"Really? Was she a tall, slim brunette?"
"I don't really know. Both times I saw her she was sitting at a station while a manicurist worked on her nails, so I couldn't judge her height. I couldn't see her hair color, either, because she wears a scarf wrapped around her head. But I did hear her say she worked nearby, which made it convenient to get her nails polished or her hair cut at the salon next door on her lunch break."
"Hmm, that's interesting. I find black fingernails a little ghoulish, don't you?" I asked Cora.
"Maybe a little, but it is the twenty-first century, Aunt Rappie."
I seethed internally every time someone reminded me what century it was. It was as if they were inferring I was old and out of date, lingering behind the bulk of the general public and permanently stuck somewhere back in the 1960s. It made me feel like a can of creamed corn that had been on a grocery store shelf so long, it was covered in a thick layer of dust and you couldn't see that it was eighteen years past its expiration date. In my defense, I said, "Yes, Cora, you're right. I reckon I need to stay more current with today's unbelievable, unexplainable, and unattractive trends and fashions. I do try though, dear."
"You do great," Cora said, patting the top of my wrinkled and liver-spotted hand. She must have sensed she'd offended me. "I think you've stayed very much in touch with the younger generations."
Once again we'd gotten off-track from the topic of fingernails, and I didn't have the time or patience to wait while Cora climbed her way out of the hole she'd dug for herself. In a conversational tone, I asked, "So tell me, Cora. Do you know anything else about this gal who likes to wear black fingernail polish?"
"No, but I remember hearing the girl doing her nails call her Babs a couple of times."
Babs, like in Barbara Streisand? I wondered. Barbara like in Barb? Barb like in angry animal activist?
I needed to find a reason to get closer to Barb Harris, and possibly her husband, John, as well. Perhaps she, or both of them, were taking their responsibilities of protecting the well-being of local wildlife too much too heart. So much, in fact, that they'd kill a two-legged creature to protect those of the four-legged variety.
Chapter 17
With one hand on my pepper spray holster, I scurried up to the office and found a young gal I'd seen a time or two around the campground. She was busy taking what sounded like a complicated reservation. I listened to her end of the conversation after she gestured to me she'd be with me as soon as she'd completed the call.
"So, you're saying there are twenty-two Airstreams in the group?" The gal asked the caller.
"***************"
"I see. There'll be seven who want full hook-ups, twelve want electricity only, and three will be dry-camping. But you'd all like to be together in the park in side-by-side sites. Is that correct?"
"***************"
"I'm sorry. I'm pretty sure the owner won't let me put the twelve who only need electricity, or the three who prefer to dry-camp, in the full hook-up area."
"***************"
"No, I understand. The problem is that it would render fifteen full hook-up sites unavailable for folks coming in who do need all of the amenities we offer. In essence, we'd only be getting significantly reduced rates on those sites for five days, and turning away customers who'd have paid full price for them. I'm almost certain the owner won't go for that."
"***************"
"Really? You're the wagon master of this caravan and Bea gave you a free site the last time your group stayed here? I'm sorry to say, following a tragic accident, Bea is no longer with us, and I don't have the authority to approve free sites."
"***************"
"Sorry. Can't do that either." Her frustrated response was accompanied by a roll of her eyes.
"***************"
"All right. The number for Sweet Sixteen is 307-555-1022. I truly believe everyone would be happier if you stayed there instead." Clearly annoyed, the young gal pointed toward herself and nodded as she verbalized her last remark. It was a scornful barb, cleverly disguised by her polite tone of voice. I wanted to give her a high five for the way she'd handled the exasperating caller.
She placed the phone down in its cradle a tad more aggressively than necessary and shook her head in bewilderment. "Some people!"
"Yeah, I know. Don't you just hate cheap-ass folks like that?" I (the pot) said referring to the caller (a.k.a. the kettle.) As if I wouldn't have tried to weasel a free site out of her myself, I continued, "Always wanting something for nothing."
"I know that's right! I've worked in a number of other campground offices as a work camper but I just recently signed on at this one. I don't want to be fired for offering customers free sites on my first day."
"I can't blame you, dear." We then exchanged some small talk and introduced ourselves. Her name was Cheri Beets, and she and her husband were spending the entire summer and fall in Buffalo. Her husband, Don, had taken a temporary welding job on a nearby pipeline project. When there was a pause in our chit-chat, I asked, "Do you happen to know what site John and Barb Harris are in?"
With no questions asked, Cheri scanned a schematic of the campground on a large dry-erase board behind her desk where they kept track of what sites were filled, and by whom. She erased several names and replaced each with a new name. "Needs a little updating. I'm not used to their system yet, and I'm getting behind. There's a lot more to running an RV park office than you'd imagine."
"I'll bet! Glad it's you and not me." I'd experienced working in campground offices and their stores as a work camper on numerous occasions, too, but I didn't want to waste time going into that.
"Looks like the Harrises are in C-23. That's one of the long, 50-amp service sites on the north side," she said. As she spoke, she pointed toward the northwest corner of the campground.
"Thank you, dear. I won't keep you. Looks like you're busy, and I didn't mean to interrupt your train of thought."
"No problem. Assisting customers is what Mr. Whetstone's paying me to do." She flashed a toothy smile, which I returned with one of my own. The only difference was Cheri's involved real teeth and mine didn't, which reminded me I needed to let my dentures soak for an hour when I returned to the trailer.
* * *
Rap, rap, rap. I banged on the door of the Jayco Fifth Wheel that belonged to Barb and John Harris. Before returning to the trailer to soak my choppers, I wanted to speak to at least one of them, which is why I was standing at their door, knocking. I waited nearly a minute but no one responded. I tried again, in case they were napping. But this time, in lieu of tapping, I hammered on the door loudly enough to wake the dead. Bam, bam, bam.
After a few seconds, I heard something heavy and metallic scrap across the floor, the rustling of paper, a couple of cabinets closing, and some other unrecognizable activities going on inside. I'd have thought they were rearranging the furniture if it wasn't pretty much all affixed in place. If it weren't affixed, your RV would rearrange its own furniture every time you drove it from one place to another.
When my knocking still remained unanswered, I wondered if I was being deliberately ignored. It was clear someone was home, unless they had a pet large enough to move heavy objects. Our cat was probably large enough, but she wouldn't expend any energy unless there was a yummy treat in her future to reward her for her efforts.
You know I'm not one to give up easily. So, this time I beat on the door like I was trying to kill a rabid Tyrannosaurus Rex with my bare hands. While I waited for another minute or so, I tried to think of a way to launch into a conversation with the couple in the event they ever finished whatever they were doing and answered the door. Finally, the door, which was in dire need of some WD-40, creaked open and Barb greeted me. "Hello again. Sorry for the wait."
My response was probably not the best approach at breaking the ice, but it was effective. I jokingly said, "I was beginning to think you two were trying to hide a body and clean up the crime scene before y
ou responded."
The expression on Barb's face that followed my remark was priceless. For a second, I thought she was going to slam the door in my face. Out of instinct, I quickly yanked my hand off the jamb to keep my fingers from being squashed. Barb's silent stare made me uncomfortable. I swallowed hard and said, "Only joshing you, of course."
"What do you want?" Her voice was neither friendly nor amused at my lame attempt at levity. By this time, John was standing next to her, wearing an identical scowl to the one his wife now wore.
Unable to come up with anything better, I pulled one of Rip's socks out of my back pocket and held it up. I'd shoved it in there earlier while I was searching the trailer for its match. "Umm, well, I just, um, I just wanted to see if this sock belonged to you, Mr. Harris. I found it between two washing machines in the laundry room and thought I remembered Barb folding socks just like it when we were both doing laundry at the same time. I'm sure you know how dryers have a bad habit of eating socks. Looks like this time it just—"
"Not mine," John said. He dismissed me without any sign of gratitude for my efforts to return the sock to its rightful owner, which in this case was actually my husband. I thought it was rather boorish of the inhospitable couple.
Before I could utter another word, the door slammed closed. I was fortunate I'd removed my hand from the jamb or I'd now have four fingers that looked like they'd been run through a meat grinder.
If you're hearing a strange noise right now, dear reader, it's the sound of the Harrises being ratcheted up another notch on my suspect list. I was convinced something was rotten in Denmark, at least as far as those two cagey characters were concerned, and I hoped to find out what was causing the stench.
* * *
"It's happened again!" Rip said as I walked through the Chartreuse Caboose's door.
"Oh, my God! Who was it this time?"
"Huh?"
"Was it someone we knew? Someone associated with the campground?"
"What are you talking about?" Rip asked, confused by my queries.
"What are you talking about? I thought you meant another body was found in the forest."
"No, nothing like that. Rick Myer called and told me another animal was found snared by a bear trap not far from where Bea's body was found. This time it was a raccoon that had already died from its injuries. It's apparent someone is trying to illegally trap bears."
"That's awful! Raccoons are so adorable," I exclaimed.
"Except for the rabid ones, as this one tested positive for. Its death turned out to be a blessing in disguise, but it certainly wasn't what the trapper had in mind."
"Who would do such a thing?" I asked. I was saddened by the news, even though it was better for all concerned, even the animal itself, that the coon was dead.
"Money truly is the root of all evil," Rip simply stated in response.
I was furious at the thought of someone killing animals for financial gain. "Cruelty to animals should be a crime punishable by death. A slow, painful, and agonizing death, at that. Maybe they should have their fingernails ripped off and their eyes gouged out, and of course, acid poured in—"
"Good grief, dear! Should I be sleeping with one eye open? You're beginning to sound more brutal than the bear trappers." Rip had a feigned look of horror on his face.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. I guess a firing squad would be sufficient, without the torturing and all. So, does the Forest Service have any clues as to who's behind the poaching?"
"Unfortunately, not yet, but Rick was able to follow a path of weeds and foliage tromped down by the poachers for a fair distance."
"And how does that help in tracking down the trappers?" I was also curious how one makes money off a dead bear, but got distracted by Rip's next response and forgot to pose the question.
"It won't necessarily help track them down, but they might find incriminating evidence if and when they are apprehended. The interesting thing is the well-worn path was leading back toward this campground. But, he lost the trail when he came to a thick patch of sage brush. Rick's stopping by later to ask a favor of us. He had to get to a meeting this morning and couldn't talk long on the phone."
"That sounds intriguing. What do you reckon he's going to ask us to do?"
"I have no idea, honey. But I'm intrigued by his remark as much as you are."
"I sure hope we can help them find out who's behind the poaching." I was astonished at how upset I was. I'm not sure what this says about my character, but I was more in hopes of the poachers being punished than I was of the person behind Bea's death being held accountable. If indeed there was one, of course. "I can't wait to see what favor Rick has in mind."
Rip appeared interested, but not as excited as I was by the idea of the two of us being involved in the hunt. I didn't mention my interaction with Barb and John Harris. I'd learned nothing of any value or interest, and there was no sense getting Rip riled up by my aggressive and reckless behavior. Or at least, that's what he'd have called it. Personally, I considered it to be fearless fortitude on my part. But that's just my opinion of my actions, which on most occasions was the polar opposite of my husband's.
* * *
Rip left an hour later to go to the ball park to watch Willie's team practice for the upcoming championship game. With Willie's father, Dirk Beaufont, away on a job in Texas for several months, Rip enjoyed serving as a surrogate male influence in the boy's life. He did his best to instill integrity and good values in his nephew, and showed a genuine interest in all of Willie's activities, from restoring an old Buick in the Beaufonts' garage to volunteering at the local food shelter for the underprivileged. In fact, Rip restocked shelves right beside Willie every Thursday morning.
At the end of their shift, they routinely rewarded themselves with chocolate shakes at the ice cream shop before Rip dropped Willie off at his house. Despite the fact I was trying to help Rip shed some extra baggage, I knew he'd never forfeit this weekly treat. It was "a tradition", he'd probably say should I ever chastise him for cheating on his diet.
With Rip at the ball park, I decided to use my free time beneficially. My intent was to see if Janelle Tyson-Simms was in the office or laundry room that morning. As I walked past the Harris's Fifth Wheel, I noticed the accordion blind over their living room window was about three inches shy of being pulled down completely. Their truck was gone, so I decided to take the opportunity to stand on the picnic table beside their rig and peer through the opening. Naturally, I'd never do something this flagrant unless there was something as crucial as solving a murder mystery hanging in the balance.
Looking through the void beneath their living room blind, I saw two large cardboard boxes on the kitchen table and a small Styrofoam cooler on an end table. Affixed on the side of the cooler was some kind of sticker. A national park decal, perhaps? Even if I weren't overdue for a new eyeglass prescription, the lettering would not have been clear enough for me to decipher.
Rip had taken our cell phone so I rushed back to our trailer and grabbed my iPad before returning to the Harris's Fifth Wheel. Cora had shown me how to utilize the tablet as a camera and I'd already known how to use my fingers to manipulate and enlarge a photo. I figured that maybe if I snapped a photo or two, I might be able to enlarge the sticker on the cooler and make out what was written on it. If nothing else, Cora had that app she'd used to enhance the images of the fingernail with black polish.
Note to self, I thought. Have Cora install that app on our iPad for future use.
Back at the Harris's site, I stepped back up on the picnic table bench to look through the window opening. Just as I raised the iPad and snapped a photo, a sudden presence on the screen startled me. I fell off the bench, clutching the iPad to my chest to protect it. Cuts and bruises would heal, but the expensive tablet would be forever rendered useless and a brand new one was not in this month's budget.
Second note to self. Try to remember this old body doesn't bounce back the way it used to decades ago. Accident
al falls is not one of the leading causes of death for senior citizens without good reason.
I was no Olga Korbut, even in my younger days, so I didn't exactly nail the landing when my body crashed down on the hard concrete. My right wrist had taken the full impact of the fall as I'd instinctually tried to brace my fall with my dominant hand while I held tight to the iPad with the other. The sudden impact also knocked the breath out of me and jarred my dentures loose. I bit my lower lip a split second before my upper plate was ejected, landing in the middle of a fire pit beside the picnic table. It took me a few seconds to recover my senses. I then reached over into the fire pit to retrieve my dentures and put them back in my mouth, something I'd have been wise to put off until the clinging fire pit debris had been rinsed off.
As I cocked my left arm to judge the severity of the nasty scrape on my elbow, the door opened and Barb gazed down at me. I was lying half-under the picnic table on their concrete patio, spitting out ashy saliva and trying to staunch the blood running down my arm. With venom in her voice, she asked, "What in the bloody hell are you doing?"
I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out except blood and black, gritty spittle. I couldn't think of one feasible excuse she'd accept. I was usually better prepared than this. Under normal circumstances, I had the ability to come up with some reasonably believable B.S. at the drop of a hat. But this situation was not normal, so I did the only thing I could think of. I stood up, dusted off my jeans with my hands, including the right one, which was now throbbing and beginning to swell, spit out a mouthful of bloody grime, wished the bewildered woman a good afternoon, and limped away without one word of explanation for my actions.
"What the –?" I heard Barb drop an F-bomb as I hobbled away.
Back at the trailer, after disinfecting and bandaging my elbow, I cleaned my dentures. I dropped them in a glass with several antibacterial, effervescent tablets that I usually rationed as if I were lost at sea and they were my few remaining morsels of food. I realize the tablets are only a nominal expense, but I feel they're an unnecessary one when tap water and baking soda usually does the trick.
Ripped To Shreds Page 17
