Free A Lesson in Love and Murder by Rachel McMillan Page A

snatching up the paper and staring at it. “Time and again he gets himself into trouble, and we all have to pick up the pieces.”
    â€œAt the very least, I have you here again,” Merinda said happily.“Far easier for us to find Jonathan if we’re together.” Merinda bellowed for Turkish coffee and, when it arrived, gulped it so quickly she burned her tongue. “What do you say about joining this People’s Labor Movement?” She motioned for Jem to pick up a paper on the side table. “I struck up a conversation with a fellow after the rally last night. Not only did he know where Goldman was staying, he knew where their meetings took place. There are different levels of involvement.”
    â€œHe gave up his secrets rather easily!” Jem said.
    â€œHe’d had a little too much from his friend’s flask. Seemed quite delighted to find a girl wearing pants. We are just the sort they are looking for.”
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    â€œA woman who bounds about after a Goldman rally in trousers with no thought for the Morality Squad? The same woman who will be willing to rejig a few wires in the pursuit of a marvelous cause.”
    â€œYou’re not suggesting you’re going to blow things up with this fellow?”
    â€œNo. I’m suggesting we’re going to blow things up with this fellow.”

C HAPTER S EVEN

    Seasons change. As soon as you get used to autumn, so winter tugs at its coattails. Life turns in and out and the forest takes on a different face. A keen eye knows to anticipate the slightest changes—the thinning of the wood before the earth dips into the cavern of a valley, the slight birdsong that mournfully ushers out summer, signaling fall. Everything around you is a sign. An omen, perhaps, that no matter how you settle into a time, a place, a person, nature is already turning the hands of the clock and precipitating its imminent future.
    Benfield Citrone and Jonathan Arnasson, Guide to the Canadian Wilderness
    J ones brought Jasper the papers every morning, and they usually sat in an untouched pile on his desk until noon. Then he would leaf through them with a sandwich and a cup of tea at his elbow. But as soon as he saw the Hog headline about the Goldman rally that morning, he shoved the open file he was perusing to the side of his desk.
    Jasper was impressed that Skip was the name on the byline. He was in and out of the action as stealthily as Ray always was. He even had a quote from Mrs. Goldman herself.
    His heart had the most inconvenient habit of jumping slightly when he heard—or read—Merinda Herringford’s name, as it did the moment it appeared in Skip’s article:
    Ms. Herringford was all too keen to speak to the virtue in Mrs. Goldman’s opinions about police corruption, believing it strikes all too close to home. “Of course there were women and families and immigrants there. She speaks for all of us in a voice and with a volume that few around here dare to use.”
    Of course, my next question was about police corruption. Ms. Herringford felt that Mrs. Goldman’s words rang all too loud and true. “Goldman speaks about the dangers of submission. To anything. Including the law, which helps propagate the myth that we can achieve any kind of social harmony. We may have police officers who would like to see the end to this uneven distribution of power, but no one ranked highly enough to do anything about it.”
    Readers will make the immediate connection to her own practice as a lady detective. “If no one else will stomp out the injustice Goldman speaks about, then yes, I am happy to do my part.”
    Jasper flung the paper aside and ran his hand through his hair, his face flushed and his eyes stinging from more than the bright lights of his station house office. He swallowed and then slowly stood, wondering why his world was turning around him. Needing air, he forced his way out