There were four missed calls, all from Shelly Dennison. I erased them in rapid order without listening. She had a habit of calling my cell while she was driving and left long, rambling messages that had no purpose, other than to sate her boredom. If the allotted time for leaving a message on my phone ran out, she simply called back and continued from that point. If any of the messages were important, she would call again. My first call was to Margaret, who dispensed with hello and asked, “Is that son of Satan dead?” “Yes, he is.” “Good. He made the world a better place by leaving. Umm-umm-umm-umm-umm, now maybe that poor little girl can rest in peace.” “Umm-umm-umm-umm-umm” was Margaret’s all-encompassing expression for a variety of emotions—joy, sadness, disbelief, anger. I had heard it uttered many times outside my office when someone wanted to get past her to me. “Umm-umm-umm-umm-umm. That is not going to happen.” You could sooner get past a momma grizzly protecting her den than you could get past Margaret and into my office without an appointment.
