Survive or Die

by Catherine Dilts

  Aubrey approached the Old Biddie Brigade, aka the Belle Starrs.

  “You’re a braver woman than me, Aubrey.” Shirley, the head accountant at Bender Clips, sipped a margarita. Jeweled parrots covered her cashmere sweater, giving her a tropical air.

  Aubrey assumed Shirley was referring to her misadventure on the rope bridge that morning. “I don’t think brave is the right word.”

  “Maybe it’s tolerant, then,” Shirley said. “I wouldn’t let my husband sleep in a cabin with that mankiller Veronica.”

  “I don’t have anything to be tolerant of,” Aubrey said. “I trust Grant.”

  “Famous last words.” Yvette barked a boozey laugh. She had ditched the velour sweatsuit for a pantsuit that looked more suitable for a cocktail party than a night around a campfire. “Right before the divorce papers are served.”

  “I’m not getting a divorce,” Aubrey said.

  “Good plan,” Yvette said. “Divorce is too messy. It’s better to kill the bastard.”

  Aubrey suppressed the desire to punch the women in defense of her husband’s reputation.

  “Think about it,” Shirley said. “If Nel had divorced Stewart, he’d still be alive.”

  Yvette placed a hand on Aubrey’s shoulder. “That’s the obvious confusion.” She took a brain-freeze-sized swallow of icy margarita. “I mean conclusion. Nel killed her husband.”

  Wow. Aubrey considered for a moment. Nel had treated Stewart poorly, but murder? She had seemed genuinely distraught last night.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Yvette leaned close, her breath sharp with alcohol. “His camera bag is missing. You know what that means.”

  “No, no, no,” Shirley said. “When I said Stewart would still be alive, I meant if Nel had divorced him, he wouldn’t have been here to be stung. I wasn’t implying she killed him.”

  “You were right the first time.” Yvette waved her plastic margarita glass, sloshing the contents. “Nel called. The camera bag is missing, along with Stewart’s es- expensive cameras.”

  “Someone stole the camera bag?”

  Yvette nodded, her head wobbling on her skinny neck. “Stewart kept his epin- ephin—” She stumbled over the word, her alcohol-soaked tongue uncooperative, then tried again. “Epinephrine injector in the camera bag. He never let the bag outta his sight.” She wagged a finger at Aubrey. “Someone stole the bag, and Stewart died. Coulda been his wife, eh? ’Cause if it wasn’t Nel, there’s a murderer in this camp.”

  A chill crawled up Aubrey’s spine.

  “No one knows when the camera bag disappeared,” Shirley said. “I’m sure Nel misplaced it. She obviously wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Someone stole Stewart’s jacket the first day we were here,” Yvette said.

  “And that turned up the same night.” Shirley seemed to latch onto the new theory. “With all the factory floor workers here, anything that’s not nailed down is up for grabs. That’s what Nel herself said.”

  “Quiet,” Yvette said. “Here comes someone. Could be the killer.”

  Aubrey was grateful when Sotheara told her she was turning in. She hadn’t gathered the sort of intel Berdie wanted, but Aubrey had learned disturbing possibilities about Stewart’s demise. They collected Madison and made a trip to the bathhouse. When the three women were inside the tent, with a battery-operated lantern glowing, they compared notes.

  “I think that death threat note is real,” Madison said. “The people I talked with wouldn’t mind seeing Bender dead.”

  “What about Stewart?” Aubrey asked. “Did anyone want him dead?”

  “That was an accident,” Sotheara said.

  Aubrey shook her head. “Yvette said he always had an epinephrine injector with him. He kept it in his camera bag. Nel called looking for the bag. Stewart’s camera bag is missing.”

  “What are you saying, Aubrey?”

  “Someone deliberately caused Stewart’s death.”

  The words hung in the air. Finally, Sotheara spoke.

  “I’m sure no one meant to kill Stewart. I mean, that would be like, well, murder.”

  When Berdie entered the tent, the women gave their reports. None had overheard strategy that would give them a shot at victory. Aubrey’s clues to Stewart’s demise were like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle right after the box had been dumped on the table. There was no clear picture.

  “Pointless speculation,” Berdie said. “When I said we needed intel, I meant learning our opponents’ strategies. Nice try ladies, but let’s stay focused on the game.”

  “What did you learn, Berdie?” Sotheara asked.

  “That my coworkers are drunks and idiots. Present company excepted, of course.”

  After Aubrey curled up on her cot, she realized the correct purpose of the wool blankets Rankin had used as a room divider. Everyone shivered and complained, except for Birdie, whose smoldering anger seemed enough to keep her warm.

  When Rankin entered through the rear door Berdie had sliced open with her machete, the women stopped talking abruptly. Soon steady breathing and the occasional snore told Aubrey her teammates were sleeping.

  The mystery surrounding Stewart’s death and the threat against Bender kept Aubrey awake. Were the two connected? The note must have burned up when she stopped to talk to her husband. When she made her way around the fire circle later, it was gone.

  Yvette’s theory might have been booze-soaked nonsense, but parts of it rang true. Even if someone stole his camera bag for the valuable photographic equipment inside, in doing so, they had caused Stewart’s death just as certainly as if they’d plotted his murder.

  Sotheara woke in the wee hours, in dire need of a trip to the restroom. She attempted silence as she searched for her bathrobe. Tiptoeing past her teammates’ cots, she stepped outside and flicked on her flashlight, spreading a narrow fan of light at her feet.

  As Sotheara’s bare feet crunched softly in the gravel, she noticed the absence of other human-made noise. Without guitar music and voices, she could hear rustling in the bushes by small creatures, the haunting hoot of an owl, the breeze sighing through pine boughs, and a sound she couldn’t place.

  Scrape, thwup. Scrape, thwup. The noise took her back to Sage’s spring preparations in the community garden. A shovel scooping soil. Scrape, thwup.

  Someone had done in Bender, and now they were burying him behind the bathhouse. Sotheara flicked off her flashlight. She pressed her back against the splintery siding and inched along the building.

  “We’re wasting our time.” It sounded like Tweet.

  “Doesn’t hurt to look,” Fawn said. “Besides, I saw that scrawny old cowboy nosing around back here, digging through the bushes.”

  “The wranglers don’t get to keep any prizes.” Tweet sounded more mature than his cougar girlfriend. “Anyway, on the TV show, the treasure was buried on Gold Hill, not in camp.”

  Footsteps snapped on dry pine needles, headed her way. Sotheara ducked inside the ladies’ room and an empty stall. She had just fastened the hook and eye latch when the bathhouse door opened. Sandals flopped across the concrete floor.

  “Hey, is somebody else in here?” Fawn asked.

  “Just me.” Sotheara hoped her voice was generic enough to escape identification.

  “Sotheara?”

  Darn.

  “Yeah.”

  “Just making sure I wasn’t sharing the shithouse with Sasquatch.”

  Her cover blown, Sotheara concluded her business and left. On her way back to the cabin, she heard voices near the dull glow of the banked campfire. At first Sotheara wasn’t interested, thinking someone was having a midnight rendezvous. Nunya, she told herself. None of your business. Then she realized the female voice was raised in anger. Sotheara clicked her flashlight off and tip-toed beneath the shadows of a pine tree.


  “I don’t have it,” Shirley said.

  “You insist on digging the hole deeper.”

  More holes. Interesting. The voice sounded like Bender’s son, Doug. He was too young and buff to be having an affair with Shirley, unless he had a thing for older women.

  “How am I supposed to get cash out here in the middle of nowhere?” Shirley asked.

  “We’re going into town Thursday. I’m sure they have ATMs, even in Lodgepole.”

  Why would the company’s head accountant be giving the boss’s son money? Doug didn’t need to pimp himself out to old ladies. His father was sitting on a fortune, or so the rumor went.

  “I paid you,” Shirley said.

  “That account isn’t your personal line of credit,” Doug said. “As fast as I return your stolen funds to the account, they leak out again.”

  Sotheara suppressed a gasp. Doug had to mean the toxic waste disposal account. Shirley had banned junior accountant Sotheara from working in certain areas of Bender Clips finances. That had only increased Sotheara’s curiosity. If Shirley was the one draining the account, then what happened to the waste? Sage was right. It was being dumped. Maybe on Rowdy’s ranch. Operation Clean Sweep could end successfully tonight.

  Their voices lowered, so Sotheara took a step closer to hear. Her foot pressed down on a twig. It cracked, and the voices stopped.

  “What was that?”

  “A squirrel,” Doug said. “If there are any left after Squirrel Boy’s wholesale slaughter.”

  They parted ways, Shirley heading for Hummingbird cabin and Doug toward Brown Bear. Darn. So much for her career as a spy.

  Sotheara’s stomach grumbled. She turned on her flashlight and headed for the chuck wagon. The cook wasn’t around, but the door was unlocked. That had to mean it was okay to help yourself to a midnight snack. She was rummaging through the pantry when she heard voices. The cabins were crowded and the walls thin. Sotheara supposed going outdoors was the only way to have a private conversation.

  The muted whispers came closer. Sotheara wondered if someone else was intent upon raiding the chuck wagon. She debated whether to announce her presence before they opened the door. More than one person at this camp was armed. She couldn’t chance getting shot. Instead, she clicked off her flashlight.

  “It’ll kill Bender.”

  Sotheara sucked in a breath. The note writer. Had to be.

  “No one is indispensable.” The female voice sounded like Habika. “He’ll plug that hole within a week. Watch and see.”

  They planned to wound Bender, not kill him?

  “It’s not a sure thing yet,” the male voice answered. Definitely Damon.

  They moved on. Sotheara slumped to the gritty floor. The death threat note hadn’t been worded in lawyer-speak, but maybe Damon was covering his tracks by making it sound as though written by an uneducated factory floor worker.

  When the coast was clear, Sotheara grabbed a granola bar and a banana, then eased out of the chuck wagon. She watched Damon and Habika enter Otter Creek with the stealth of cat burglars. She adopted their technique as she crossed the campfire circle.

  In the pitch-black interior of the tent, she stubbed her toe on one of Madison’s size eleven hiking boots. Sothera yelped. Her teammates continued breathing slow and steady. She made her way to her saggy cot, huddling under a makeshift blanket of clothing.

  Facing Berdie’s cot, she was startled to realize the old woman was watching her. Sotheara wiggled her fingers in mute greeting. Berdie frowned and rolled over, her cot creaking.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tuesday

  Aubrey didn’t hurry to breakfast, assuming there would be oatmeal again. Unfortunately, the only options this morning were corned beef hash and sweet rolls. She was going to gain weight with her camp diet of breads, desserts, and Madison’s endless stash of candy bars.

  People were remarkably territorial. They gravitated to the same benches for every meal. Stockton’s Revenge huddled on their log bench in matching dull orange T-shirts making them appear like a smear of mustard on a hot dog. As Aubrey nibbled on the sweet roll and sipped coffee, a small yellow bee hovered in her face. She waved it away with her bandaged left hand.

  “Shoo, bee.”

  “Don’t swat that bug,” Lavelle said from the next log bench. “It’ll sting you the way it stung Stewart.”

  “Not that one,” Sotheara said. “It’s a sugar bee.”

  “What difference does that make?” Lavelle asked.

  “Sugar bees aren’t aggressive,” Sotheara said.

  “Then why did one sting Stewart?”

  Bud rang the triangle. Rowdy pulled his battered black Stetson off and waved it in the air.

  “Yee haw, Buckaroos! Are you ready for the third challenge?”

  A few people cheered. Mostly the young and athletic.

  “Today we’re running a canoe slalom.”

  As Rowdy explained the rules, Aubrey’s stomach lurched at the thought of facing the river again. A canoe had to multiply the chances of plummeting over the waterfall.

  “Head on over to the parking lot,” Rowdy said.

  “We have to ride the bus again?” Ellen asked.

  Veronica quirked one eyebrow and shot Ellen a you-must-be-stupid look. “When you go river rafting, you start upstream. Then you raft back to the starting point. Canoeing must be the same.” She turned to Rowdy for confirmation, flipping her auburn hair over one shoulder.

  “On the Survive or Die television show,” Rowdy said, “we did our water challenges on the river. But as I said the first day, we’ve got a lot of out of shape, inexperienced greenhorns here. That would be too dangerous. We’re running the slalom on Turquoise Lake.”

  While other campers expressed disappointment, Aubrey was relieved. She climbed on the bus, grateful not to be facing Thunder Falls.

  Sotheara waited on the pebbly shore as her Buckaroo Crew grabbed paddles and life jackets. Aubrey and Berdie climbed in one canoe. Madison and Rankin took the other. There was room for her in either, but no one told her which canoe to board.

  “Rankin,” she called. “Hey, who am I with?”

  A familiar look crossed his face. He’d forgotten all about her. Invisible, as usual.

  “Sotheara is small,” Rankin said, as though she wasn’t standing right there listening. “Put her in my canoe.”

  “You’re sitting at the waterline,” Berdie said. “The kid’s light, but she’d better go in ours. One more pound will sink your canoe.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Madison’s face, pinkish from sun despite the shade offered by her floppy orange hat, flushed red.

  Wow. Berdie’s comment was dangerously close to fat-shaming. Sotheara couldn’t think of any comment that would defuse the situation, so she kept her mouth shut.

  The canoe bobbed in water so crystal clear, Sotheara could see every pebble on the lake’s bottom. The course was marked with PVC pipes jutting out of the water in pairs to form gates.

  As she clambered in, Sotheara barked her shin. She bit her lower lip and forced back tears. Inauspicious beginning. Aubrey, wearing khaki shorts and a perky cotton blouse this morning, handed Sotheara a paddle. The goal was to steer the canoe through the slalom course with the fastest time. Points were deducted for knocking down poles.

  Berdie shouted instructions, but it seemed Sotheara always made the wrong move. The canoe turned sharply. Sotheara flailed with her paddle, hitting a pole. The blow vibrated up her arms. The paddle flew from her hands, landing in the water with a splash. The pole teetered, then tipped over.

  Chance sloshed into the lake in hip waders to set the pipe upright. He was probably more Shawn’s type, but Sotheara momentarily distracted herself from her humiliating performance by enjoying the view. He retrieved her paddle and waded back to shore.

  Sothear
a gripped the sides of the canoe. No help to Berdie and Aubrey without a paddle, she felt like dead weight. They would have been better off forgetting her on the shore.

  Jeremiah winced as Sotheara Sok not only knocked down a pole, but lost her paddle in the process. The girl lacked coordination. Since the squirrel incident, she’d been giving him the cold shoulder. Time to move on to other prospects. The challenges, pathetic though they were, offered Jeremiah opportunity to observe the women without seeming creepy.

  He wasn’t interested in anyone on the pink-shirted Belle Starrs crew. The ladies were over the hill, except for Jessie. She was too skinny to survive the privation of the wilderness lifestyle. Edna dug her paddle into the clear water, barking “Stroke! Stroke!” to her rowers. Now there was a hearty soul, perfect for Jeremiah if she’d been single and a couple decades younger.

  Shawn and Jessie guided their canoes through the course, until Shirley and Yvette waved paddles at each other like dueling swordswomen. Both canoes capsized. While the wranglers fished them out of the lake, the Belle Starr’s third canoe passed the finish line.

  The Wapitis took their turn. Veronica sure looked good in her lime green Survive or Die shirt, but there was no point trying to court that woman. She had gold-digger written all over her. With Frank Hardy and Grant Sommers coaching the crew, the three Wapiti canoes flew through the slalom with agile precision.

  “Jeremiah, we’re next.” Ellen waved him toward the shore.

  Unlike a lot of the Survive or Die gear, the canoes seemed in pretty good shape. Jeremiah let Ellen order people around, making her selections based on relationships, not skill. He was stuck with the stoners Fawn and Tweet. This is gonna be fun.

  The Gold Strike Buckaroo Crew was full of energy. The first canoe, rowed by Ellen and two of her best buds from the factory floor, overshot half the gates. They struggled back for another run at each, losing valuable time. Jeremiah’s commands to his crew fell on deaf ears. Fawn and Tweet knocked down three poles.