Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery by R.M. Wild (top 100 novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“I’ve actually handled a few defamation cases,” Kendall added.

“You see?” Robert said. “Top of his class.”

“Did you know the word troll actually comes from trawl?” Kendall said.

I smiled. “I did, actually. Matt Mettle told me.”

Kendall looked at Robert. “Our Matt Mettle? From high school? The star quarterback?”

“I know, crazy. Right?”

“You don’t say. I always thought Matt Mettle would have died of venereal disease by now.”

“Me too,” I said. “But somehow, he keeps surprising me.”

“Anyway, I would say the easiest way to avoid the criticism is to shutdown your Facebook page,” Kendall said.

“That’s what I said,” Robert added.

“Have you seen my page?”

“Yes and it’s a darn shame. Usually, businesses would go out of their way for that kind of exposure, but this doesn’t seem to have an upside.”

“I can’t shut down,” I said. “I get more than half my customers through that page.”

He exhaled loudly. “Well, in order to pursue a slander case, you’ll need to demonstrate that a particular statement from a particular individual directly caused a loss in a revenue,” Kendall said. “Unfortunately, that may prove very difficult. I suppose I could put together a suit to intimidate them into stopping their behavior, but given the current political climate, that won’t be easy either. We probably couldn’t actually win the suit, but we’d still ‘win’ if they gave up and left you alone. It would cost though. It’s up to you.”

I didn’t have to think hard. “I say we do it. At this rate, I won’t be able to afford groceries by the end of the week.”

“He’ll work pro bono,” Robert added.

“I will?” Kendall said.

“Yes, you will.”

Kendall flashed a toothy smile. “Sure, why not? I’d be happy to help. But I’ll warn you, Maine’s got a decent anti-SLAPP statute.”

“He’s right,” Robert said.

“What’s SLAPP mean?” I asked.

“A SLAPP is a strategic lawsuit against public participation. It basically protects these trolls from having their first amendment rights trampled on.”

“Stupid constitution,” I muttered. The founding fathers couldn’t possibly have anticipated social media. “Give a jerk an avatar and he’ll wield his so-called ‘rights’ like a musket.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Kendall said. “But the law is the law. I interpret it, I don’t write it. Even if we bring a suit, it might have the opposite effect of more publicity. You remember a few years ago when that horror movie was shot at Disneyland?”

“No.”

“Exactly. No one does. The filmmaker decapitated Minnie Mouse and her severed head terrorized the tea-cup ride, but no one bothered to go see it. Disney had every right to sue for trademark infringement, but they didn’t waste their time because they knew a lawsuit would have brought extra attention to the movie. Instead, the movie was bad, and it faded away quickly, the best possible outcome.”

“So you’re saying my best options are to either shut down the Facebook page or to leave it alone?”

“Basically. With news cycles these days, Phyllis Martin’s ashes will stop swirling around this town in a week and she will be completely forgotten. You operate a business. That business is not you. People have the right to leave reviews and you need to refrain from responding. Sometimes the other cheek is the one with less acne.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“That sounded better in my head,” Kendall said.

“I think Kyle’s giving sound advice,” Robert said. “Are you okay with that?”

“Not really,” I said. “But do I have any other choice?”

“No good ones, unfortunately,” Kendall said.

I turned to leave. Ignoring those hateful posts was harder than it sounded. “Thank you both anyway. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

I gave each of them a little wave and then left the office. At the moment, I didn’t have the strength to ask Robert if he knew anything about my real father—and I certainly didn’t want to do it with Kyle Kendall listening.

I was nearly past the bathroom when Kendall stepped into the hallway behind me.

“It was real good to see you, Rosie,” Kendall said.

I turned around. “You too,” I said. And I meant it. He was easy on the eyes.

“I was thinking—are you going to our ten-year reunion?”

I froze, standing on the same footprints the condensation from my boots had left on the hardwood. “I um—I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it, to be honest.”

Actually, that was a lie. I had seen the Facebook invite and my initial thought was they’d have to tie me up and threaten to burn me at the stake to get me to attend. “What about you?”

Kendall smiled. “If you go, maybe. I would need a strong anti-conformist by my side to survive some of those monsters.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you dislike high school?”

“Since always. Those four years were far from the best years of my life.”

“Compared to what?”

He winked. “Hopefully, the ones yet to come.”

10

Later that evening, while Stanley Eldritch wowed our one new guest with stories of the old days—back before most of the seafaring vessels had radar, the lighthouse keepers had to stay up all day and all night so they could operate the fog horn—I slumped in one of the folding chairs by the window and wallowed in a mud-pit of self-pity by continuing to read the deluge of comments about my inn.

I heard Red and Breakfast serves its stakes well-done.

That son of a witch should hang!

Most of these trolls didn’t even know who Phyllis Martin was. Half of them were from California, or farther, and they enjoyed commenting on the train wreck they could watch from the comfort of their gaming chairs.

Hour by hour, the wreckage extended as more cars piled on. Earlier in the day, a criminal rights group had started peddling conspiracy theories about how I was a lobster-rights advocate out to destroy Phyllis Martin’s chowder business. Another group, this one representing the prison guards, said that my hit job had callously put their brethren at risk. It was a nightmare of Biblical proportions—and sure to cause more sleepless nights.

Thankfully, tonight’s guest was German. The