Bradbury Heights: III – Mayoral Assertions

Sheriff Humboldt, meandering afoot a stairy slope, pondering the quirking scenes of earlier this morn, could not quite keep down the strange sensation of a lurking discontinuity that accompanied him wherewithever he walked. Entering the doorway atop the stairs and depositing his satchel alongst a stiff wooden chair, the Sheriff grimaced at the sight of his turbulent troop, depleted of the sentiment of sanctuary proffered by the formerly uneventful duties that squired doldrum Bradbury Heights.

But now, as situations turned fresh spring hopes into quiet undulating despair, a quick survey of the cast revealed what minuscule experience they had had with such delirium. Officer Rockwell, ragged haired and sullen sunken face perpetually portrayed him as a man shipwrecked on an island, all hope of rescue sunken deeper than the ship which marooned him, yet never more so than amidst such turmoil. Deputy Harris hardly fared better. Though perhaps, because of several troubling events in his childhood, or rather only a more austere manner, the visibility of the distress was not as evident. And poor Madeline Wellesley, secretary and office dispatch, normally red-haired and jubilous, had become an uncontainable fountain for the last hour and a half.

Rallying the staff was not something that Sheriff Humboldt usually had to do, at least notso under such distressful events, yet, as it was his responsibility to maintain some paradigm of order, he pronounced, in bold words, his desire to address the collective.

“Now, I understand that this morning’s tragedy must have caught us by surprise. We are fortunate to avoid this type of thing more often than most. But that doesn’t mean we can break down into chaos.” He was speaking, firmly, to everyone, but more especially to the rather-far-past-their-senses-types, namely Mrs. Wellesley and Officer Rockwell. With more convincing and further encouragedom, Sheriff Humboldt was able to reestablish some semblance of order and soon dismissed his staff to their respective assignations.

Turning the corner, so to speak, as it were, the Sheriff was immediately presenced by one singular someone with which he, though half expectantly, still would have preferred delaying their meeting.

“Bravo! Sheriff. Excellently well spoken. You would do quite a number on the campaign trail should you think to run for my office one day! Ha!” Boisterous, no, more vociferously spoken, the Mayor of Bradbury Heights stood impedimently in front of Sheriff Humboldt.

“Oh, Mayor Glumford, it’s good of you to come down here today.”

“Good? No, no… For etched in this Town’s memory e’er after shall be this solemn day of grim memorandum. Is it true Sheriff? Is it really Missy May?” Though his question was perfunctory, already knowing the answer, the Mayor did sincerely sound hurt, yet Sheriff Humboldt did not think it had so much to do with the passing of the child, as to the dour state of the Town.

“Yes, Mayor, sadly it’s true.” The Sheriff examined the Mayor’s countenance. Only faintling wisps of gray foliage sparsed the sides of his large round head and plump cheeks turned down in a murky state, though his cerulean eyes still glimmered with a champagne smile.

“Most tragic indeed. Have you reported to the family yet? I presume not, it has been a rather demanding morning for you, Sheriff. Might I prequest that I accompany you on this grave venture? Excellent.”

Consent was taken, and so it was that the quadranscentennial Mayor Gulmford and our humbling Sheriff Humboldt rode together to the former home of Missy May. The concave conversation that ensued brought little by way of reassurance to the Sheriff, who determined that the Mayor intended to memorialize the girl’s death with such pomp and parade that it would rival one of his own inaugural addresses. Yet finally, after bearing a near unbearable burden, the pair arrive aforward of the astute estate.

Grip-scowling at the return of the not scarcely forgotten psychophysical discomfort, the Sheriff, striding abreast Mayor Glumford to the manor door, nodded grimly at the Mayor’s commentary, just as the arched doorway opened and a fair-haired gypsum women of middling years greeted them with naught but an allusion of anxiety on her gentle face.

“Sheriff Humboldt, Mayor Glumford, what brings the two of you to my door so early in the morning?” she remarked, twisting concern beginning to brew as she studied her visitors.

“Ah, Samantha. Would that it were glad tidings we bring!” bemoaned the Mayor.

“What is it?” sequestered Samantha.

“Mrs. Hughes,” interposed Sheriff Humboldt, “Mrs. Hughes, I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this. Your daughter, Missy May-Hughes, she’s been killed.” The words sunk like a stone on the suddenly distraught women’s heart. But worse still, a third personage made his way to the crest of the entranceway and locked eyes with the dearly stricken mother.

Wordless, intense grief was immediately exchanged between Samantha May-Hughes and her stepson. Bartholomew Flavius Hughes stood beside Sheriff Humboldt in a fiery torment that no meager reassuring hand on the shoulders could quench.