Читать книгу Murder on the Road Less Traveled - Robert W. Gregg - Страница 3

The calendar said it was June 5th, and a warm late spring breeze was stirring the trees and the flags in and around Southport’s town square. It was only 8 am, but the square was crowded. The reason for the crowd was readily apparent: there were nearly as many bicycles on the grass and walkways as there were people, and a majority of those people were wearing helmets and colorful short sleeve jerseys. This was the day when Crooked Lake was staging its annual Gravel Grinder, a fact that was spelled out for those who had just happened on the event by a large red and yellow banner that flapped in the breeze above Market Street.

It is doubtful that anyone in the crowd was a savant, able quickly and accurately to identify the number of bikes and riders in the square. But Joe Reiger, who had organized the event and kept a record of those who would participate and had contributed to its fund for charity, knew that the number was close to 155. There would be a few latecomers, of course, not to mention the occasional cancellation. But these were bikers, and bikers take their sport seriously, even when what they are embarking on is not a race with a winner. Virtually everyone who had signed up would be present when the Gravel Grinder started.

As was to be expected, many of the bikers knew each other. They had done this before, in some cases many times. Some donned their biking gear daily, often before breakfast, because it was a habit, and a good one at that. Now, as the starting time approached, they were chatting good naturedly, checking their equipment, stocking up on some last minute refreshment for the road and what would be a ride that could well last for close to five hours. One of the riders was Ernie Eakins, a 32 year old veteran of these events. He had already logged nearly four miles, having biked down from his home on the hill northwest of Southport. His wife, Connie, who was a much more casual biker, had offered to drive him to the town square.

“No point in wearing yourself out before the race,” she had said.

“No problem. It’ll just be a short warm-up, mostly downhill. What’s more, it isn’t a race. So I’ll meet you at the finish line. Why don’t you aim for one o’clock? There’ll be burgers and coffee; then you can take me home.”

Little did Connie know that Ernie wouldn’t be at the finish line at one o’clock. Or at two. Or for that matter when dusk descended on Crooked Lake that evening.