MURDER BY THE OLD MAINE STEAM
Copyright © 2011 Bernadine Fagan
The huge black SUV thundered to a stop close enough to Uncle JT’s auto body shop to throw a spray of pebbles against the plate glass window of his office. I jumped back. Uncle JT never moved. He just stared, frozen, no expression on his face that I could figure.
My first thought was that we were isolated. Most everything in the Maine woods is isolated, of course. I never should have left New York City, no matter how desperate I was to get away, no matter how hurt, or how angry.