David Dean whistled a patriotic tune as he strolled up town from the park. Driving was out of the question as the mid-morning parade, scheduled to begin in a few minutes, was forming on Main Street, which was now closed to traffic. Children and adults alike pressed against the ropes and peered up the street, expectation on their collective faces. Balloons danced in the warm breeze and red, white, and blue abounded everywhere. A delicious smell mixing with giggles and laughter wafted from a sidewalk table where a group of young girls were peddling baked goodies. Everyone smiled and chatted with a level of exhilaration as sharp as the mountain air. The entire town wouldn't have been more excited if the New Year's Rose Parade had come to little Ouray.

While the walk was less than a half-mile, Ouray's 7,800-foot elevation and the uphill rise caused Dean to quicken his breathing-one more reminder to get in shape. Jennifer Radisson, in spite of her height and eye catching blonde hair, was quickly lost in the happy crowd that clogged the sidewalks. He kept an eye out for Billy Langstrom, whom he still hoped to talk to, but he spotted neither him nor Pumpkin Green in the crowd.

Deputy Sheriff Lydia Larkin drove by in her official white Blazer and Dean repressed the impulse to give her a one-finger salute. He just smiled and waved, with his efforts earning a blank stare from the redhead. He didn't mind. His mood too good to be snubbed by a mere public servant. Dean spotted another public servant at the liquor store. Acting Sheriff Fitzgerald was slipping two one-pint bottles of vodka into a paper bag as Dean was about to open the door. He waited until the officer stepped outside.

"Boozing on the job?" Dean asked in his friendly politician voice.

"It's just a Coke," Fitzgerald lied, adding, "if it's any of your business." Then he glowered with a smile to match Dean's."I saw you and your blonde friend cuddled up down at the park. Is she a friend of the family or just someone you're humping on the side?"

"Spying on your election competition?" Dean asked without answering the question.

"I don't have any competition. You might as well withdraw before you embarrass yourself. See you at the debate tomorrow." He turned and strutted to his official car parked in the roped off street.

Dean wondered if Fitzgerald might be a closet drunk. Otherwise, why lie about buying booze? And why buy two pints when a larger bottle would be cheaper? He tucked the information in the back of his brain as he entered the store and purchased his Fat Tire Ale.




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