At a popular local gun club, a federal warden named Sidney O'Neil is found dead on the skeet range. Investigators believe the death was accidental, but O'Neil's friends know better. Not only did O'Neil never shoot skeet, but he was also engaged in a political battle with right-wing extremists. It had to be murder, plain and simple. Jane Lindsey, the wife of one of O'Neil's friends, begins snooping around, with the help of her husband and his co-workers. She digs into the records of C. Jeffery Compton, medical director of the local hospital. He and his cronies are part of the group squaring off against O'Neil and just happened to have been in the gun club's clubhouse the day O'Neil died. When Jane learns from Sid's grieving widow that Compton had a short affair with Mrs. O'Neil, the stakes grow larger. Jane realizes that not only was O'Neil's death possibly politically-motivated, but that it also might have been the result of a love affair gone wrong. But Compton isn't the only suspect on her list; as Jane digs deeper into the mystery, her shocking discoveries put her directly in the killer's path. With heart-pumping tension and a plot full of twists and turns, Nothing But Dust introduces a charming amateur detective in Jane Lindsey.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Nothing But Dust

By Edwin G. Rice

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright � 2010 Edwin G. Rice
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-3608-9

Chapter One

The cross hairs of the scope were steady and on target. It was a routine he had absorbed and practiced each year before November and deer season came. This day as he walked to the range he had visualized exactly how it would appear to his eye. Now the moment had come; it was no more than a reflex. "Breathe in, hold, light squeeze." It was over.

Eyes still narrowed but smiling he drew back the bolt ejecting the spent cartridge. He then cased the rifle, walked the 50 yards to his 350 Ford and drove off. His only feeling was the flush of confidence that always came after adjusting the scope for wind and elevation and squeezing off a round that was dead on target.

Only the hum of the big tires of his pick-up on the paving penetrated his thoughts as he drove west. "Knew the moment would come; there was nobody on the skeet range and plenty of shooters on the pistol range. Everyone was wearing hearing guards. Nobody did and nobody could hear anything different; like one rifle shot."

The rifle range was now empty. It would be almost two hours before anyone would venture into the skeet range and discover its lone occupant.

The one man there was silent; - he was Warden Sid O'Neil and he was dead.

Chapter Two

The recoil was enough to loosen his teeth; not to mention detach a retina, and make him flinch. "I'll whip that cocky bozo yet if I have to shoot these 3 inch 20 gauge shells all day to do it!"

They were at the last station; there would be a true-pair. Compton had nailed them both; then turned his smug face and grandly proclaimed, "Nothing but dust; your turn," as the last of clay and pitch fragments settled to the ground.

The true pair were sharply angled; the first at 45 degrees to the right the second 45 to the left. This meant a right to left shot on the second. It was a problem for many right-handed shooters and without doubt he knew it was his nemesis. "Keep your chin on that stock, Charley" he admonished himself. "Pull," Charles called. He knocked a chip off the first clay bird but hit only air on the second. Compton had beaten him again 44 to 43.

Charles Forsyth shook his hand, murmured a congratulatory, "Good shooting," and headed back to the club house to grab some field cleaner. His intention was to run it through the bore, pack up and then, "Get the heck out of here."

This done, his mood still foul, Charles Forsyth wove his way through the crowd in the club house hearing as he passed the words of friends, "You almost had that jerk Doc," or other words to that effect.

Back at his Chevy SUV, Forsyth slid the Weatherby into its case then into the back of the truck. After climbing into the cab, he started and began winding his way down the curving drive to the county road that would lead him to US No. 2.

Evening was at hand. As he drove on to the west; ahead near the bridge over the Red Lake River he could see the trees standing in dark silhouette against the golden glow of the western horizon as the sun eased its way out from under the overhanging cloud cover.

After passing through Crookston and having made the turn back to the west, Forsyth, unable to quell his anger, turned his thoughts once again to Jeffrey Compton who like a right to left shot was another nemesis. "No," he thought, "it's not just that he's so cock-sure and always wins with his $20,000 Krieghoff; it's what he's up to back at the club house and I would believe elsewhere too. That bunch he hangs out with; I couldn't take them for more than a minute."

Having passed Fisher and the turn at the Ross Seed Company, he could begin to see the lights of Grand Forks and East Grand brightening the underside of the increasingly heavy cloud cover. "Rain shower moving this way," he thought, "If it weren't for the wake tonight, I would have considered staying at my place, listen to the rain on the roof and see if John and his wife cared to come down for a late cup of coffee. I'm sure they are there. I could have driven back early in the morning, easily enough."

As he entered East Grand Forks, Forsyth began working on another series of thoughts, "After the wake, I'd better go over the point bridge and not past Cabela's. I might be tempted to buy something I don't need but can't live without. Seriously, it might get my mind off not only Compton but the undercurrent that I sense coming from that bunch he hangs out with. There are two of them that particularly trouble me; there's the guy that bought the resort down the lake and to be sure the one they call Preacher Man from over by Lengby. "They talk and spout Christianity and Christian words, but you can bet your bottom dollar the real message is politics and the wrong kind. Of all people to have said it, Huey Long said it way back in the thirties, "If fascism comes to America it will wear an American Face." The truth is that Sinclair Lewis said it too; just slightly different words. "If fascism comes to the United States it will be wrapped in the flag and wearing a cross."

"Either way it chills me up and down my spine. I can't forget one other thing can I? They were all there in the club house that day when O'Neil took a bullet through his brain; but at the inquest they never saw or heard a thing. - What I'm sure of is that Sid's thoughts were about as opposed to theirs as anyone I could name. - Could they have known that?-Charles Forsyth what are you saying and thinking?"

As he passed the potato barons' warehouses Forsyth concluded his dark thoughts for the moment as he muttered, "Anyway there's Sacred Heart up there around the bend and it's time to pay my last respects to my friend Sid O'Neil. One thing is for sure; it was one darned unusual accident!" As he stopped before Sacred Heart Forsyth paused before getting out and muttered again.

"And what was Sid doing on the skeet range? - He never shoots skeet?"

Chapter Three

The shoot had been the week before on Sunday. The next week had passed with Charles Forsyth back at work and taking call on the weekend.

Although by nature he was not a competitive man; his wishing to top Compton in Sporting Clays had its origin early after Compton's arrival at the clinic in the position of Medical Director. It was Compton's obvious condescending and patronizing management style with the physicians that first began to grate upon Forsyth, a 20 year member of the clinic. Even the surgeons were recipients of his abrasive smugness despite the crucially important productivity generated by the procedural nature of their work. For internists such as Forsyth, Compton's attitude bordered on near open contempt every time he reviewed with them the subject of their productivity.

The younger internists seemed less troubled; Charles suspected because they had never known medicine before business 'took it over' seeking as it did to drain personal fortunes from the nation's health care system. Many already had done exactly that.

However, trouble Charles it did; and in one sharp exchange with Compton he remembered 'telling it like it was.' "When I care for my patients, I use my information, my experience and investigate ethically their complaints. They receive medical care that is the best that I can deliver. I will not deviate from this standard nor manipulate it to dishonorably exploit my patients in an effort to garner greater financial return!"

Virtually every Monday morning as he walked into the clinic Charles Forsyth recalled that conversation and...

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