He resembled a forlorn puppy as he said, “I never unhooked it. It's still by that other hydrant—I hope. Be right back.” He took off in his truck and PJ, water squishing out of her shoes, returned to Fred, who was hooking up his hose to the hydrant behind his site.
She explained to Fred where Punk went. He shook his ahead again. He did that a lot, PJ thought.
“Are you guys sure you don't want to go home, and spend a nice weekend in front of the TV?”
PJ, with her dirty face, mud-splattered sweatshirt, wet shoes, and tears behind her eyes, pictured the commercial of the people around a fire laughing, surrounded by stars, and shook her head.
The door slammed on Fred's camper. “Don't you listen to him. Everything will work out okay and you'll have a fine time.” A woman sprouting gray frizzy hair picked her way down the steps, hanging on to the side bar. She held out her hand. “Doris,” she said. “Pleased to meetcha—?”
“PJ—that is, Patty Jo. But everyone calls me PJ.” She shook hands with the woman.
Doris indicated a large bag of oatmeal cookies on the picnic table. “Have a cookie. You look like you need it.”
PJ savored the spices and crunch of the cookie. She turned to Fred. “What did you mean about Con Conniver?”
“The guy has ripped off half the people in this campground. The used campers he sells have never been checked or prepped. Ask Aletha next door.” He nodded toward a shiny tan and white Class C in the next site.
“But that looks brand new,” PJ said.
“She didn't buy that one from the Con-man,” Fred said.
“She got the one before that from Happy Camper Heaven,” said Doris softly. “And it was fine until Eliza died.”
Chapter Five
“Died?” PJ almost choked on her cookie. “Someone died in her camper?”
“Eliza was her cat. Camper had a gas leak and the cat ran out of lives because of it,” Fred said.
“Aletha was lucky it wasn't her,” Doris said, “And she did love that cat.”
“That's awful.” PJ watched Punk pull back in and get out with the coil of white hose. She told Fred and Doris she'd see them later and hurried to get one end of it to connect to the hose attached to the hydrant behind Fred's camper. Once the tank was full again, PJ washed her face and changed into dry clothes. Punk put up the TV antenna and fiddled with the remote while PJ got out the things they had put away while on the road.
She placed an artificial arrangement of blue daisies on the little dinette table while she told Punk about Aletha's cat and Fred's comments about Conniver.
Punk shrugged. “I know we've had some trouble so far but most of it was my fault, not Conniver's. I still think we got a pretty good deal.”
“I hope so.” PJ wasn't convinced. “Well, I need to get some supper going. Would you light the stove?”
“Sure—and when I went back to get the hose, I saw a sign that the campground is having a 'Ghost Story Bonfire' this evening. That might be fun.” Punk was fiddling with a butane torch and one of the burner knobs on the stove. “Huh. This thing doesn't seem to work. I think I'm going to have to ask Fred for more help.”
PJ busied herself getting out some pork chops and a box of Rice-A-Roni for supper. She heard Punk and Fred talking outside, and soon Punk was back inside looking stressed.
“This is getting frustrating. Fred says both propane tanks are empty.”
“What? Didn't Conniver tell us they would both be full when we picked up the trailer?”
“Yeah, he told us that,” Punk ran his hand through his thinning blonde hair, “but I don't think we got that in writing. I should've checked, I guess.” He picked up his billfold from the counter and heaved a sigh. “I have to go to town to get these exchanged. 'Sposed to get pretty cold tonight and we're going to need the furnace.”
“Oh, Punk,” PJ said, crestfallen. “This was supposed to be relaxing. I'm starting to think we got taken.”
He put his arm around her. “It'll be okay. Why don't I pick up some sub sandwiches for tonight, and then we'll go to the bonfire.”
She nodded, afraid if she spoke she might start crying. This was all her idea and nothing was working out.
But while he was gone, she sat outside in her lawn chair and couldn't stay worried long, as the setting sun sent shafts of golden light through the trees and the smell of woodsmoke drifted through the campground.
It was her first chance to look around. There was quite a variety of RV units around them. She had seen the travel trailer across the road belonging to Fred and Doris, of course, and Aletha's new Class C. But now she noticed a big fancy motorhome next door, a couple of popups down the road and a cute little silver thing on the other side of them.
Many of the campsites sported Halloween decorations ranging from a few carved pumpkins to large blow-up scarecrows and witches. The schedule said there would be judging on Saturday afternoon for the best decorated campsite.
As she watched, the people in one of the popups left with their two children, walking toward the bonfire area. A well-built blonde appeared from the other side of the motorhome, looked both ways down the road, and scurried across toward the popup. There was a large stack of firewood by the fire ring and the blonde picked up several chunks and hurried back across the road with them. She hadn't noticed PJ watching her.
That was odd. Maybe the woman knew the people in the popup, but she acted sneaky. But why would someone with an expensive motorhome need to steal firewood from people in a small popup? It didn't make much sense to PJ.
When Punk returned with the propane and their sandwiches, they ate their supper at the picnic table (which PJ of course had covered with a blue-and-white flowered vinyl tablecloth.) She told her husband about their neighbor's unusual behavior.
“But maybe it isn't unusual in a campground—maybe people share things like firewood,” she finished her story.
“I doubt it. People have to pay good money for firewood.”
She shrugged and gathered up the wrappings from their sandwiches. “I'll take care of these, and get my jacket. It is getting chilly.”
But they both looked up as a blood-curdling scream came from the direction of the bonfire.
Chapter Six
The scream was followed by a roll of laughter.
“What was that?” PJ said.
Punk raised his eyebrows. “They are telling ghost stories, after all.”
“You mean, it's just special effects?”
“Maybe. Get your coat and we'll go see.” He grinned at her. “It can't be much scarier than what's happened to us so far today.”
She agreed and soon joined him carrying a jacket, gloves, and a fleece blanket.
“You should be toasty,” he said as he folded up their lawn chairs to take along. He stuffed a small flashlight in his jacket pocket and they headed down the road in the darkening campground. The wind had picked up a little, rubbing the tree branches arching over them in a bone-rattling chatter. Wispy clouds sailed past a thin crescent moon.
PJ took Punk's hand and felt a sense of well being settle over her. That feeling was reinforced as they neared a picnic shelter with a large bonfire blazing off to the side. PJ was excited. The scene looked like the TV ad: families and couples gathered around the fire, laughing and enjoying themselves. Punk and PJ found space for their chairs on the far side of the fire.
When PJ sat down and looked around, she realized the woman from the motorhome was sitting next to her. The woman said her name was Gigi and PJ resisted asking her why she was taking firewood from another site. Across the way was a woman about PJ's age, sitting in a lawn chair with one leg in a cast to her knee. That might explain the golf cart they had seen parked near the bonfire area.
A young man, tall and thin, got up and introduced himself as Manny Short. He began to tell the old story about the man with a hook. He spoke in a low, soft voice, building the drama so that the whole group was straining forward not to miss anything. The cracking of th
e fire and the wind in the trees served as an effective backdrop to the story.
PJ could picture the young couple parked on a deserted road, hearing the announcement on the radio of an escaped murderer who had a hook in place of his right hand. She leaned closer to Punk as Short described the scratching on the car door and the fear of the couple.
“They finally get to the girl's home. She gets out of the car and turns to close the door. As she reaches for the handle, she spots, hanging on the handle, a bloody hook. She screams.”
Another scream split the air. It came from the other side of the group—the woman with the cast fell forward out of her lawn chair, continuing to scream and swinging her arms wide. In doing so, the mug of coffee in her hand struck the face of a woman next to her, spilling the contents down the poor victim's shirt. Behind the first woman, in the shadows, PJ could make out a slight figure all in black. The firelight glinted off a shiny hook protruding from one sleeve. The figure turned and disappeared into the woods, chased by a small yapping dog.
The rest of the group around the fire sat stunned for a brief moment before pandemonium erupted. People rushed to help the two women. The first woman stayed on hands and knees, trying to get back up. A man, presumably her husband, helped her back into her chair and tried to calm her.
“I felt something sharp on my neck,” she sobbed. A yelp came from the woods behind her. “Snooky!” she wailed. “He went after that man—he'll get hurt!” But her fears were soon allayed as the tan Pomeranian tore back into the circle and raced around the couple in a barking frenzy.
Meanwhile, the other woman mopped coffee off her shirt with a handkerchief while a man examined a large bruise beginning to form on her cheek. PJ turned when she heard more yelling. It was their neighbor, Doris, and she was on her tiptoes, thrusting a finger into the face of Manny Short.
“What's the matter with you? Don't you realize people can get hurt from that kind of stunt?”
Short held his hands up. “I didn't have anything to do with it! I don't know that guy.”
“Oh yeah?” Doris shouted. “How did he know you were telling that story?”
“It was on the flyer—,” but he was interrupted as a ranger walked up to them.
“Let's cool it, folks,” he said, and turned to Doris. “Ma'am, please calm down. We intend to find out what happened and who was responsible.”
Fred came up and took his wife's arm. “C'mon, Doris. Let them take care of it. But,” he said to the ranger, “I'll bet the farm that Con Conniver had something to do with it.”
Chapter 7
“Conniver?” Punk said to Fred. “What would he have to do with it?”
“He sponsors the activities for this weekend. Did he give you a discount slip for your campsite?”
“Yeah.”
“It's an advertising gimmick. And he would pull a stunt like that. He's crazy.”
“That's for sure,” came a voice behind them. PJ turned around to see Gigi standing there.
“Have you met Gigi?” Fred asked Punk and PJ. “She was Conniver's fourth wife.”
“Fourth?” PJ said in disbelief before she could stop herself. But she was thinking that explained the big motorhome.
Gigi grimaced. “You're thinking I should have known better? You're right.”
PJ didn't know what to say so just kept quiet. The group broke up with the woman with the cast being helped back to the golf cart, clutching her barking dog.
They walked back with Fred and Doris. PJ said “Why would Con Conniver even be here?”
“Oh, he always comes here for Halloween so he can take credit for all of the activities. He's probably camped down in the lower loop,” Fred said.
“He is such a sleaze,” Doris added.
“Do you know the woman with the cast?” PJ asked her.
Doris nodded. “That's Bonnie Bruns. She has a broken ankle. They towed a golf cart out here for her to get around in.”
“Could have been one of those boys, though,” Fred said.
“What boys?” PJ said.
“Tom and Adela next to you in the Airstream.”
PJ looked blank.
“That little silver trailer. They have a boy Blake—13 or 14—and he's got a friend with him. They've been sneaking around playing pranks since we got here. One of them might have done it as a joke.”
When they got back, Punk invited them all for a beer. “I owe you something for all the help you gave me today,” he told Fred.
“You do,” Fred agreed, and then proceeded to show Punk how to get a nice campfire going.
As they sat around the fire visiting, another couple came walking along the road. They stopped and whispered and pointed at Punk and PJ's camper. They walked over to the fire.
“Who's trailer is that?” the man asked.
Punk raised his hand. “Why?”
Instead of answering the question, the man said “Where'd you get it?”
“Happy Camper Heaven. You want to see inside? It's all blue. We call it 'Blue Heaven,'“ Punk said.
The man and his wife looked at each other, and then shook their heads.
“I think we've seen inside. We used to own it,” the woman said.
“Really?” PJ sat up straighter and smiled at them. “Did you trade up for something newer?”
“No. We took it back after a month and ended up buying another used one from a different dealer.”
Punk was alarmed. “Why?”
“There were so many things wrong with it. First time we camped, we had a heavy rain and the roof leaks. Furnace doesn't work right—we couldn't ever get it to stay lit,” the man said.
Punk and PJ looked at each other in dismay.
“Then we found out two other people had owned the same trailer for a short time—found so many problems, they took it back too. I'm Stan, by the way, and this is my wife, Shirley,” Stan said. “It's kind of a bait and switch scheme he's got going.”
“So did he give you your money back?” Punk asked.
“Oh, sure,” Stan plopped his ample body on the bench of the picnic table. Shirley sat beside him. “All except a thousand bucks. We considered ourselves lucky cuz we didn't know then that he'd done this before. He would have given me all my money back on a more expensive unit but we didn't want that. We weren't sure we ever wanted to camp again.”
“But—,” Punk shook his head. “I don't get it.”
Stan leaned forward. “He has several used ones that he sells over and over. If someone ends up keeping one of them, fine, but if not, and he makes $1000 or so each time he sells it. He comes out smelling like a rose.”
PJ said, “But he didn't pressure us at all! Actually he was trying to sell us a smaller, cheaper one.”
Stan glanced over at Punk's pickup. “And then he told you your truck was great and it would pull anything, right?”
Punk's mouth dropped open. “Yeaah.”
Stan nodded. “Did the same thing to me. So of course I thought I needed a bigger trailer. Thing is, I ran into the previous owners in a campground just like you did, and they had the same problems with it. Conniver doesn't fix anything before he resells them. He doesn't even prep them.”
Punk told them about the water faucets and the empty propane tanks.
“Have you tried the furnace yet?” Stan asked.
“No, I just got the propane tanks filled before we went to the bonfire. I thought I'd turn it on before we go to bed tonight.”
“Let's go try it now,” Fred said, and Stan, Fred, and Punk all trooped into the trailer.
PJ had just asked Shirley where she and Stan lived when a loud KA-BOOM shattered the night.
Chapter Eight
At the sound of the shot-like noise, the women turned toward the trailer with wide eyes, gripping the arms of their lawn chairs. The door was flung open, banging against the side of the trailer, and the three men stumbled out. At first Punk bent over, hands on his knees, and PJ was afraid he was going to be sick. But he gasped,
sucked in a big breath and stood up, looking at the other two men.
Fred seemed the least rattled and walked over to the ground underneath the furnace exhaust vent. He picked something up and held it up for the others to see.
“What is it?” Stan asked.
“A wasp nest—mud dauber, I guess. Blew out of your furnace vent. Have you got a CO detector in there?”
“I don't think so. Haven't seen one,” Punk said. “That's what made the noise?”
“Sure did. I wouldn't try using that furnace tonight then. There could be more nests in it. It's not supposed to get down below 50 or so. I have a little space heater you can borrow. Or maybe you'll just have to cuddle a little with the missus.” Fred winked and gave Punk an elbow in the side.
Punk looked dazed, walked over to the furnace vent, and shook his head. “I can't believe this!”
PJ could tell he was losing control—a very rare occurrence. She put her face in her hands.
Doris patted her knee. “There, there—everyone's okay.”
PJ shook her head. “You don't understand. This was all my idea. I wanted to try camping, not Punk. I saw the ad for Happy Camper Heaven and insisted we go there. What a disaster! We could have taken a nice trip to Hawaii and several other places for what we paid for that camper.”
“I know,” Shirley said. “We felt the same way after we bought that trailer. Thought we'd never camp again, but my brother talked us into another try. Now we love it.”
PJ turned to Doris. “Did you say Conniver is staying in this campground?”
Doris nodded. “In the lower loop. Why?”
“Because tomorrow, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind. He can't keep getting away with this.”
The next morning dawned a clear, crisp fall day. PJ slept well with the help of Fred's little space heater and a couple of extra blankets. Punk was a late sleeper, so over coffee at the little dinette, she decided to go for a walk before breakfast. She studied a campground flyer showing several hiking trails, grabbed her new walking stick, and decided to take the shortest loop that ran along the top of one of the little canyons that the park was famous for.
The trailhead was well-marked at one end of the campground road. In the next half-hour, she ambled along the trail, peering over the edge at a lookout point and spotting a trickle of water that was probably a healthy waterfall in the spring. Woodpeckers provided rhythm to her walk and squirrels performed gymnastics in the trees for her entertainment. She returned to the camper buoyed up and eager to face the day, all of the frustrations of the day before vanished.
The Long, Wrong Trailer Page 2
