by Jackie Lynn
“Here,” she said, taking the connector from him. She walked around to the side where the appropriate attachment was located, knelt down, removed the cap, and fit one end of the black plastic pipe to it. Then she moved to the side of the vehicle and reattached it to the opening underneath. “Just make certain both ends are secure,” she said, reaching up and making sure it was a tight fit. “And you’ll probably want to get a support attachment to put underneath it,” she added, standing and wiping her hands on her legs, “if you plan to camp a lot.”
“A support attachment?” the man asked, clearly displaying his ignorance. They moved toward the front of the vehicle.
“It’s a long piece of plastic with small grooved legs. It just keeps your line off the ground, gives it a little gravity. Then you won’t get so filthy hooking and unhooking.”
She noticed his clothes and thought of saying something about dressing more casually for camper maintenance, then decided against it.
“Every rig is different, but the valve to turn it on and off should be somewhere near the cap.” She could tell by the expression on his face that he would never find it, so she returned to the hookup site, knelt back down, reached underneath, and twisted the valve.
She stood up and headed toward him again. “It’s open now, should work okay.” Then she asked, “Is this your first time camping?”
He smiled at her, stuck out his hand. “Robert Wellington,” he said, introducing himself. “From Stockton, California,” he added. “And yes, this would be my first time in a campground.”
Rose grinned. She held up her hands reminding him that she had just handled his sewer line.
He nodded, understanding.
Rose thought the man was attractive, charming, even if he was clueless about camping.
“Rose Franklin,” she said. “I live here, three sites down.” She pointed with her chin in the direction of her camper. “It takes a little while to figure things out, but once you do, it’s simple after that.”
He smiled and turned to see her rig, then turned back around to face her. “Pretty here,” he said. “The river and all.” He looked across the Mississippi. “I could see why you might stay here.” He peered at Rose.
She nodded in agreement. “What brought you to West Memphis?” she asked, stepping away from the rig and closer to the driveway.
“I’m an art dealer,” he replied. “I’m here to see about some pieces.”
Rose turned her face toward the town across the river. “In Memphis?” she asked, thinking it would make more sense that his pieces would be there rather than in Arkansas. She knew there wasn’t much in the way of art on her side of the Mississippi.
He shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Here in West Memphis.”
Rose was surprised.
“Well, where are my manners?” he said as he moved over to the door of his vehicle. “Please, come in and wash your hands.”
He demonstrated a bit of difficulty opening the door. Rose smiled and walked over, sliding open the latch.
He stepped aside. “Maybe you could give me a few lessons about motor homes,” he said, pulling the door open and gesturing for her to go in.
Rose walked up the steps. She knew she should be getting to town, but she was interested in seeing the interior of the large vehicle, a class-A motor home. She had been in only one since staying at Shady Grove, and that wasn’t as big as this one. She moved inside the entryway. Mr. Wellington came in behind her.
It was beautiful and had leather furniture, stainless-steel appliances, and thick woven rugs. Rose had never seen such luxury in a motor home before. She couldn’t help the sounds of delight she was making as she glanced around, taking everything in.
She turned to her right and saw the driver’s quarters, an oversized cab with room for three or four people to sit comfortably. Then she peered down the hallway on her left and saw two closed doors, which she assumed led to the bedrooms. And then, remaining where she was standing in the entryway, she spotted something else. “You’ve even got a fireplace!” she exclaimed.
Mr. Wellington appeared amused that his guest was so taken by the motor home he had only recently purchased. “Here, please,” he said, inviting her to see the entire unit.
Rose shook her head in amazement. She slowly walked through the living room, past the kitchen, stopping to admire the fireplace with gas logs, and then headed into the master bedroom. That room alone was almost twice the size of her entire trailer. She was impressed.
“Well, this is hardly what I call camping,” she said, returning to where he stood, still taking in everything around her. She tried not to touch anything, but she certainly felt the temptation. She remembered her hands, and, recognizing her concern, he pointed her to the sink in the bathroom behind the master suite.
Rose turned around, walked in the direction from which she had just come, and entered the plush bathroom. She headed over to the sink and washed her hands. She eyed the marble shower and the heavy Italian tile carefully placed on the floor, the golden fixtures, and the white porcelain sink. Then she regarded the beveled glass and the large skylight above her head.
After washing with a fragrant lavender soap, she searched around for a towel and saw a small closet near the toilet. Thinking that it might have the linen inside, she opened the door and saw shelves of heavy cotton towels and stacks of neatly pressed sheets. On the floor was a cardboard box that appeared completely out of place with all of the other luxurious items. She took one of the small hand towels and stared into the box.
Curiosity getting the best of her, she flipped open the lid and saw three pots. They were all large and differently shaped. Each bore markings, intricate patterns along the sides. They reminded her of the petroglyphs she had been studying, and she knew immediately that they were Indian pots.
She quickly closed the lid and placed the used towel beside the sink. She checked her reflection in the mirror and headed to the kitchen, where Mr. Wellington was making drinks.
“Soda?” he asked as he put ice in two glasses.
“Sure,” she replied, stepping around to the living room and standing by the sofa. She watched as he poured some soda from a bottle into the glasses and then walked over to her, handing her one.
“This is quite a motor home,” Rose said, taking a sip. “It’s unbelievable really.”
The man smiled. “Well, it’s as close to home away from home as I could find.” He motioned her over to sit down. She complied.
“Yeah, well it’s better than any home I ever had,” she said, remembering the houses in which she had lived.
She glanced around the walls and noticed a few paintings, a wall hanging.
“It’s Navajo,” he said, noticing her interest in the short, narrow piece that hung next to the window.
“Lovely,” she responded. She liked the rich colors, the delicate, smooth weaving pattern, the intricate design of the thick cotton threads.
“You must like Indian art,” she observed, thinking about the pots she had seen, as well as his belt buckle and the wall hanging.
“I admire all art, but yes, I particularly appreciate the art of this country’s native people,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.
She nodded.
“Every piece tells a story, and I find I like collecting the stories of others.” He bore a look of pride.
Rose finished her drink, suddenly recalling her task of finding the ladder, and knew she needed to get into town. She wanted to talk to Sheriff Montgomery and examine once again the dead man’s camper before the family drove it away. She stood up from the sofa.
“Well, good luck to you, Mr. Wellington. Let me know if you have any more trouble getting hooked up.” She walked into the kitchen and placed her glass in the sink. He followed her with his eyes.
“I work at the office and I’ve been camping awhile. I can answer most questions. Or if I can’t, I can certainly find someone who can.”
She glanced out of the window and sud
denly noticed that there was no other vehicle for the man to drive. She wondered how he planned to conduct his business.
“You have transportation into town?” she asked, turning around to face him.
He nodded. “I have friends here,” he replied. “They’ll be along soon enough to drive me to where I plan to conduct my business.”
“Great,” Rose responded, holding out her hand to shake his. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
He set down his glass, stood up from his seat, and shook her hand. Then he walked to the front door and opened it, this time taking note as to where the latch was located.
“Yes,” he said. “I imagine you will.”
Rose exited the motor home, hurried inside her own camper, found her keys, and got into her car.
She waved as she passed the man she had just met and immediately noticed in her rearview mirror that he was watching her even as she drove away from the campsites and headed past the office.
“Interesting guy,” she said to herself as she left Shady Grove. “But I hope he can get his money back on the motor home, because he’ll never make it camping.” She laughed to herself as she made the turn into town.
TWENTY-FOUR
By the time Rose arrived at the sheriff’s office, it was mid-afternoon. She parked and walked up to the front door, noticing that most of the staff seemed to have left for the day. When she got inside, she didn’t find one of the familiar receptionists. She stood at the front desk and then peeked around the corner into the large room with cubicles. She didn’t see a soul.
“Hello?” she called out, surprised to find the doors unlocked and nobody inside. “Anybody home?”
There was no reply.
“Hello?” she yelled again.
“Yeah, just a minute,” a voice responded.
Rose heard a toilet flush and a door close. She had obviously interrupted someone.
Rose waited, feeling a bit embarrassed by her intrusion. She noticed the clock on the wall. It was after 3:00 P.M. It surprised her to find so much of the day had gone. She looked out in the parking lot and saw that the sheriff’s car was not there. She remembered the accident from the day before and assumed the front end was being repaired.
“Oh, hello again.” It was the same deputy who had taken her statement the first day of the murder investigation. He was tucking in his shirt.
She had forgotten his name, but he recognized her. “Ms. Franklin,” he said.
“Hey,” Rose replied cheerfully. “Good to see you again.”
He smiled. “Roy,” he remarked. It appeared he could tell she didn’t remember him by name. “Everybody’s gone,” he reported.
“I see,” she replied. “Guess it’s getting late.”
“Well, it’s almost quitting time anyway,” he explained. He smoothed down the sides of his hair.
“So, what can I help you with?” he asked. “Think of something else to add to your statement?”
He eyed her, noticed the bruise on her forehead, and remembered hearing about her reported kidnapping, the trip the sheriff had to make to Oklahoma to pick her up and bring her home. “Or are you here to make another one?” He grinned.
“No, I’ve made all the statements I’m required to, Roy,” she replied, adding his name just to sound smart.
He examined her closely. “Maybe up until now, but from what I hear, we might ought to keep out a running statement for you.” He leaned against the doorframe, waiting for her response. Apparently, he thought he was being funny.
“Yeah, whatever,” she replied, deciding not to engage in this conversation.
“I was trying to find the sheriff,” she said. “Is he in?”
The deputy stared at her for a minute, disappointed that she wouldn’t play along.
“Nah.” He shook his head and stood up straight. “He’s been gone most of the day. Had to take the car over to the body shop this morning; then he had to meet with somebody about the murder. He was supposed to be back by now. He missed lunch.”
Rose waited for him to continue. It sounded to her like there was more he was going to say. There was.
“It was a retirement party for one of the girls,” he said. “We met at Marco’s at twelve o’clock. Montgomery was supposed to be the master of ceremonies.” The deputy stretched his back and twisted from side to side, as if he was tired of sitting.
“That doesn’t sound like the sheriff,” Rose said, surprised at this news. “Has anybody heard from him?” she asked.
“Yeah, he called about eleven-thirty and said to go on without him, that he would try to get there as soon as he could. Then he said to make up for it, everybody could go home a couple of hours early.” He nodded. “So everybody did.”
“But you,” Rose said, stating the obvious.
“Right. I wanted to finish some of my desk work.”
That explains where everyone is, Rose thought. “Did he say who he was meeting?” Rose asked.
The deputy narrowed his eyes at the woman. He wasn’t sure how much he should reveal. Rose could tell he was sizing her up.
“I just want to speak to him about something I remembered from the crime scene.” She thought that would make him feel better about her reason to see his boss.
He nodded. “He said some government agent had contacted him. I guess that means the FBI. Anyway, he said that he was going to meet him at his house, escort him over to the impound lot, and introduce him to the victim’s family.”
Rose didn’t know what lot he meant.
Seeing her puzzlement, he explained. “The impound lot,” he repeated. “Down on Second Street, by the warehouses,” he added. “Where we keep the vehicles we take.”
“Oh,” Rose responded. Then she thought for a minute. “The camper, is that where that is?” she asked.
“I guess,” he replied. “I haven’t heard from Bunker—he’s the one who brought it back. But it doesn’t matter, because you can’t go in there.” He folded his arms across his chest, a gesture of authority that she recognized as one of many her father used to give.
“I didn’t say I was planning to go in there,” she replied. She was growing impatient with the deputy’s attitude. She tried to keep her cool.
“Well, from what I hear, that’ll be the first time you do what you’re supposed to do.” He stared at her.
Rose chose not to respond to his wisecrack. “May I use the phone?” she asked, pointing to the main phone on the front desk. She figured if she couldn’t see the sheriff, she might as well try to contact the dead man’s relatives.
“Be my guest,” he replied. “Just close the door behind you when you leave. I’m going back to finish my paperwork,” he added. Then he turned and headed toward the row of desks.
Rose picked up the receiver and dialed information. She asked for the number for the Motel 8 off of I-40, the place they had dropped off the victim’s nephew and his son. The hotel clerk answered the phone.
“John Sunspeaker’s room,” Rose requested.
The operator paused. Rose assumed she was locating the room number.
“I can ring it for you,” the clerk replied. “But I saw them leave not more than an hour ago, and they haven’t come back.”
“Oh.” Rose wasn’t sure whether or not to leave a message. The Sunspeakers might not remember her, and she didn’t know if they would even want to see anyone after identifying the body and making all the arrangements they would have to make.
“They left with the police,” the clerk reported, sounding eager to share the news. “But I don’t think they were in trouble or anything,” she added.
Rose could only guess about the gossip exchanged at interstate motels.
“Was it the sheriff?” Rose asked.
“You mean Montgomery?” the clerk replied.
“Yeah.” At first, it surprised Rose to hear his name, but then she realized that probably everybody in West Memphis knew who the sheriff was.
“Nah, I ain’t seen him,” she said.
“This was a guy dressed in a dark uniform.”
Rose could hear her talking to another guest. She waited a minute. “What kind of dark uniform?” she then asked, startled that another law officer would have been sent to pick the Sunspeakers up. The people at the sheriff’s departments wore light-colored uniforms, a tan shirt and pants.
“I don’t know.” The clerk hesitated. “Can you hold on a minute?”
“Sure,” Rose said.
She listened to the clerk doing a transaction with another guest. There was a little chatter. The minutes passed.
“There. Sorry,” the clerk announced. “Who were you waiting for?” she asked, having forgotten the conversation she had been having with Rose.
“The Sunspeakers,” Rose said. “You were saying they left with a uniformed officer.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.”
“Do you remember what kind of uniform it was?” Rose asked.
The woman paused again. “It was dark, looked like a patrolman’s uniform.”
“Highway Patrol?” Rose asked.
“Yeah,” she answered. “But not from Arkansas, I know some of those guys.” She started another conversation with somebody else in the office.
“Where, then?” Rose asked, trying to get her attention.
“What?” the clerk replied.
“Where was the patrolman from?” she asked, her voice slightly raised.
“From Oklahoma,” the clerk reported, sounding weary of the conversation. “Look, I got to go.”
“Wait,” Rose shouted, hoping she hadn’t hung up yet. “Did he say his name?”
“What?”
“Did the patrolman give his name?” Rose dreaded the answer.
“Yeah, I think it was”—she paused—“Cupwell. Or maybe Capwell? I’m not sure.”
“Caldwell?” Rose almost shouted.
“That’s it, Caldwell.” The woman seemed pleased with herself. “So, do you want to leave a message?”
Rose threw down the phone without a reply.
“Deputy!” She called out as she hurried around the front desk. “Deputy, we got trouble!”
