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Fort Meriwether, population 9,263, perches on the edge of the water like a querulous, palsied, once much-touted beauty, incessantly patting each faded garland, touching each squashed silk flower, and with rheumy eyes checking her reflection in a tarnished mirror to reassure herself that, yes, indeed, she is still something of real consequence.
Once she was the center of attention, the rising young metropolis that would rival any of the overpopulated and overblown cities of the East. However, that was distant history and should have been forgotten, yet was still mourned by many local personages as if the town's day in the sun had been enjoyed only last week.
During her heyday ostentation was de rigueur with great imposing homes thrown up on every bump in the local terrain and two- and three-story stone or brick edifices -- banks, hotels, dry goods emporiums, and the like -- rising grandly in the bustling downtown area. The buildings rivaled those of San Francisco at the very least, everyone said. Most of these ornate structures, if wood, were long gone after "The Bust," and if stone or brick, were probably still lining the single main street, filled with precious little boutiques well stocked with overpriced gewgaws.
Today, long after the bloom departed the dowager's cheeks, natives still cluster together, smile complacently, and congratulate one another on their foresight to be born in Fort Meriwether as though that constitutes an honor akin to being born in Paris, London or at the very least, Brahmin Boston.
Today, all this fuzzy delusion is fed by mavens in other less insular places who coo lovingly over the grace of the few genuine Victorian homes left (but wouldn't even consider giving up their air-conditioned condos to live in one of them), the charm of the setting (to say nothing of the lack of structured amenities that city dwellers find in such abundance they are never missed until unavailable), and the quaint little shops (the purpose of which, of course, is simply to relieve the unwary tourist of the last cent in his pockets).
When the watery sun came up that cold Sunday morning and at last illuminated the heavy body draped bonelessly over the barnacled rocks on the beach, the first reaction of some of the local gentry bordered on shocked disgust rather than sorrow at the loss of a human life to violence.
And violence it had been. The predawn's cold ebbing tide had fastidiously rinsed the blood from the clothes. Nothing could hide the small symmetrical hole just over the wide, blue, left eye.
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