The Long, Wrong Trailer

by Karen Musser Nortman

“Punk, this is Aletha Barnes. She's in that Class C next to us.”

  “Oh, the lady with the cat!” Punk said and regretted it as soon as he did. Aletha's blue eyes teared up and she said, “I don't have a cat any more. Thanks to Con Conniver, may he burn in hell.”

  “He may be doing just that,” Punk said in a tone he hoped was comforting.

  Aletha wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Well, I missed all of the excitement, I guess. I didn't go to the bonfire last night and I slept in this morning. Just got up.”

  “What happened to your wife?” Fred asked Punk.

  “I kind of put my foot in my mouth. I just asked her if she did see Conniver this morning on her walk. The sheriff as much as told her that she's a suspect. I thought maybe something happened accidentally—.”

  Fred was shaking his head. “Punk, how long you been married?”

  “Forty years, but—,” Punk stopped when he saw his wife come back out of their camper with an armload of Halloween decorations.

  “Then you should know by now to keep your mouth shut,” Fred said as they watched PJ thrust some solar lights into the ground along the road, with more force than necessary, and jam a plastic pumpkin or skull on each one. “Maybe you should go help her.”

  “Right,” said Punk, getting up from the table. “Nice to meetcha,” he nodded to Aletha.

  By the time Punk had crossed the road, PJ was visiting with the woman, Adela, from the silver trailer next to them.

  “This is my husband, Punk,” PJ said to Adela with more disgust than relish.

  Adela started to shake hands when she was interrupted by a yell behind her.

  “Mom!” A young man in an oversized t-shirt and low-slung, baggy shorts hobbled down the trailer steps barefooted.

  “What?” Adela said, with the exasperation often inspired by young teenagers.

  “I did somethin' to my ankle—cut it, I think. Where's the first aid kit?” He stopped by their picnic table and planted his foot on the bench, pointing to an angry looking wound. “I must have scratched it on a branch when we were hiking last night.”

  It looked an awful lot like a dog bite to PJ.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Punk and PJ left Adela to doctor her son and returned to their campsite. Punk rummaged in the box of decorations, hoping to find something he could help with and not screw it up. PJ took pity on him and pulled out a string of orange lights.

  “You can put these up on the awning.”

  He hurried to do her bidding while she propped a miniature scarecrow against the camper steps and hung pieces of gauze from a tree to simulate ghosts. When they finished, he put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Am I forgiven?”

  She looked up at him. “Why would you think I would push someone off a cliff and not go for help?”

  “I meant if it was an accident—.”

  “Even more reason to get help. Punk, I would never leave someone....”

  “I know. I didn't think it through.” He donned his puppy-dog look and she relented.

  “Did you notice that kid's ankle? Looked like a dog bite to me. Maybe Conniver didn't scare that woman last night. Remember the yell right after the dog ran into the woods after the guy?”

  Punk thought about it. “Could be, I guess.” They watched the sheriff walking back from Gigi's toward Fred and Doris' campsite. Fred and Aletha were still sitting at the table while Doris put up decorations.

  “Ma'am?” The sheriff walked up to Doris.

  She looked up from an arrangement of jack-o-lanterns. “Yes?”

  “I understand that your sister was also married to the victim. His first wife?”

  Doris paled. “Yes.”

  “I'll need that contact information.”

  Now Doris' face turned red. “That's impossible,” she said and took a deep breath. “She died five years ago from cancer.”

  The sheriff took a step back. “Oh. I'm sorry.”

  “I'm sorry, too. She suffered a great deal and died with huge debts. That jerk never did a thing for her.” She turned and walked back up the little slope to her husband.

  Punk and PJ looked at each other. An interesting twist. It seemed like plenty of people in the campground had reason to hate Con Conniver. But murder?

  As the sheriff moved back down the road to question some other campers, Punk and PJ walked over to Doris.

  “I'm really sorry. We couldn't help but overhear,” PJ said.

  Doris gave a rather weak smile. “Well, now I'll be on the suspect list with you. I don't have an alibi either.”

  “It's getting to be a big crowd,” PJ told her.

  Aletha had joined them. “Ladies, how about we go for a walk and check out the decorations.”

  “Good idea,” PJ said. “Punk, you can keep Fred company.”

  The three women walked down the road, Aletha and PJ chatting to Doris about the variety of decorations at each campsite. Punk walked up to join Fred.

  The complexity of the preparations for a weekend event amazed PJ. Piles of scrap lumber, fabric, pumpkins and cardboard dotted the campsites. People were busy constructing fences, graveyards, and haunted trails. One family was building a structure out of branches that appeared to be lit from within.

  PJ stopped in the road, pointing and giggling. The rear end of a witch and half a broom protruded from the end of a tear drop trailer, as if she had misjudged and driven straight into it.

  “I've seen those on trees at home, but that's really funny!”

  Even Doris managed a small grin.

  As they stood discussing the lights on the trailer, they heard a vehicle approach them from behind. They turned to see a golf cart puttering along and moved aside to let it pass. Bonnie Barnes, the woman with the cast, gripped her dog while her husband drove. They pointed at various decorations, and waved at PJ and her companions as they passed.

  “She looks like she's recovered from her scare,” Doris commented.

  “Good. What a stupid thing to do,” PJ said. “Do you think it was Conniver?”

  “It's the kind of thing he would do,” Doris said.

  PJ told them about the bite she had spotted on Blake's ankle. “I wondered if maybe he and his friend were the culprits after all.”

  When the women reached to their campsites, the sheriff had returned, talking to Punk by their trailer. The sheriff held PJ's walking stick. PJ walked up to them, confused.

  “Why do you have that?”

  “Does this belong to you, Mrs. Norton?”

  “Yes it does.” She was getting more and more defensive. “Is it illegal?”

  “Certainly not,” said the sheriff. “But we found impressions from it on Black Hawk Point, where Con Conniver was pushed to his death.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “But—,” PJ was confused. “I told you I walked out there this morning. I had that stick with me.”

  “The ME also found marks on the victim's torso where he appears to have been struck by something like this.”

  “Wait a minute,” Punk blustered. “Do we need a lawyer?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you arresting my wife?”

  “Not yet,” the sheriff said. “Mind if I take this with me?”

  “Yes, I mind! Do you have a warrant or anything?” Punk yelled. PJ put a hand on his arm.

  “Yes,” she said to the sheriff. “You can take it. That stick was not used to strike Con Conniver or anyone else.”

  “It doesn't matter, honey—you shouldn't let him take it.”

  “It will be fine.”

  The sheriff walked toward his car. As he drove away, Punk and PJ walked hand in hand over to where Fred and Doris had been watching the whole thing.

  Punk shook his head. “That guy is out to pin this on PJ. What about all of the other possible suspects?”

  “He's questioned Gigi and searched Aletha's camper,” Fred said.

  That stopped Punk for a minute. “So why is he so focused on PJ?”
<
br />   Fred shrugged. “Maybe he's trying to keep everyone off balance—hoping someone will make a mistake.”

  PJ sat at the table. What a morning. There were still muffins in the basket on the table, and PJ wondered at that and then looked at her watch and realized only a little over an hour and a half had passed since Doris had first offered them. They were great muffins; she was ready for another. The corner of a stack of paper napkins peeked from under the basket, so she lifted the basket to take one.

  But she found not napkins, but a small tablet. Half of the top page was torn away. PJ slid it back under the basket. It looked like the torn edge of the scrap she had found in the bush earlier.

  She sat frozen to the bench, knowing she should turn it over to the sheriff. But two possible consequences stopped her. Now her fingerprints were on it, adding to the suspicion over her head. And this would implicate Doris, who had as good a reason to hate Conniver as anyone.

  “PJ?” Doris looked over at her. “Something wrong?”

  Unsure of what to do, PJ shook her head. Doris seemed an unlikely murderer but then PJ didn't really know her. She would keep quiet about the tablet and talk to Punk about it later.

  Doris sat down at the table across from PJ. Her kind face and grandmotherly gray curls presented as benign an appearance as PJ had ever seen.

  “I'm going to put a pot of stew on the fire this afternoon. Why don't you and Punk plan on joining us for supper? Trick-or-treating starts at 6:00 so we can eat about 5:00 and be done in plenty of time.”

  “You cook it on the fire?”

  “Sure, in a cast iron Dutch oven. We do most of our cooking outside, weather permitting. Did you bring treats to hand out?”

  PJ nodded. “That sounds lovely. Thank you. Can I bring something? That is, if I'm not in jail?”

  “Not a thing. It's all taken care of. And you won't be in jail.” She sounded confident. Because she knew who the real murderer was?

  PJ sighed. “I hope not.” Suddenly she was very tired. “I think I'm going to go lie down for a little while. The decoration judging isn't until 2:00, right?”

  “Right. That's a good idea. It's been a stressful morning.”

  Back at their trailer, PJ told Punk about the tablet. “I picked it up so if the sheriff checks for fingerprints, mine are on it. That's about all he needs to haul me in.”

  Punk rubbed his forehead. “You go rest. I'm going to call Bill Benda. Maybe he can recommend someone to call if the sheriff questions you again.” Bill had been their lawyer for years, handling mundane tasks like their will, taxes, and a couple of house sales. Never a murder charge, though.

  She left him to it, went back to the bedroom and slipped off her shoes, and cuddled under the quilt. She was sure she wouldn't be able to sleep, but dropped off almost immediately.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When PJ awoke, for a moment she was disoriented. Then she realized where she was, and the whole upsetting weekend came flooding back. What had she gotten them into? She headed back outside and found Punk in a reclining lawn chair half asleep. He sat up when he saw her.

  “Hey! Feel any better?”

  “A little. Did you talk to Bill?”

  “Yup. He gave me the name of a guy not far from here. I called him and if we need him, he will be Johnny-on-the-spot. Been thinking, though. Maybe Fred's right that the sheriff is trying to keep everyone on pins and needles, hoping someone will slip up.”

  “I don't know.” She glanced across the road. “Do you think Doris could be involved? After all, her sister—.”

  “Nah,” Punk leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “She's not the type.”

  “Who is the type?”

  “It was probably someone we don't even know.”

  “Come inside and I'll fix us some sandwiches before the judging starts.”

  As she spread butter and mayo on bread, she said, “Were you guys by that table the whole time we were gone?”

  “Well, Fred showed me his camper and we checked the football schedule for this afternoon while we were in there. Wasn't for very long, though.”

  “Somebody could have planted that tablet, then.” She set plates with turkey sandwiches and a bag of chips on the dinette.

  Punk nodded, his mouth full.

  “Are you going to watch the judging? There's some pretty amazing projects going on,” PJ said.

  “Fred and I were going to watch the game...what time does the judging start?”

  “2:00. You could walk around and at least see what people have done, then go watch the game.”

  He agreed with good grace, although PJ felt sure it was somewhat reluctant. They tidied the little kitchen and she found her camera. They walked across the road where Doris piled hot charcoal on the inverted lid of her Dutch oven over the fire. When she finished, she and Fred joined them for another stroll through the campground. As is often the way in the fall, the sun had disappeared behind blustery clouds and the wind had picked up, tossing the leaves and rattling the trees, adding a more Halloween-like atmosphere.

  The finished products impressed PJ even more than the construction. A makeshift wooden fence teetered along the front edge of one site with ghouls draped over it trying to escape. The pile of branches she had seen a family working on was now taller than her and enclosed a full sized skeleton lit from below, casting eerie shadows. It would be even spookier in the dark.

  At another site, a tall dummy, cloaked in a hooded robe allowing a glimpse of a gaunt, spectral face, stood guard over a large basket of wrapped candy. PJ reached for a peanut butter kiss. One of the claw-like hands darted out from the long sleeves and grasped PJ's wrist. Her heart seemed to stop and her eyes jerked up, looking into the face of—not a dummy. The woman emitted a long cackle and said, “Don't touch the candy, my precious.”

  PJ backed away while Punk chuckled at her discomfort. The woman in black rubbed her hands together and winked. “It's for the children,” and then she let out another long cackle.

  Punk took her hand and led her to the next site. “I guess she got you, honey.”

  PJ put her hand over her heart. “It's still pounding! Lord, she scared me.”

  “That'll teach you to ask first,” her husband chided her.

  “I didn't think she was real,” PJ said.

  “Like I said, they gotcha.”

  At the next site, three people stood with clipboards, the ranger from the check-in shack and a man and a woman PJ had never seen. They talked in low tones and looked serious enough to be judging the Olympics.

  PJ's group continued on past and examined a graveyard with cardboard headstones, an old wooden farm wagon filled with grotesque creatures, and a zombie wedding. PJ pointed out the teardrop trailer with the unfortunate witch to Punk and Fred.

  “I just can't believe all the work people go to for this,” she said.

  “It gets bigger every year,” Doris said.

  They had reached the end of the campground road. Punk pointed to the trailhead.

  “Is this the trail you took this morning?” he asked PJ.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Show me that Black Hawk Point, will you?”

  PJ hesitated only a moment. Maybe she would find another scrap of paper and solve this. “Sure.”

  Doris and Fred declined so Punk and PJ headed down the trail. She watched along the sides for white scraps. Occasionally, there was a candy wrapper or drinking straw, but not what she was looking for. As they neared the point, she spotted a bit of white among the matted carpet of leaves.

  Chapter Sixteen

  PJ scooped the leaves apart to get at the scrap of white.

  “Rats!” she said to Punk. “Just a torn piece of paper plate.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  She sighed. “I thought there might be another piece of that note that I found down below. Maybe with the killer's signature.”

  “That would be too easy.” He bent over for a closer look. “Huh. Looks lik
e a tire track under those leaves. The rangers must come through here with a utility vehicle or something.”

  He straightened. “How much farther to the point?”

  “Just around that curve, I think. Look through those trees—looks like maybe some crime scene tape.”

  They continued around the corner. Garish yellow tape warned casual onlookers away from the point.

  “I can see how someone could fall off,” Punk said, eying the unprotected ledge that appeared to be jutting into space.

  “Or be pushed.”

  “Right.”

  A couple of small plastic flags on wire staffs had been placed at random locations in the ground. PJ strained over the tape.

  “Can you tell what those flags are marking?”

  Punk shifted along the tape for a better view. “Not the one on the right, but the one on the left has some round dents by it.”

  “Must be the marks that sheriff thinks were made by my walking stick. I'm pretty sure I didn't get that close to the edge.”

  They both started at the sound of footsteps coming along the trail. The man looked familiar but PJ couldn't quite place him. Middle-aged, average height and weight, his most distinguishing feature was a thick shock of light brown hair that defied obvious attempts at styling. He wore baggy faded jeans with a yellow bandana hanging out of the pocket and an Illinois sweatshirt.

  “Oh, hi,” he said. “I didn't expect to find anyone out here.”

  “Nobody said we couldn't be here,” Punk said.

  “No,” he held up his hands, “I just meant I was startled.” He smiled and his eyes crinkled. “Didn't expect to run into anyone, that's all.”

  A silence and then Punk said, “Well, PJ, we should be getting back.”

  “Yeah.” They both nodded at the man as they passed him on the path.

  When they got out of earshot, PJ said, “Awkward. What do you suppose he's doing out here?”

  “He's probably wondering the same thing about us.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  A clamor of excited voices increased as they neared the campground. The crowd around the judges had grown and the woman judge raised her voice to make herself heard.

  “Second Prize goes to Site #36!”

  A young woman and two kids in the crowd bounced up and down, pumping their fists in the air.

  “And the grand prize this year,” the judge continued, “Site #47!” She pointed at the intricate pile of branches with the skeleton. After the requisite screaming subsided, the judge held up her hand again.