“Egads, could you be any more gruesome, my friend? But I admit you’re absolutely right, Emily. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one of those neighbors being interviewed say something like, ‘Yeah, my neighbor’s a psychotic nut job, and I’ve always wondered how many people he’d strangled, disembodied, and stored in his freezer.’”
Emily chuckled and replied, “And you called me gruesome? Is that not the pot calling the kettle black? But I suppose a serial killer would shy away from carving up a number of people living on his own street. After a while, the authorities might get a clue and start looking into the whereabouts and alibis of the other residents living near the victims. I’d assume the serial killer would make a big effort to appear normal and neighborly around the people they see day in and day out. But in this circumstance, the perp may have just been pushed over the edge by one too many mean-spirited insults by the victim. I imagine it was a spur-of-the-moment type of execution.”
“That makes sense. I’ve found in past experiences with murder cases I’ve been involved with that the perpetrator often turns out to be the person you’d least expect. In this case it doesn’t necessarily have to be somebody staying in the campground, you know. I’ve noticed that people come and go from here at will, even at night when the security guards are manning the gate.”
“That’s true. We can’t lock the entrance and exit gates and restrict our customers from using them whenever they please. But your comment made me wonder if the guards noticed anything unusual last night. We only hire Mike and Jack to man the gates and patrol the campground during Frontier Days. Their job is to make sure no one’s being rowdy and disturbing other campers, and to assist late arrivals with reservations needing help in locating their assigned sites.”
“I’d love to speak to the guards, but Stone wouldn’t be happy if I got involved in this investigation in any way, even remotely. I’m sure Wendy wouldn’t be thrilled about it either. They seem to be birds of a feather when it comes to me helping the authorities investigate murder cases without their approval.”
“Could that be because you’ve almost gotten yourself killed numerous times by butting into homicide investigations you had no business butting into?”
“Oh, I get it. You talked with Stone while you were staying at the Alexandria Inn, didn’t you? And it seems as if he’s recruited you into his and Wendy’s camp,” I said in mock dismay. “I really have no particular reason to care who killed Fanny other than pure curiosity, so I would never put myself in any potentially dangerous situation just to discover who did it. I have more sense than that.”
“Hmm, that’s not the impression I got from speaking to your husband.” I knew Emily was just messing with me, but I was still annoyed by yet another person inferring I was crazy to put my neck on the line by getting involved in police business—a little too frequently, I’ll admit. The list of people who outright accused me of being foolish was getting longer all the time.
Personally, I thought I’d been quite successful in my attempts to aid detectives in murder cases I’d been involved with. If I were thirty years younger, I’d seriously consider enrolling in the police academy and doing all I could to get a position in the homicide division of any nearby police department. I seemed to have a knack at tracking down killers and bringing them to justice.
But Stone and I were on this trip with family and friends, celebrating our one-year anniversary, and I really had no desire or intention of doing anything to interfere with our vacation.
* * *
The six of us hadn’t made any plans for the day, and given the events of the morning, we decided to just hang around the campground for the remainder of the afternoon. RVers were clustered in groups, discussing the demise of the famous author, who’d only recently become well known because of the unsolicited biography she’d penned.
Listening to the grapevine chatter, I could see it was clear the campground was buzzing with theories and possible motives for her death. I particularly liked the one that had the subject of her New York Times best-seller, Vex Vaughn, sneaking into the park’s fenced-in pool area and exacting revenge on the woman who had publicly degraded and demeaned him by airing his dirty laundry in her tell-all biography.
When I repeated this theory to the group, after I’d heard a customer relating it to a small group of people standing outside the women’s shower house, Wendy replied, “I’d say it’s actually as feasible as any other possibility. I know I’d be tempted to take out anyone who targeted me the way Fanny did him.”
“Wendy!” I was taken aback by her statement. This was a young woman who used to sob and grieve for days over the loss of a goldfish in the twenty-gallon aquarium I’d given her for her tenth birthday. I’d had to tell her I’d had the beloved pet buried at a special cemetery so it could go up to fish heaven, and then unceremoniously flush the fish down the toilet when she wasn’t looking. Occasionally, it was just easier to replace the goldfish at the pet store. Since the solid orange-colored ones all looked alike, she was never the wiser. I made sure I never bought one with distinguishing features for just that reason. As a single mother, after the death of Wendy’s father, it was all I could do to stay one step ahead of her.
“Well, wouldn’t you want to retaliate in some way, Mom?” Wendy asked.
“Of course I would! And if I couldn’t squash my desire for retribution, I’d spill red wine on her expensive white fur jacket, sneak laxatives into her food, or something of that nature. I certainly would never throw an electrical device into a pool to fry her brains, for God’s sake!”
“It doesn’t seem to me you’d get much retribution out of those lame excuses for revenge unless the despicable woman pooped herself to death.” Everyone laughed at Wendy’s comment, as did I, but it made me wonder what the chances were that the country singer really was involved in the author’s death.
* * *
By five-thirty we were all restless and bored, so we decided to take the shuttle bus down to the fairgrounds to walk around and eat carnival cuisine for supper. A big doughy pretzel liberally sprinkled with salt sounded very appealing to me, as did a funnel cake smothered in powder sugar. It was a matter of which level—my sodium or my blood sugar—needed a boost at the time I placed my order. If possible, I would chase either one down with a large cherry shaved-ice snow cone.
It was standing room only on the bus, which was full of people with tickets to the evening’s concert featuring a band with several new hits currently at the top of the charts. The opening act for the band was the recipient of a CMA award for new entertainer of the year. With the much-anticipated concert that evening, there was gaiety and excitement on the shuttle bus. No one seemed to notice they were squeezed together like Veronica’s breasts in the push-up bra she wore under a spaghetti-strapped tank top. I couldn’t fathom how she could even catch her breath in the too-tight top, but I’m fairly sure breathing was not at the top of her priority list that evening.
I personally didn’t mind the lack of space as much as I minded the combined smells of liberally applied perfume on nearly every female, and the body odor radiating from a young man in a sweat-stained Aerosmith t-shirt. And the stench being expelled frequently from the man in front of me, who apparently forgot to lace his chili with Beano earlier in the day, almost gagged me.
I was relieved to exit the crowded bus, and happy to have the unpleasant odors replaced by the mouth-watering aroma of the carnival food I was more than ready to sample. Everyone else was hungry too, so the first order of business was to eat.
While ingesting a week’s worth of saturated fat, I could feel my cholesterol and triglyceride levels elevating with each bite and experienced a moment of regret. But it didn’t take long to convince myself that unlimited calories were allowed, if not obligatory, while on vacation. I had the other fifty-one weeks of the year to worry about the excess baggage I was carrying around in my shorts, as well as the results of my next lab work ordered by my physician. If I really felt motivate
d, I could use the fifty-one weeks to do something proactive to resolve those issues.
But for now, I was thoroughly enjoying a greasy funnel cake with what seemed like a pound of powdered sugar piled on top of it, and seriously considering getting a corndog from the stand where Stone was standing, waiting on the foot-long chili-cheese dog he’d ordered. Apparently, he was adhering to the same “calories are inconsequential on vacation” principle that I was.
An hour later, our group had split into three pairs. Stone and Andy were looking for silver and turquoise bolo ties to complement their new cowboy wardrobes. Wyatt and Veronica were walking hand-in-hand from booth to booth and partaking in public displays of affection. Wendy was leading me to the Ferris wheel, determined to get me to ride on the carnival’s most prominent ride. The ride was festively lit up with bright colorful lights and accompanied by the aptly named song, Ferris Wheel, being sung by country and western singer, Jason Jones. I could already feel the funnel cake looking for an exit route out of my stomach.
But, despite the fact that, like Wyatt, spinning in circles had a habit of making me toss my cookies, I still couldn’t resist riding Ferris wheels once in a while. Besides, I didn’t want to disappoint my daughter. Ferris wheels normally spun so slowly that I wasn’t affected by their movement. Anyhow, now that I was married, Wendy was involved in an exclusive relationship, and we were living in different towns, we rarely had an opportunity to spend time together. I hoped to make the most of this vacation time.
As we were getting close to the front of the line, Wendy whispered in my ear that Norma Grace and Sarah Krumm had just joined the end of the line, which placed them about a zillion riders behind us. “Hey, Mom,” she said. “I have an idea. Why don’t we go back to the end of the line behind the two authors and see if we can learn anything new about Fanny’s death. They surely know a lot more about it than we do.”
Naturally, I loved the idea. Nosiness was my middle name, and I frequently found that idle gossip was very informative, eye opening, and much more interesting than cold hard facts that could be validated. But having my normally reluctant-to-get-involved daughter suggest such a thing kind of threw me for a loop.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Yes, even though I know it’s the kind of thing I lecture you about and beg you not to do. There’s just something about this case that intrigues me. That’s probably because I was the first one to discover Fanny’s dead body.”
“Well, okay then, but are you planning to tell Stone what we did later on and get me relegated back into the dog house?”
“Heck no, Mom! It was my idea, and it’d be I who ended up on Stone’s bad side, not you. Besides, I have no intention of ‘interrogating’ them, as you have a habit of doing.”
To nip her lecture in the bud, I clutched her by the elbow and led her back to the end of the long line. We greeted Norma and Sarah as if totally surprised to see them.
“You two were the next to board the ride,” Sarah said. “Why in the world did you give up your place in line? It will be at least another half-hour before you get that far up in line again.”
Wendy was not as quick on her toes as I when it came to making up crap at the spur of the moment, so I quickly replied with what was only a slight exaggeration of the truth. “I am scared spitless of carnival rides, so I needed a little more time to build up enough courage to go on this contraption with Wendy.”
“You’re scared spitless of a Ferris wheel?” Norma asked. “Then am I to assume you wouldn’t get within twenty feet of a roller coaster?”
“Yes,” I said, with as much uneasiness as I could muster. “Even fifty feet is too close for me. I know it’s silly, but it’s just one of those irrational phobias that everybody seems to have at least one of.”
Norma nodded, and replied, “My primary phobia is fear of flying. But that’s kind of on a whole different level, I think.”
“Why’s that?” I rebutted. “If you fell from the top of this Ferris wheel, I’d bet you’d be just as dead as if you fell from the sky in an airplane 30,000 feet up in the sir. In fact, it’d probably be a slower, more agonizing death, because you would surely die instantly if you crashed in a plane. Having plenty of time to anticipate your impending death while falling from such a height in an airplane does not sound too appealing, but at least your life would be snuffed out like a candle when you eventually hit the ground. A fall from the Ferris wheel might result in a long drawn out passing. It might even render you a vegetable, or a quadriplegic, which to me would be a fate worse than being instantly vaporized in an airplane exploding on impact with the ground.”
“Okay, point taken,” Norma said with a laugh. “Now I’m not so sure I want to ride this thing, either.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, knowing I didn’t have much time left to segue into a discussion about their fellow author’s untimely death because the line seemed to be moving much faster than it had been earlier. “Aren’t you two shocked by what happened to Fanny Finch late last night?”
The two ladies agreed the death of their friend was unbelievable and they were devastated by the loss of such a dear colleague. I could see them literally biting their tongues as they tried to portray a close relationship to the deceased. When questioned, they reiterated the same information we’d already heard or known about, and we were inching toward the front of the line again. “Oh, I almost forgot, Sarah. I had some questions relating to your book about multi-generational households that I wanted to ask you. But, oh dear, we are almost to the front of the line already. Would you mind terribly accompanying me on the ride, while Wendy rides in a basket with Norma? As a young lady on a strict budget, I think Wendy could learn a thing or two from her, as well.”
Wendy glanced at me with an expression that spoke volumes, but thankfully, she fell right into step with my deceptive ploy. “Yes, that’s right, Sarah. I was just telling Mom I hoped I’d get an opportunity to discuss some saving strategies with you.”
They both looked as if they’d been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for their cleverness, and quickly agreed to switch partners to try and help us out as much as they could. I could almost see tiny wisps of smoke escaping Wendy’s ears as her mind whirred, trying to think of sensible questions to ask the coupon-clipping expert. She was the type who didn’t care if something cost ten dollars or ten thousand. If Wendy wanted the item badly enough, she was willing to pay whatever it cost to purchase it. I could picture her clipping coupons out of circulars about as easily as I could picture me, with my God-awful, eardrum-splitting singing voice, joining the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
A short time later, Norma asked if anyone wanted a snow cone to eat while we waited. There was a stand just across from the Ferris wheel. I told her I didn’t think we should lose our place in line again.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Sarah and I will go get them while you two hold our place in line. Okay? We’ll have to eat them fast, though, because we can’t take food or drinks on the ride.”
They were back within two or three minutes carrying four purplish-blue snow cones. Wendy and I thanked them and began to eat the frozen treats. I couldn’t quite make out the flavor, but it was a strange combination of a sickening sweet initial taste, followed by a bitter aftertaste. Not wanting to appear rude or unappreciative, I ate it quickly, as did the other three ladies, who all seemed to genuinely enjoy their snow cones. Most likely, my problem was that I was cold in my light windbreaker, and I’d have preferred a warm beverage to ward off the chill of the cool Wyoming evening.
When we approached the front of the line, all four of us tossed our paper cones into a trashcan next to the ride operator. Once we were seated, strapped into our seat and the Ferris wheel began to turn, Sarah said, “So tell me about your family’s living situation.”
“Well, you see, my daughter moved out and just as I was adjusting to living alone, my mother came to live with me, and I’m wondering what kind of issues this new living arrangement might enta
il.”
I don’t like to out-and-out lie to anyone, but I’ve been known to stretch the truth on occasion, sometimes to the extreme when I feel the situation warranted a white lie. My mother did reside in the Alexandria Inn with Stone and me, albeit it was in a small vase that had its own honored location on the fireplace mantel.
“Well, first of all, although it might take a little time to get accustomed to having your mother live with you, I can assure you it can ultimately work out to be very rewarding for both of you,” Sarah began.
“Okay, terrific! That’s really all I needed to know,” I replied, before she could start explaining the many ways we could benefit by living together. After all, I’d adjusted to have my mother’s ashes in an urn on the mantel a long time ago. “So, let’s get back to Fanny’s vicious murder. Who do you believe could have been the perpetrator?”
Sarah seemed thrown off balance by my sudden change of subject. I’m sure she’d been mentally preparing a list to recite to me regarding issues I might expect in my new living arrangement. But she recovered quickly and replied, “I really don’t know, but I have to wonder if her husband had something to do with it. Even though they haven’t been married long, I’ve rarely heard a civil exchange between the two of them during the last few months of attending book signings with her.”
“Um, yes, that does sound suspicious,” I agreed. “Any other ideas?”
Sarah looked around in all directions—I suppose to ascertain no one had crawled into our basket with us while we revolved around in space. She then leaned in toward me to whisper in my ear. “Just between you, me, and the lamp post, I also have to wonder if Norma might be capable of a cold-blooded murder like that. Truthfully, she had no use for the woman. There was no love lost between Fanny and Norma, I assure you. Incidentally, just before the tragic murder, Norma said that she’d like to push Fanny in front of an oncoming bus.”
Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping Page 7
