Murder in the Round

Well, that was a bit of a surprise.  Not completely unwelcome, but definitely ahead of schedule.  It was something she would have to think on today.

Not that she needed this burden today.  There was so much to do at work, and now to have this dwell on.  She wanted to tell Jackie first, but that meant waiting until they were both off work tonight.

Ramona finished preparing a quick sandwich to take to work.  Leftover Boston Butt with slices of Colby Pepperjack cheese, slathered in mayo and Dijon mustard.  Vegan, she was not.

Ramona Adams was the legal secretary at Cooper & Strickland, Crowley's most prominent legal firm.  Of course, that was like being the largest goldfish in a one-gallon tank.  Nevertheless, it was an entertaining and challenging job, and she got to see a wide variety of Dixon County's most interesting people.

Even though she wasn't a paralegal yet (still finishing courses at Okefenokee Tech), the firm's senior partner, Thomas Cooper, was starting to give her more responsibility over some cases.  One of those most recently given to her was to assist the vet, Dabs Denison, in getting disability benefits.  Although they had not been secured yet, she felt her assertiveness was getting him closer to the front of the line.  She had to admit, even though she despised Congressman Stan Winston's politics, that his office had done a lot to assist her.  She had heard rumors that it was Sheriff Steel's influence that had prodded the Congressman.  Now Sheriff Alan Steel was someone she had voted for, and would gladly vote for again.  He had been by far the best sheriff Crowley had ever had in working with the African American community.

Ramona and her husband, Jackie, lived near the edge of Crowley's minority area, referred to as the Onion Patch.  They lived on Cedar Drive, just off of Magnolia Street.  When they looked for a house shortly after Jackie got his Vice Principal's job at Reagan Middle School, they were subtly discouraged from the better white neighborhoods, and constantly redirected to homes in the Onion Patch.  When they were shown the house on Cedar, they just gave in.  It was going to be substantially more house than they could get in the white neighborhoods and left them enough money to remodel to their tastes.  She knew that the Onion Patch had a reputation for more crime than other areas, but she had grown up in that neighborhood, and she knew that there were also a lot of good people living there.  And she was comfortable with her children going to Crowley Elementary School, a good school with a multi-cultural vibe and tolerance.  Not that she and Jackie had any children.  Well, not quite yet.

Ramona got in her red Nissan Sentra, a car she had been nursing along since 2003.  No sense spending all their money on fancy new cars.  She would rather invest it in the house and well, other special contingencies.  As she settled in behind the car, she patted her belly, and realized that one of those special contingencies just might be starting up.  As she backed out the driveway, she thought for a moment of turning towards the middle school, and just finding Jackie and tell him the news.  Then she felt guilty, and decided there was too much to do at the office.

As she turned down Magnolia Street, she saw Barry Mincher in his front yard, in his pajamas, just sitting in a lawn chair, smoking a cigar.  He waved at her, and she gave a tiny wave back.  She shuddered a second, thinking back to the way things could have been.  They were hot and heavy back in high school days, but Barry's life had taken a sharp turn for the worst since then.  Barry had been in prison for drug-related crimes, and now was just a night stocker at Yeltin's IGA.  She shouldn't feel like this, she thought.  Barry was a nice fellow in many ways.  Still, she was extremely grateful she had straightened herself out and met Jackie.

Ramona passed the church she and Jackie attended, Magnolia AME, the largest African American church in Dixon County.  She would have loved to go to a multi-cultural church, but that just didn't exist around here, particularly one with a charismatic spirit, tolerance and a concern for social action and justice.  It was a good church home.  It was not her fault that Sunday church time was the most segregated hour of the week.

She came into the Round, officially titled Crowley Circle, but no one called it that.  It was a rectangular square of buildings that had a circular roundabout at the center.  It included government buildings like the Courthouse and City Hall and the police station. It had professional offices like the law firm she worked at, old Doc Stratton the chiropractor, and Graves & Robinson, a CPA firm that had recently fallen on hard times, what with Houston Graves Jr. leaving to work with the Compton Park Development, and Houston GravesSr., just having had a heart attack three days ago.  She liked Gariton Hollander, their now very busy staff accountant, and their new assistant, Janet Roper.  She had even had a few lunches with Janet over at the Honey Dew, which was also on the Round.

She was surprised to see that the door was not locked.  Usually, she was the first one there.  She looked out into the parking lot and saw Rondy's blue F-150.  Well, that worm was early for a change!  Whatever he was doing, it must not be an early morning rendezvous with Christie Delco Hollander, what with the door unlocked.  But what they hey!  The cat was way out of that bag now.  No need for sneaking anymore.  She had heard that Gariton took a swipe at Rondy at The Oasis.  Hard to believe that mild-mannered Gariton could be pushed that far, but she could hardly blame him.

She put her purse on her desk and saw that Rondy's door was cracked open.  "Rondy?  Are you here?" she called out.  "You want me to start some coffee?"

There was no response.  She noticed his office door was cracked open, but his light was off.  "Rondy?  Are you in there in the dark?"

She opened the door and flipped the light switch.  Why, Rondy was in there!  He was slumped over his desk, probably sleeping off a bender.  He was awful still, and his head was angled kinda funny.  And what was that all over his desk?  Tomato soup?  As far as she knew, Rondy wasn't a soup eater.  A hangover cure gone spilled maybe.

Then she knew, and her flesh creeped.  There was a hole in the center of Rondy's forehead.  That wasn't soup.  That was blood.

Thoughts of work assignments left her, as did thoughts about a positive pregnancy test less than an hour ago.  Soon she would call 911, then dash out to the police station.  But at first, all she could do was scream.

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