Punk was up and scowling into his coffee mug.
“How'd you sleep?” she asked.
“Not well,” he said. “I tossed and turned all night.”
“Really? I slept great. I'm so sorry you didn't—maybe we need to buy a new mattress?”
Punk shook his head, still dejected. “I don't think we want to invest any more money in this thing. I think we should take it back. We should have researched this more—talked to some people. We don't know what we're doing.”
She got out the toaster to fix him a bagel. “Punk, I know yesterday was awful, and Conniver didn't prep this the way he was supposed to, but there's nothing basically wrong with it.”
“That guy Stan said the roof leaks.”
PJ thought a moment. “We had rain the last two days and I didn't notice any problems. Well, it's too early in the day to make any decisions. And it's a beautiful day out. We should enjoy it while we're here. I went for a short hike but there's a longer loop that goes down into the canyons. Would you go with me after you eat?”
Punk mumbled something that sounded like assent. He wasn't a big morning person.
The trailhead for the canyon loop was at the opposite end of the campground from the one that PJ had taken earlier. Punk, too, felt his spirits lift as they followed the trail down to where it joined a rocky stream. As they walked upstream, shuffling through the fallen leaves, it led them into one of the canyons formed by the stream thousands of years before. The walls of the canyon presented colorful striations and rock formations.
Punk was craning his neck up at what appeared to be a small cave high in the wall of the canyon when PJ nudged him. She pointed ahead on the trail. Someone was kneeling on the trail with his head in the bushes along the side.
Punk hurried ahead. “Hey! Lose something, buddy?” There was no answer and the man didn't move. When they reached him, they saw that his head was turned at an unnatural angle. It was Con Conniver and he was very dead.
Chapter Nine
PJ stood with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, and emitted little squeaks. Punk turned and looked up the cliff.
“I wonder if he fell from up there.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911. He put his hand over his other ear and moved back down the canyon toward the main path, trying to make contact. PJ followed. No way she was staying with a dead body.
He closed the phone and turned to her. “Can't get through. We'll have to get back to the campground.”
At the entrance to the campground, one of the rangers was manning the check-in booth. Punk drew himself up and leaned in the window toward the very young-looking ranger.
“We'd like to report a body—”
“He doesn't mean that we like it but that we have to—,” PJ put in.
Punk gave her a look. “He knows that.”
“A what?” said the ranger, looking from one to the other.
“There's a body—”
“Wait. You said that before. A body of what?”
Punk sighed. “Of a person.”
The ranger just stared at him.
“Dead,” Punk said. “The body is dead.”
“Dead? Where?”
“His head is like—,” PJ added, crooking her neck and giving herself a cramp. “Ow!”
“We were on that hiking trail—um—in the canyon...,” Punk began as PJ whipped the campground map out of her pocket. She spread it out on the ledge in front of the ranger. She jabbed her finger at it.
“Here. Meadow Sage Canyon. He's on this trail.”
Understanding began to dawn on the ranger's face as he picked up the phone and dialed. “Someone died?” he asked as he waited for the dispatcher to pick up. “And you're sure he's dead?”
Punk and PJ both nodded, as he spoke into the phone.
“Yeah, this is Ranger Goetz out at Cliff Edge Park. We've just had a death reported. It's on one of the trails...I have the people here at the check-in booth who reported it. Thanks.” He hung up.
“I have to ask you to wait here for the sheriff,” he said to them. “So, does it look like he had a heart attack or something?”
“It looks like he fell off the cliff,” Punk said.
“He might have had a heart attack and that's why he fell,” PJ said.
Punk thought about it a little more. “So many people hated that Conniver guy, maybe somebody pushed him.”
“Wait!” said the ranger. “The dead guy is Con Conniver?”
“Yeah,” said Punk. “Did you know him?”
“Just that he's a big RV dealer and he's sponsoring all the Halloween activities this weekend. Wow.”
It wasn't long before a sheriff's car pulled into the park, followed by an emergency vehicle. The sheriff jumped out of the car and strode over to the booth. He was slight, brown-haired, and also looked very young. PJ considered that perhaps the perspective of her senior citizen status made everyone in authority look very young. Either that, or there had been a revolution she hadn't heard about. His gun belt holding the usual law enforcement paraphernalia appeared to weigh him down.
He stuck out his hand to Punk. “Jackson Turner—that is, Sheriff Turner. You the folks that found the...body?”
“Yes,” said Punk. “On a hike this morning. This is my wife, Patty Jo.”
The sheriff nodded. “Can you lead me there?”
“Sure.”
The sheriff motioned the EMTs to follow and they set off down the path with Punk and PJ in the lead. Before long, they reached the point where PJ had first spotted Con Conniver.
Sheriff Turner said, “Are you sure it's not just someone who is sick?”
“Yes, we're sure,” PJ said. A little exasperated. They may be old, but they weren't batty. “He's quite dead.”
The sheriff took the lead and the EMT team moved ahead of Punk and PJ. Once they had gathered around the body, PJ couldn't see anything anyway and stood looking around at the scenery. A flash of white in a witch hazel bush a little ways from the body caught her eye.
She moved closer and realized it was a scrap of paper. Pulling it out, she read at Black Hawk Point or you'll be sorry. The message was printed in block letters and was torn from a larger piece of paper.
“Where's Black Hawk Point?” she asked.
Punk, who was reading over her shoulder, said “I dunno.”
But one of the EMTs heard and looked over, and then pointed at the cliff above her. “Up there.”
Chapter Ten
PJ looked up, and then pulled out her trail map. She said to Punk, “That's where I was hiking this morning before you got up.”
The sheriff had come over to see what she was looking at. “What do you have there?”
“This?” She held out the trail map.
“No, in your other hand.”
She handed him the scrap of paper. “It was stuck in that bush.”
He took it carefully in two gloved fingers. “You shouldn't be touching anything around here. We don't know if this is a crime scene or not.”
PJ's jaw dropped. “A crime scene?”
“Well, we don't know yet if he jumped, fell, or was pushed.”
“You don't think he might have died from a heart attack or something right here?”
The sheriff shook his head. “The medical examiner will be able to tell us more, but from the apparent breaks in his legs, he must have fallen on his feet, broken his ankles, and pitched forward.” He turned and dismissed the EMTs and pulled out his radio to call for a photographer and a couple of deputies.
“Did you say you were hiking up there this morning?” he asked after he finished his call.
“Yes, before breakfast.”
“Did you see anyone else? Mr. Conniver, for example?”
“No, not a soul. It was pretty early.”
He looked at her oddly, like he didn't quite believe her.
“Did you know Conniver?”
“Not very well. We bought our trailer from him. A lot of people d
idn't like him because he didn't deal very fairly.”
“PJ,” Punk cautioned, “we don't know that for sure.”
Sheriff Turner started to ask something else but changed his mind. “You can go back now. Stop at the check-in booth and be sure the ranger has your names and all of your contact information. Stay in the campground—I'll need to talk to you later.”
They agreed and headed back up the trail. In the distance, they could hear sirens.
“What do you think?” Punk asked her as they picked their way back up the trail.
“About what?” PJ asked.
“Do you think somebody hated him enough to kill him?”
“I would say no except for that note.”
Punk continued walking and thinking. The beauty of the morning was somewhat dampened for both of them. “Maybe the note didn't have anything to do with this. Maybe it's been there a while.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But remember that rain we just had. It couldn't have been there too long or it would have been all washed out.”
They climbed the rest of the way in silence, mostly because they were too out of breath to talk. They gave their names to the ranger, as instructed, and then returned to their campsite.
Doris and Fred waved at them from their picnic table. Stan and Shirley were there also.
“C'mon over and have some muffins,” Doris called.
PJ nodded. “We'll get our coffee!”
Inside, they each poured a fresh cup of coffee and PJ added creamer. She ran a comb through her hair, fluffing it up a little, and reapplied her lipstick.
Punk was unnaturally quiet and even jumped a little when she came up behind him and touched him on the elbow to say she was ready.
When they reached the little group, Doris held out a basket of pumpkin muffins, still warm from the oven.
“Well,” Shirley said wiping her mouth, “Did you give Conniver an earful?”
PJ had forgotten her plan from the night before to talk to the dealer.
“Not exactly,” she said and glanced at Punk.
He shrugged. “The sheriff didn't tell us we couldn't talk about it.” Punk always pretty much felt that he was free to do anything that hadn't been expressly forbidden.
“Sheriff?” said Fred. “What?”
Punk proceeded to tell them about their discovery on their hike.
“Conniver's dead?” Stan said. “Can't say I'll miss him.”
“What do they think happened?” Doris asked.
“They think he fell—or was pushed—off the cliff,” PJ said.
They all started talking at once, except Doris. She was as white as the siding on their camper.
“What's going on?” Gigi was walking by when she heard all the commotion. She came up to the group, every hair in place, makeup polished, wearing an orange sweater, black pants, and black boots with little heels. PJ didn't know if the boots were tight but the rest certainly was.
“Has something happened?” Gigi persisted, as the group clammed up like a well-directed chorus at the end of a song. They just stared at her.
Chapter Eleven
Punk and PJ looked at each other. Gigi was an ex-wife and they figured it was the sheriff's job to inform her of her ex-husband's demise.
Gigi stamped her little booted foot. “Tell me! What's going on?”
Shirley took charge. “Gigi! Come sit here and let me get you some coffee.”
Gigi sat. “I don't drink coffee. I don't mean to be rude, but the way you're all acting—”
“Ice water?” Doris asked.
“I'm afraid there's some bad news.” Punk decided it was too late to keep the cat in the bag. He told his story again to the wide-eyed Gigi.
“Oh my Lord,” Gigi said and PJ moved to comfort her. Just because they were divorced didn't mean it wouldn't be a shock to her.
But then Gigi said, “They'll think I did it!”
PJ removed her hand from Gigi's shoulder. “Why would they think that?”
“Because I hated him, and he's kept me destitute.”
PJ glanced over at the big motor home across the road. “But—”
Gigi scoffed. “That's one of his lemons that he couldn't get rid of. Looks good on the outside, but that's it. The judge let him get by with that and no alimony. How am I supposed to live?” she whined.
PJ thought maybe a job might be a possibility but didn't say it.
“I was out walking this morning by myself. I don't have an alibi,” Gigi added.
“How do you know it happened this morning?” Fred said.
Gigi stammered a little. “Well, I saw him last night. I know that was who scared that poor woman at the bonfire. It must have happened this morning.”
“Or in the middle of the night,” Shirley said.
As they speculated, PJ realized that she didn't have an alibi either and had walked the trail past Black Hawk Point. No wonder the sheriff had given them rather skeptical looks. Fortunately for her, there seemed to be no shortage of people with motives.
Gigi stood up. “I need to get out of here. Any one want to go to town for lunch?”
PJ shook her head. “The sheriff said he would come to talk to us after they get the bod—I mean, Mr. Con—I mean, your husband, ex-husband, that is, out of the canyon.”
“They might not be letting anyone out of the campground,” Punk added.
Gigi threw up her hands. “I think I'll go mix myself a drink.” They watched her flounce across the road.
“Hmmm. Verrry interesting,” said Fred with his best Dracula accent.
“I wonder what they'll do about the activities this afternoon,” Shirley said.
In the excitement of the morning, PJ had forgotten about the planned festivities. Besides the campsite decorating contest, there was Trick-or-Treating for kids scheduled at 6:00, followed by a 'Haunted Hayride.'
“I bet they'll go ahead—especially if people are confined to the campground. They won't disappoint the kids,” Shirley said.
“You're probably right.”
As they visited, PJ noticed a couple outside by the trailer Fred had called an 'Airflow' or something. She didn't see any boys, though. Maybe too early for them. It wasn't long before the sheriff's car pulled up.
He walked up to the group around the picnic table, trying to swagger a bit, PJ thought. He nodded a subtle Old West greeting to the rest of the group and focused on Punk and PJ.
“Can I talk to you folks a minute?”
“Sure,” said Punk. “We can go over to our place right across the road.”
“Good.”
After they sat down at the picnic table, Sheriff Turner looked at PJ.
“You said you were out walking this morning by Black Hawk Point?”
“Yeaah. There's a trail from that end of the campground.” She pointed.
“What time was that?”
She thought a moment. People had told them time never mattered when you were camping. Who knew that at some point you might have to account for your movements down to the minute?
“Well,” she paused, buying time. “I think it was about 7:00 when I got up. I made coffee and got dressed, drank some coffee looked at the map...maybe about 8:00?”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No.”
“You didn't see Mr. Conniver?”
“No, nobody.”
Again he looked skeptical and turned to Punk. “Maybe you'd better tell me what your problems were with the victim.”
Chapter Twelve
“What? You think we did this?” Punk's face flushed.
“I need to talk to everyone who had dealings with Mr. Conniver,” the sheriff said.
Punk sighed and filled him in on their problems with their trailer while the sheriff made notes.
“Did you try and get satisfaction on these issues?”
“We haven't even seen him,” Punk said.
“Unless he was the guy who scared that lady at the bonfire last night,” PJ sai
d. “But we never spoke to him.”
“Did you have any kind of guarantee on the trailer?”
“Yessss—,” Punk tried to think what Conniver had told and given them.
PJ said, “The papers are in the trailer. I'll get them.”
The sheriff opened the file on the table and shuffled through the papers. On the third page of one document, he found what he was looking for.
“This 'as is' box is checked; looks like you got what you got once you drove it off the lot.”
Punk's face fell. “But, he said there's a list of items that were inspected, but the furnace has a problem, the propane tanks were empty—,” he stopped as the sheriff pulled another sheet out and laid it in front of Punk.
The items Punk mentioned were on the list, but nothing was checked. PJ looked at him in bewilderment. How did they miss this?
The sheriff got up from the bench. “Sorry folks. I'm not your lawyer or your accountant. But what this tells me is that you at least had reason for a grudge against the victim. And you, Mrs. Norton, admit to having opportunity by being in the area. As for means, it wouldn't take much effort to push a man of the victim's size off a cliff. Lucky for you, it appears that you have plenty of company in all three areas. But don't leave this park. And you might want to contact your lawyer for more reasons than your purchase.” He nodded toward the trailer, touched the brim of his hat in farewell, and turning on his heel, headed back across the road to Fred and Doris's.
Punk and PJ watched him speak briefly to Fred and then head toward Gigi's motorhome.
Punk turned to her. “You really didn't see Conniver this morning when you were out there? You can tell me. Accidents happen...”
“Norbert Norton!” PJ almost yelled. “You really think that I...?” she couldn't finish and broke into tears.
“There, there, honey. I'm just asking. No, I don't think that you...”
She stormed into the trailer and slammed the door.
Punk scratched his head and looked around. Fred was sitting at his table talking to a younger woman—well, younger than he and Fred—whom Punk hadn't seen before. Maybe forties with a mass of dark red hair. Punk picked up his coffee mug and wandered over.
Fred motioned him to a seat at the table and waved casually at the woman.
The Long, Wrong Trailer Page 3
