“Go get your book, sweetie, and let’s get out of here,” I said to Veronica.
While Veronica wandered around the store looking for a copy of Fame and Shame on a shelf in the biography section, and Wendy went over to the snack bar area to buy all three of us a bottle of water, I felt obliged to walk over to where another table was set up with two dejected-looking ladies sitting behind it. No one was in line to make a purchase, but I thought it would be a pleasant diversion to chat with them about the books they’d written. As I approached, I noticed several tall stacks of unsold books on the table in front of them almost shielded them from view. I knew from overhearing Fanny’s conversation with Emily that these ladies were the “wanna-be best selling authors” known as Norma Grace and Sarah Krumm.
Both Norma and Sarah looked bored and disgusted, and Norma was tapping her ballpoint pen against the edge of the table in an attempt to relieve her boredom. I felt bad that Fanny Finch was monopolizing the crowd, even though I realized her book was quite relevant in Cheyenne this week, with Vex Vaughn headlining the concert at the rodeo arena on Monday evening.
I stopped to dispose of my gum in a trashcan. By the time I reached their shared table, which was almost hidden behind a row of bookshelves, and a long way from Fanny’s table, they were searching for something inside a box of books and having an animated conversation. I heard Sarah say, “I can’t believe Fanny got them to put us over here by the restrooms so we wouldn’t be within sight of all the people who want to purchase her book. Can you, Norma? Not only is she hogging the attention, as usual, she’s managed to get us put back in this secluded area where hardly anyone will even notice we’re here.”
“I’m sure that was her intention,” Norma replied. “It’s not like she doesn’t do that at every book signing event we go to. Sometimes I feel like pushing her in front of an oncoming bus. I really despise that conceited blowhard!”
“Me, too! I don’t know why we even go to these book signing events with her.”
With that last exchange between the two ladies, I found myself wanting to do a little more eavesdropping in order to better hear Norma’s response. I like to think it was more of an “inquisitive mind” kind of thing rather than it being the inherent “nosy Nelly” trait I was saddled with. I squatted down in front of Norma’s table to mess with the shoestring on my left tennis shoe, as if it had come undone and needed to be retied. I didn’t think I would be noticed by the two authors, who were still involved in their lively discussion.
“I know why, Sarah,” Norma said, as she pulled a cell phone out of the box. “We have the same agent as Fanny does, and if Nina didn’t let us go to book-signing events with Fanny, we wouldn’t get to go to any at all. As much as it pains me to admit it, you and I are nowhere near to being in the same league as Fanny when it comes to book sales and writing careers. Of course, that’s due to the ‘accident’ she orchestrated at that one book-signing event a few months ago. Still, we’re lucky Nina agreed to represent us, and we don’t want to make any waves and risk being dropped as her clients.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Sarah replied. “I don’t know about you, but it took an act of God for me to get an agent, not to mention mailing out hundreds of query letters. My self-esteem was practically bleeding from so many rejections before I got a positive response from Nina.”
“I know the feeling. I could have wall-papered my living room with the rejection letters I collected before Nina accepted me as a client. I was just a query letter away from the self-inflicted death of my writing career. The few agents who took the time to reply to my queries invariably sent a form letter that basically said, ‘No way, Jose! Don’t quit your day job, lady!‘ I feel extremely fortunate to have Nina as my agent. And the fact that she was able to sell my book to a notable publisher was even more amazing. You and I both know, it’s not the kind of book that would appeal to the masses like Fame and Shame obviously does.”
“Same here,” Sarah agreed, with a long-suffering sigh before standing up and looking down at me as I finished retying my shoe. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” I replied, caught off guard. “I’m fine. I was just trying to get a knot out of this shoestring and retie it before asking you two about your books.”
When both of their faces lit up with delight, I knew immediately I was going to have to buy a copy of each book, whether they interested me or not. And, as it turned out, it was the latter. Norma Grace’s book about her life as a so-called “Coupon Queen” and Sarah Krumm’s tome on the principles of multi-generational households and their effect on society did nothing to pique my interest.
I had clipped coupons in the past only to forget to dig them out of my fanny pack and hand them to the checkout cashier when actually buying a product I didn’t really need in the first place. And living in a multi-generational household wouldn’t appeal to me for very long. I’d give it a month at best before I started circling classified ads in the Rockdale Gazette and presenting the list of available apartments to Wendy. And she’s the only close relative I had left, except for Stone, who already shared a home with me. I loved my daughter more than life itself, but there was such a thing as too much togetherness.
However, I was pretty adept at feigning interest in things I had no interest in. I perfected this talent after having been married for a year to a man who could talk about the pros and cons of different kinds of bait and tackle for hours on end. Stone, on the other hand, could not resist yawning and sighing when I babbled on about a deal I’d found on faux leather shoes and how I thought I should return to the store to buy one in every color they offered. In fact, he’d once fallen asleep as I was telling him about my desire to search the Internet for a good chicken Florentine recipe. I was just explaining the importance of using the perfect seasoning combination of garlic, basil, and thyme, when Stone’s head fell back on the couch and he began to rattle the blinds with his snoring.
I exchanged introductions with the two ladies, while Norma was signing her book, which she guaranteed would save me a lot of money on groceries and household products. I asked Sarah about the crowd around the third author’s table, as though I’d never heard of the book or its author.
“Oh, that’s Fanny Finch, signing copies of her book about the country and western singer, Vex Vaughn. Personally, I find the sensational facts she attributes to ‘a reliable source’ to be questionable and unethical, but apparently, there are a lot of people who like that kind of thing. Personally, I think she used a liberal dose of creative license in the process of debasing the singer.”
“But it appears a lot of people enjoy seeing a famous person humbled, or in this case, demeaned,” I replied in agreement. “Not me, however. If the singer wanted to air all his dirty laundry in public, he’d write his own autobiography about his life. I find it rather distasteful, myself.”
“Exactly!” She responded, as she handed me back my change for her book, which she’d already signed. “Just between us, she treats Norma and me as if she’s Cinderella and we’re her ugly stepsisters. In her opinion, we are so far beneath her that it’s an injustice that we’re even allowed to participate in book-signing events with her. I’m pretty sure she’s appalled we’re even allowed to breathe the same air she does.”
“You should ignore her high and mighty attitude. You’ve both earned your own degree of success, and you deserve respect for it,” I said, with as much conviction as I could muster.
Wendy had joined me at Norma and Sarah’s table and handed me a water bottle. After glancing at the titles of the two books in my hands, she looked at me quizzically. Before she could humiliate me by asking what on earth had prompted me to buy the books, I said, “I know you’re dying to read these books too, honey, but you’ll just have to wait until I’ve read them first.”
“Oh, darn!” She said, not bothering to pretend she had any interest in reading the two books.
“Where’s Veronica?” I cut in quickly, before Wendy began i
nquiring about why I had any desire to read a book on either topic.
Wendy pointed toward the crowd across the room, and said, “The only copies of Fanny’s book that are available are at her table, so Veronica’s standing in line to buy one and have it signed.”
I heard Sarah gasp, and I was too embarrassed to explain the situation, so I thanked them for signing my books and walked away with Wendy in tow. We each sipped our water while we sat on a couch in a reading nook of the bookstore. We chatted about everything from the recent recall of a popular brand of baby strollers, to how to treat an alpaca with stomach ulcers caused by an overproduction of gastric acids. We even discussed possible names for my imaginary grandchildren as we waited over an hour for Veronica to join us. I was chewing over Wendy’s name choice for a son, should she have one. I wasn’t sure I could ever get used to referring to my grandson as Major, no matter how popular Wendy insisted the name was. I didn’t want to feel as if I should salute my grandson every time our paths crossed. I was trying to visualize telling an ER physician that “Major” had a crayon stuck up his nose when Veronica walked toward us with the coveted book about her favorite singer clutched tightly in her arms.
That inherent nosy-Nelly trait reared its ugly head again as I looked at the likeness of an incredibly handsome man wearing a black cowboy hat and holding a well-worn guitar on the cover of Fame and Shame. I wasn’t surprised to see it was the same book the pretty redhead had been reading at the pool earlier that morning. It was apparently being snatched up by many readers.
I was ashamed of myself for suddenly wondering what kind of “sensational facts” were laid bare on the pages of the best-selling book. But I vowed never to read it—not even to satisfy my curiosity.
* * *
I can’t remember the last time I laughed as hard as I did when Stone, Wyatt, and Andy got off the shuttle bus dressed like actors in a John Wayne western. From their brand new ten-gallon hats and pointy-toed boots, to the oversized silver belt buckles on their braided leather belts, they looked like they’d just pilfered stuff from Ty Murray’s closet.
The most amusing part was that I could tell they all thought they looked pretty hot in their new cowboy regalia. At least Andy actually owned a cattle ranch, and the expensive purchases he made might come in handy for him. Stone’s new get-up, however, would collect dust and moths in the basement for the rest of its life after we returned to Rockdale, Missouri. I didn’t point this out, however. I had a multitude of “must have” shoes doing the exact same thing in my closet.
“I see you all spent a lot of time, not to mention money, in a Western Wear shop this afternoon,” I said, with a smile. “And you can’t imagine how smart you all look in your new costumes.”
“Costumes? These are not costumes, Lexie Marie!” Stone said adamantly. “This is Western apparel, which is very stylish and suitable for the occasion. We stopped by the Wrangler Western Wear store downtown after we had delicious prime rib sandwiches for lunch at the Albany Inn next door to it. We put on our new gear before we went to the rodeo, which, by the way, was awesome. In my next life I want to be a rodeo clown.”
I wanted to tell him he was already halfway there in that get-up. But as silly and out of character as Stone looked, I could tell the men had thoroughly enjoyed their afternoon together and I was happy for them. Wendy, Veronica, and I had also had a pleasant afternoon shopping at Frontier Mall and visiting the Capitol building, the Union Pacific “Big Boy” locomotive steam engine, which was on display in Holiday Park, and the historic downtown area. I remembered seeing the exact western wear store that had drawn the three men into its web.
I had been surprised when we stopped at a gift shop and Veronica bought a number of souvenir-type trinkets to hand out at Rockdale Meadows, a nursing home back home, where she told us she visited every Thursday to play cards with some of the residents. She spent time with many of the residents that seldom had visitors and who always welcomed someone to converse with. There was definitely more to this young lady than met the eye, I was discovering. She was certainly caring and thoughtful.
We’d also stopped for tourism information at the visitor’s center along I-25, which was conveniently located close to the Cozy Camping RV Park. We picked out a few cards from the rack advertising tourist sites we thought we might want to take in while we were in Cheyenne. If time allowed, we all agreed we should consider taking a day trip to Rocky Mountain National Park, not far south of town in Estes Park, Colorado.
That evening, we accepted Emily’s invitation to take Stanley’s extended cab pickup truck, which was much roomier than her economy car, to Poor Richard’s Steakhouse for supper. We indulged in wonderful cuisine and entertaining camaraderie as we discussed the events of the day. I, in fact, over-indulged on the “wonderful cuisine” and I could feel my jeans getting snugger and snugger with every bite of my Buffalo sirloin steak and loaded baked potato, not to mention the full plate of food I’d selected at the delectable soup and salad bar. In lieu of passing on dessert, I promised myself I’d get up early the next morning and swim a couple dozen laps at the pool before breakfast. Then I’d spend a relaxing day with my husband and friends at the campground. It sounded like a perfect day to me. Too bad it didn’t work out that way.
Chapter 5
Wendy agreed to join me for an early Sunday morning swim, but when we arrived at the swimming pool, the gate was locked. The “Open” sign was lit up on the office door so we walked over to ask when the pool would be available to use.
Kylie greeted us warmly when we walked into the office, friendly and gregarious, as was her nature. “Good morning, ladies! What are you two up to this early on a Sunday morning?”
“Good morning, Kylie!” Wendy and I said in stereo. I told the young woman we were hoping to get a few laps in before breakfast and were wondering when the pool would be open.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she replied. “I had customers lined up outside the door when I opened the office about a half hour ago and haven’t had a chance to go unlock the gate. There’s a lull in the action right now, but it’s not apt to last long. Come along and I’ll unlock it for you before the next wave of customers arrive. We usually open the office and pool at eight, but during these annual festivities we open at six because the RV Park is already busy at the crack of dawn during Frontier Days.”
Kylie related a funny anecdote about a customer she’d checked in the day before as we walked over to the pool area. “I asked her how many people were in their party because the rate is for two adults only. We charge an extra two dollars for each additional adult, as is a common practice for campgrounds, according to Emily. But we never charge for kids under twelve, because the Harringtons don’t want it to be too expensive for young families with lots of children. The customer told me there were two adults and a child in her party. So I asked her how old the child was to see if I needed to charge for him or not. I couldn’t help laughing when she kind of hung her head in embarrassment, and replied, ‘He’s thirty-nine.’”
“What? Thirty-nine?” I asked Kylie in astonishment. “That’s a little old to be considered a child, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I said to the customer,” Kylie said. “And she responded, ‘Well, he’s my child!’ So I let the thirty-nine year old kid stay free because I didn’t want to get involved in a confrontation with the customer. But, jeez, I mean, thirty-nine? Really? Some people will do anything to save a buck, won’t they?”
We were still laughing at her story as Kylie turned the key in the lock on the pool area gate. As she swung open the gate and turned to hurry back to wait on a gentleman walking up the sidewalk to the office door, she said, “Have a nice swim, ladies, and enjoy your day.”
We thanked her and I followed Wendy onto the concrete patio that surrounded the pool. I almost swallowed my tongue when Wendy looked into the pool and cried out in alarm, “Oh, my God!”
I rushed to the side of the pool and looked down into the water. Just as it was regist
ering in my mind what had startled my daughter, Kylie appeared at my side to see what had caused Wendy’s outburst. It had been loud enough to potentially wake half the people in the campground. When it dawned on her what she was seeing, she echoed Wendy’s exclamation, and her face paled. She put her right hand over her mouth. I saw her stagger a bit and I grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her, in fear she might pass out on the pavement.
“Is that what I think it is?” Kylie stammered. “Is that a body on the bottom of the pool?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” I replied. “And not just any body. I recognize the suit she’s wearing. That’s Fanny Finch!”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Kylie said, her face drained of color. I could tell from her reaction that she’d never seen a dead body before. Unfortunately, I’d seen a few too many in the past couple of years. But, even so, it was a jolt to my senses every time it occurred.
“I’ll call 9-1-1 while you run and get the Harringtons, Kylie. And Wendy, perhaps you should go inform her husband that there’s a problem, and let Stone know what’s going on, too. I wouldn’t go into detail with Mr. Finch if I were you,” I instructed.
I was getting accustomed to situations like this, having been involved in the investigation of a number of deaths in the last couple of years. Because of those past experiences, I was able to maintain control of my emotions and react with a sense of calmness in the face of a crisis like this one, after the initial shock had worn off. But Wendy, who makes a living as an assistant to the county coroner, deals with deaths and cadavers on a daily basis. She immediately pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and said to me, “I’m probably better equipped to speak to the 9-1-1 operator and emergency technicians, so why don’t you go get Stone and Mr. Finch while I take care of this matter.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an order. I knew she was right, but I couldn’t help resenting the fact my daughter didn’t seem to think I was competent to speak with the emergency personnel. But I also knew she’d get some degree of perverse pleasure in detailing the specifics of the dead body to whatever poor sucker answered the call. I still couldn’t stomach her morbid fascination with cadavers, which had resulted from her occupation in the coroner’s lab. Besides, now was not the time to quibble over minor injustices, so I merely nodded and followed Kylie out through the gate.
Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping Page 5
