The Ridgways of Lake Derry

Jefferson Beauregard Trestlehorn had just dozed off when Ralph stumbled through the station door flat drunk.

“Chief Ridgway! Chief Ridgway!”

“He ain’t here. Gone up to Brent. What can I do you for, Ralph?”

“Larry done fished a man out the lake!”

Jefferson’s ears perked up. He lowered his feet from the desk and nearly stood up, but his body wasn’t reacting so fast these days. With a swallow of beef jerky and a swig of iced tea, he managed. “Man dead?” he asked.

“As a doornail.”

“Where’s Larry?”

“Down by the boat. I’ll take ye.”

The lakefront was a quick hike from the station, or would have been had Ralph been a bit more sober and Jefferson a bit younger. They finally arrived to find a very worried-looking Larry standing over a waterlogged corpse facedown in the sand.

It wore a police uniform.

Larry looked up, grimacing. “I didn’t do nothing, I swear.

Jefferson trotted over as fast as he could muster and stopped cold when he saw the pale face. “It’s Junebug… what’d that boy go get himself into?”

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