke that isn’t in the book. He’s also a golf hustler, and supposed to be pretty good. Frank Matson and Gil Evachevski have a bet with him. If he loses, he has to clam up on the dirty jokes over breakfast at Rick’s.”

“Big deal,” Mike said sarcastically.

“Boys will be boys.”

“Do you caddie out there a lot?”

“I’ve never been a caddie,” she said. “I don’t know a thing about golf. Normally, they don’t allow caddies or golf carts at the club, but this is special.”

They were silent for a moment, as Mike reflected on another theory about Kirsten blown to shreds.

It only took them a few minutes to reach the intersection of County Road 919. Mike slowed for the corner, then drove more carefully up the rough road, bumped across the railroad tracks, and on past the bait shop, where the pavement came to an end. A couple miles later, he saw the road leading off to the west, with the “WTLC ?” sign on the tree. “You turn right in about a mile,” Kirsten said, and Mike nodded knowingly.

As soon as Mike turned into the driveway leading up to gate, he saw that the gate was open, and an older man in shorts and a T-shirt waved them to a stop.

“Hi, Mr. Matson,” Kirsten said as Mike stopped the car. “My car kind of broke down, so I had to hitch a ride.”

“Oh, hi, Kirsten,” the older man said. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Mike McMahon,” she said. “I work with him. Mike, this is Garth Matson. Some people call him Colonel Matson. He’s president of the bank.”

Mike stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Matson shook his hand. “Hope some of it has been good.”

Before Mike could reply, Kirsten asked, “What brings you out here?”

“Figured Sam wouldn’t have a key to the gate, and wouldn’t know about the back way,” Matson said. “I thought I’d better meet him.”

“If you meet him, I’d advise that you don’t ride back with him,” Mike said. “He’s been knocking the beer back pretty good.”

“Won’t have to,” Matson said. “I drove a pickup out. You kids take it easy, now.”

As they drove away, Mike said, “So that’s Garth Matson. Seems like a nice guy.”

“He is a nice guy,” Kirsten said.

As they drove down the wooded lane, Mike thought of something. “I don’t have a key. How do I get out if they’ve got the gate locked?”

“It opens automatically if you’re headed out,” she told him. “But if you want to stay around and watch the game, maybe I could ride back with you.”

“I’m not a golf fan,” Mike said, “but I’ll stick around for a while.”

They drove for a good mile through the woods. At one point, for a few feet, Mike could see part of the golf course off to the left; from what he could see, it looked like a rather pretty course. “There’s a two-rut that leads off to the right up here a ways,” Kirsten said presently. It comes out right in back of Carrie and Gil’s cottage.”

Mike turned off down the two-rut road through the woods. In a short distance, the woods opened up into a small open field, with a row of trees and cottages at the far end. Beyond the cottages, he could see the blue of West Turtle Lake. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see, but the cottages were a lot smaller and more modest than what he had envisioned, not the mansions he had assumed. Off in the distance to the west, he could see a more imposing structure vaguely through the treetops, but he didn’t take much notice of it. “We want the blue place on the right,” Kirsten said. “Park there by the side of the house.”

There was a driveway; Mike pulled in and stopped, then shut off the engine.

“Hi, you two,” Carrie said, from a chaise lounge on the lawn. Mike looked over … and looked … and looked …

“Holy shit!” he said in a whisper, so quietly that only he heard it.

“Are you two the ones responsible for my daughter having a sore jaw from grinning?” Carrie asked, sitting up. Jennifer, as naked as her mother, sat up beside her.

“Holy shit!” Mike whispered to himself again, a bit louder this time. “God, did I ever boot that one in the ass.” Somewhere between his ears, Mike heard a drill sergeant yell “Fall in,” and the platoon was falling in somewhere other than where he thought it would.

And he’d already written the goddamn story and shoved it under Webb’s office door!

“What are you talking about?” Kirsten asked quietly.

“Nobody ever told me the West Turtle Lake Club is a nudist resort,” he replied, as calmly as he could.

Kirsten’s face fell. “I thought you knew.”

“Like I said,” Mike responded, letting out a deep breath, “Everybody assumes I know everything.”

Kirsten put her hand on Mike’s arm. “I’m sorry, Mike. I shouldn’t have set you up like that, but I thought you knew all about this place.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “It’s just … well, there are a couple things you don’t know about, too.” His mind was reeling. A whole lot of little pieces to the Matson-Clark story that hadn’t made sense … suddenly did.

“I’m truly sorry,” Kirsten said. “Look, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

Thoughts flew through Mike’s brain like the wheels past the windows in a Vegas slot machine, but one thing seemed clear: if he was ever to have a chance with this beautiful young blonde, he’d better not make a scene. “Oh, hell,” he said finally, opening the car door. “I guess it comes down to, ‘When in Rome,’ and all that.”

She took his arm, and pulled him over to her, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “Thanks for not making me look like a fool,” she said.

Carrie was wise enough to know that there was some heavy drama going on inside the car, and figured that she’d better let the scene play out its course. She had been surprised to see Kirsten arrive with Mike, and was even more surprised to see Mike get out of the car and peel off his shirt, while Kirsten popped out the far side of the car, and began to undress, as well. But Carrie kept a poker face and didn’t say anything as Kirsten walked around the car to Mike, carrying her clothes over her arm.

Mike stood up, peeled off his pants and underpants, throwing them in the back seat, then sat back down on the car seat, and pulled on his shoes. “I don’t care if this is kosher or not,” he said, looking her over carefully. “My feet itch if I go barefoot in grass.”

“No problem,” she said. “I’ve got some tennis shoes in the house. I am not going out on the golf course in these pumps. But Mike?”

“Yes?”

“One thing. It’s impolite to stare.”

“I’m not staring,” he said. “I’m just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Kirsten, you wouldn’t believe what I’m thinking about. In fact, I don’t believe I’m thinking what I’m thinking about.”

“I’m not sure I follow that. What are you thinking about?”

“I’m just wondering how you would look in a bikini.”

Kirsten cocked her head and looked at him. “Mike,” she said finally, “did anybody ever tell you that you’re a little strange?”

He smiled back at her and laughed, “You have some nerve asking me that, under these circumstances.”

Carrie had, of course, been carefully but unobtrusively monitoring events, and decided that the time had come to intervene. “Hey, Mike!” she called. “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks,” he called, standing up. “I had about one too many at the festival as it was. Where’s the john?”

“Inside,” Kirsten said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

By the time that Mike came out of the house, Gil had appeared. “Hi, Mike,” he said. “Covering the great golf match for the paper?”

“Sure,” Mike smiled. “You know our motto: All the news that fits, we print.”

“Sure you don’t want a beer?” Carrie asked as Mike found an empty lounge chair.

“Oh, what the heck,” Mike said. “It’s not like I’m going to be driving for a while.”

“Brandy,” Carrie said to one of her kids, “Go get Mike a beer, will you?” The girl said she would, and headed for the house. Carrie turned back to Mike. “A word of advice,” she said. “You’re a little pale, and the sun is still up pretty high. If you don’t want an Evachevski sunburn, then you’d better put on some sunblock.”

“What’s an Evachevski sunburn?”

Gil spoke up. “When I got back from Vietnam, the first day home, I played eighteen holes in the middle of the day without any sun protection. It kind of put a damper on Carrie’s welcome-home plans, if you know what I mean.”

“He was two-toned,” Carrie smirked. “Brown and bright red.”

“I didn’t think to bring any,” Mike said.

“I’ve got some Coppertone,” Kirsten said, handing him a bottle.

Mike started spreading suntan oil, as Brandy returned and set a beer down on the table beside Mike. “Thanks,” he told the girl, then asked, “When’s this big golf game?”

“Oh, we’ve got half an hour before we need to mosey on over to the course,” Gil said. “Now that we’ve got everybody here, it’s a good time to go over plans for what we want to happen,” he said, then called, “Jennifer, get over here.”

The pretty young blonde, who had been crowned “Chili Queen” a couple of hours before, tossed a Frisbee to Brandy, and came over and joined them. Mike was impressed; she had been beautiful in the slinky black dress she had worn in the contest, and she was even more beautiful now. She wore her nudity with a natural, casual air that was even more stunning for its innocence. “Down, boy,” Mike thought, then said, “I didn’t get the chance to compliment you, but you sing very well. That was really professional quality.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about being a singer. Do you think I could sing professionally?”

“I’m sure you could,” Mike said. “That was stunning.” Out of the corner of his eye, Mike could see Gil and Carrie exchange glances that seemed to have some noticeable relief in them.

“You all know what’s going to happen,” Gil said, “but I just want to make sure everybody’s got their signals straight. The purpose of this exercise is to keep Sam off balance and distracted, without being too obvious about it. Kirsten, you can caddie for me, but all you have to do is drag my pull cart around. Carrie, I want you to caddie for Frank. He’s more likely to be comfortable with you. Jennifer, pull Sam’s cart, and the idea is for you to pull his chain a little, as well. All of you girls just try to keep Sam’s attention on you, not on his game.”

“I don’t know how much his attention is going to be on his game, either,” Mike said, and related how much he had seen Sam drinking at the festival.

Gil thought about it for a moment. “Ah, I see what he’s up to,” he said. “Probably won’t work, but with Sam, you never know.”

“I see it, too,” Carrie said. “Maybe we ought to encourage it, kind of help him along,” Carrie said.

Gil thought again for a moment. “Sounds good,” he said. “We’ll stick with the game plan, otherwise, but try to direct your attention to Sam, not to Frank or Mike here. Jennifer, that means you, especially. You start fluttering your pretty little eyelashes at Frank, and he’s likely to blow his cool.”

“OK, Daddy,” the little blonde said. “Is that all?”

“Just don’t overdo it,” Gil said. The girl nodded, then got back up to throw the Frisbee around with her brothers and sisters.

“So how was the chili?” Carrie asked.

“I was surprised,” Kirsten said. “A couple of them weren’t too bad. Hjalmer’s was pretty good, in fact.”

As the discussion of the Chili Festival progressed, Mike’s attention wandered back to the Matson-Clark story, and all the clues that he had missed, and all the clues that he had read the wrong way. Of course, it all made sense, now! Now wonder Donna Clark had maintained her vehemence all these years. If only he’d known … he wouldn’t have written the story and slid it under Webb’s door. It was totally wrong. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, you get the first brick in crooked and you wind up with a silly looking building.

Maybe he could go back into the office and fish the story out from under the door. When he’d picked the camera up earlier, it didn’t look as if Webb had been in, so he might not go into the office at all today. If he hadn’t, Mike thought that maybe he could still get out of this. A coat hanger would be perfect, and he knew where one was in the office. As soon as he could, he’d go back into the office and get it out, but that would be a while yet. He was obviously going to have to stick around here for a while, and all of a sudden, he realized that he didn’t mind the prospect.

“You play golf, Mike?” Gil asked.

“Always thought I ought to take it up, but I never did,” he said. “I’ve played one round of golf in my life, and I used a four-iron.”

“Just a four-iron?” Carrie asked.

“Sure,” Mike said. “I don’t know what all those different clubs are for, anyway.”

“You sound like you have the potential to be the kind of golf partner I need,” Gil said. “One who can do my ego good.”

Spearfish Lake Record-Herald, August 20, 1975

GUIDANCE COUNSELOR RESIGNS

by Mike McMahon
Record-Herald Staff

The Spearfish Lake Area School Board announced Monday the resignation of Guidance Counselor Kathy Webb.

Mrs. Webb, who had been Guidance Counselor for the school system for the last four years, told the school board in her resignation letter that the stress of the job was getting to be too much for her to handle.

“It’s necessary to be a positive and constructive influence in the lives of our young people,” she said, “and I’m finding it harder and harder to be positive.”

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