June Bug

by Jess Lourey

  I was halfway to my car before I had a thought. I returned to the house and poked my head in to see Gina sucking the marrow out of a leg bone. “Hey, queen of the jungle, I don’t suppose there is an off chance that Jason’s mom Harriet’s friend Linda Gundersen mentioned where Jason’s haughty girlfriend is from?”

  “Niagara County. I remember because I didn’t know it was a county. I wonder if Niagara Falls is in Niagara County.”

  “You’d think. Mind if I use your computer for a minute?”

  “Nope. Just ignore the screen saver.”

  Said screen saver was a picture of two deer watching a man and a woman graphically humping away on the forest floor, with the words “Look at those animals!” scrolling across the bottom. I dialed up the Internet and got online. If I knew more about Samantha, I would have more ammunition in my search.

  Fortunately, we all leave a paper trail, and these days, most of us leave a cyber trail. It took me about forty-five minutes to locate and then search the online archives of Niagara County’s newspapers—the Gazette, Sun, and Democrat—until I found what I was looking for.

  There was no photo accompanying the three-week-old obituary in the Niagara Gazette, and the information was short and sweet: “Regina Krupps, age 104, died of heart failure in her home in Niagara Falls. Her husband, noted entrepreneur Wilson Krupps, preceded Mrs. Krupps in death. Mr. and Mrs. Krupps, along with their dear friends the Andrew Carnegie family, created the Niagara County Center for the Arts in 1940. She was attended at her death by her nurse of four years and survived by her beloved bichon frisé, Berry Blossom.”

  Bingo. I’ll bet her nurse attended her, and I had a hairy feeling that nurse was in town, rooming with Jason Blunt at Shangri-La, and that her name was not really Samantha Krupps. It was just too much of a coincidence that she and Jason would arrive in town all the way from Niagara County, New York, for a vacation at the same time everyone and his dog was looking for a lost diamond necklace owned by Regina Krupps. The elderly Mrs. Krupps had spilled some beans to her nurse, who was now in town searching for a pile of rocks. Apparently, though, Mrs. Krupps had been none too specific about their location, which bought me some time.

  I printed out a copy of the obituary and walked out to find Gina snoring on the couch, the corners of her mouth still greasy from the food. I pulled her shoes off, covered her with an afghan, and was out the door.

  I took the gravel back roads all the way to my house, and the sweet, dusty smell of a dirt road in June filled my car. I was in a good mood, and this only increased when I saw the package waiting on my front steps. Inside was my Z-Force, battery included. It looked a little smaller than in the picture, but it wasn’t the first time I had been disappointed by size, and I recovered quickly. The stun gun was black and fierce in my hand, and it had a good weight, like a heavy flashlight. I hooked up the nine-volt and practiced a menacing posture, zapping invisible rednecks.

  My doorstep activity riled the birds, who flew from the treetops squawking, and I forced myself to calm down so I didn’t anger the Fowl Ones. I needed all the luck I could get tonight. For good measure, I filled the bird feeders with sweet thistle and sunflower seeds and even nailed up a couple oranges for the orioles. I refrained from apologizing out loud at the bird disquiet I had incited, but just barely.

  There were already quite a few cars going down the driveway I shared with Shangri-La, and after a while, people began to walk down the mile and a half of road because there was no room to park on the island. When I counted more than forty people heading down there, I blended in with the crowd. I rarely carried a purse, but tonight I had dug out a hobo-sized one from the back of my closet to hide the reassuring weight of my freshly charged zapper and to stow away any long-lost jewelry I might chance across. I took advantage of the extra room in the purse to carry along a flashlight, a skeleton key that I had scored at a rummage sale, and some gum.

  As I approached the resort grounds, the sun was setting on the west side of Whiskey. The light was spectacular, slicing through trees and across people to create backlit shadows. The general feel of the crowd was light, and there was joking and laughter. I heard talk of fireworks later, but much of the conversation centered on the fake body found in the lake. I fell in with a small group of people, all in their late forties or early fifties, and all of them dressed like out-of-town golfers.

  The short, broad man I was directly behind spoke. “Gawd, I’d hate to be the idiot who found that stuffed dive suit. I heard whoever it was was pretty scared.”

  My fingers itched to grab the zapper. Damn tourists, judging me. I bet I could bump up against this guy and drop him without taking my hand out of my purse. I walked closer to the man talking, and I kept my eyes pasted on his comb-over.

  “Doesn’t take Einstein to tell a human body from a stuffed wetsuit!”

  The man and his friends laughed. Two more feet and I’d be at his backside. I wondered how much of a buffer his back fat would provide him as I cradled the black plastic zapper in the security of my purse. In the dark of my hobo bag, the stun gun felt like at least seven inches.

  “Let’s hope the ditz doesn’t have a driver’s license! Probably can’t tell a stop sign from a tree.”

  One more step. I would zap and blend back in the crowd. It’d be a pleasant way to begin tonight’s festivities.

  “I hope she buys a flashlight so she can find her ass to shit.”

  Half a step. I hit the on button and heard a soft crackle of electricity. I leaned in, hypnotized by the rhythm of his large rear cheeks rolling one over the other like ships on the storm of his thighs.

  Crack! The loud boom shocked me, and I dropped the stun gun in my purse, my hand falling off the button. Weak lights burned the sky, competing with the setting sun for attention, and sparkled down to earth like crashing fireflies. I smelled the sulfur and prepared myself for another round of fireworks in the twilight sky. The crowd around me stopped and oohed.

  I walked past the group I had been tailing, glaring at the guy who had been knocking me. He smiled appreciatively at my ass and turned his attention back to the sky. I continued on to the mayhem of Shangri-La Island.

  Children were screaming and chasing one another as a last firework shot out from the public access and over the island. Apparently, they were just meant to announce the party. All around me, people were mingling and smiling, drinks in their hands as they rode the excitement of outdoor entertainment on a warm summer evening. The theater troupe was providing preshow distractions in the only clearing on the island. A juggler danced around the tiki torches lighting the natural stage, a unicycling clown pedaled back and forth to the delighted glee of the kids watching, and a man in a tuxedo tossed candy from stilt level. Two small figures dressed as Tweedledum and Tweedledee rolled around on the ground, and I couldn’t tell from my spot if they were tiny adults or children.

  There was a tropical theme blended in with the Renaissance feel of the Romanov entertainment, probably created in honor of the “island” of Shangri-La. Bongo players dressed in grass skirts and leis pounded a tribal beat on the periphery of the cleared spot, and island dancers swayed around them. The entertainment’s mingling of the tropics with Shakespeare was unsettling, like interspecies mating, and I wondered how much this spectacle cost and how the Gibsons were paying for it. There was no cover charge, and only a handful of people here were paying guests. For the second time in as many days, I considered the possibility that the Gibsons were on the black end of this whole diamond deal.

  I sidled closer to the main stage and looked around for familiar faces. I thought I spotted Jed playing one of the bongos, but the flickering light of the tiki torches made it hard to make out details.

  “You need to stay close to your mother, and don’t eat anything fried or with sugar.”

  I turned and saw Peyton and Leylanda standing five feet behind me. Peyton was executing a little-girl hip wiggle to the tropical beat, and Leylanda was grasping her hand tightly.

/>   “Hey, Peyton!” I danced my way over to the little girl and we both boogied for a minute, much to the chagrin of Leylanda. “This looks like fun, eh?”

  Leylanda stared icily at me. “Peyton, this is not fun. This is culture, and we are here to see a theater performance. Say goodbye to Ms. James.”

  I put out my hand, and Peyton shook it, deftly palming the Fruit Stripe gum I had concealed there. “See ya around, Peyton.”

  “See ya.”

  I walked away from the center of activity and around to the front of the lodge. Samantha Krupps was sitting on the front steps smoking a cigarette stuck in one of those long black-and-white holders that Natasha used on Rocky and Bullwinkle. I glanced around for Jason but didn’t see him, so I walked over to her.

  “Hello, Samantha.”

  When she turned to look at me, I could see her black eye, sullen and purplish under her unnaturally dark eyebrows.

  “Wow, that’s a shiner.”

  “No shit.”

  All of her chattiness from the day before was gone, and I saw no reason to play at small talk. “Jason hit you?”

  She dragged deep off her cigarette. Her eyes looked hazel in the gathering night, and I could see the black roots at her hairline. She scowled into the distance.

  “What city did you say you’re from?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Niagara County, I think you said.”

  She looked at me from the corners of her eyes and tensed up. I knew she wanted to look around for Jason, but she showed admirable restraint.

  “So, you any relation to the woman who lost the diamond necklace here in the late twenties, Samantha?”

  “People call me Sam.”

  She was talking. I needed to keep her going as long as possible, because I knew as soon as Jason showed up, she’d shut down. “Hi, Sam.” I smiled at her and hoped it was open and friendly. “What’s there to do in Niagara County?”

  “Not much, unless you like catering to tourists.” She smiled without humor. “Must be like being here, almost. I was a CNA for a while, a waitress here and there, sold garbage at gift shops. You name it, I did it.”

  I knew from Gina that a CNA was a certified nursing assistant, and with the proper training, a CNA could be a home health aide. I decided to bluff. “I know who you took care of when you were nursing.”

  “You mean my aunt? So?”

  Her self-assurance caught me off guard. I was certain Regina Krupps didn’t have any living relatives, or they would have been mentioned in her obituary. “So, I know she was the one who lost the diamond necklace in this lake. Regina Krupps.”

  Sam looked genuinely bored and pressed her thumb and forefinger together softly and slowly, like she was applauding the tiniest show.

  I changed tacks, determined to regain the upper hand. “How’d you meet Jason?”

  Sam took a final puff on her cigarette and ground it into the side of the stairs. She started to insert another one in her holder, and then tossed her holder into the bushes and slapped the cigarette straight in her mouth. “He came to a shop I was working at part-time. He wanted to get married to this fat redhead. We sold wedding packages, sort of like Vegas. He took one look at me and left her.” She laughed icily. “Aren’t I lucky?”

  I ignored the question. “Why’d you come out here?”

  “To meet Jason’s family.” She fidgeted, dodging the question and avoiding my eyes.

  “So you and Jason do any diving since you got here?”

  “Ha! You couldn’t get me to go in a lake to save a baby. If I can’t see the bottom, I don’t get wet.”

  This jolted me. I assumed Jason had rented three sets of gear so he and Sam would each have a set, with one set left over for the fake body. If she didn’t dive, Jason had an unseen accomplice who was probably a lot scarier than Sam.

  A cold hand grabbed my neck, and I squealed. I turned to face the vacant smile of the ringmaster, who, dressed as a lion tamer, had given me the Romanov flyer in the nursing-home lobby yesterday. “We need a lovely lady to help us get this show started!”

  He yanked me toward the makeshift stage, and I stopped struggling when I realized all eyes were on us and the music had stopped. Talk about not blending into a crowd. I could be naked and in flames and be less obvious.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the world-renowned Romanov Traveling Theater!” His voice carried across the island and over the lake. The bongo players sprinkled throughout the crowd started slapping their skins in a slow and steady rhythm while chanting a low “Hiya, ha hiya.”

  “Tonight, we have a rare treat for you! In addition to the enticing entertainment provided by our island performers, you will get a preview of the local production of William C. Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew!”

  William C.? Hadn’t it been William S. before? Who were these Romanovs? It was now full dark outside the circle of tiki-torch light, and I tried to slink away into the inkiness. The ringmaster snatched me back.

  “This beatific lady has agreed to take part in our opening extravaganza by partaking in our disappearing act! Lady, have we met before?”

  I nodded my head yes.

  “The lady says no! This is our first meeting! Island assistants, please bring out the magic case.”

  There was a somber bongo roll, and two of the skirt-clad bongo players hoisted a heavy box to the center of the earthen stage. The box was about five and a half feet tall, and from a distance, I’m sure it looked ornate. Up close, I could see it was covered in cheap plastic designed to look like carved wood. There was a door on the front without a doorknob. The ringmaster tapped the door, stepped inside and then out to show that it was a real box, and pounded the three sides to show it was solid.

  “Assistants, please lead our lovely volunteer inside!”

  I was starting to panic. Public speaking is bad, but public disappearing is worse. The bongo players grabbed my wrists and dragged me toward the box as I dug my heels in. I couldn’t reach my stun gun and felt like a character in a Shirley Jackson story as the crowd hooted and hollered in glee. I turned to beg the bongo players to let me go and saw Jed grinning dopily at me.

  “Jed!” I hissed. “What are you doing in a skirt and why the hell don’t you let me go!”

  “Easy money, Mira, and don’t worry.” His grin struck me as dopier than usual. “This is a cool trick. I got to do it once in rehearsal today. You’ll be fine, dude. Just play along.”

  I relaxed not at all but gave up fighting as they shoved me into the box. The front closed like a coffin door, and the ringmaster’s voice became muffled. I had to crouch down, my knees and shoulders scraping the cheap wood. The inside of the box smelled like sweat and vinegar.

  “I will say the magic words, tap three times on the box, and show you our lovely volunteer has disappeared! Abracov, dabrocov, Romanov!”

  There were three taps on the box, but I’m sure I was the only one who heard them over the deafening cracks of a fresh round of fireworks. Without warning, I was jerked out the back of the box as shards of light exploded from the front. Four hands shoved me into a container just big enough to hold me in the fetal position, and I felt myself being carried off. There was enough room to breathe but not enough to struggle. Fortunately, my hand had been clutching my purse when I was thrust into this tiny jail, and I concentrated on working it inside.

  I was sweating with the exertion of small movements by the time my fingertips brushed against the solid plastic of my little soldier. I grabbed onto it, determined to force some involuntary bodily functions out of whoever was transporting me as soon as they let me out. If they let me out. Clearly, reappearing wasn’t an integral part of this disappearing act.

  I heard the sounds of the island party fade, gradually replaced by the sounds of feet on gravel. I considered yelling, but I wouldn’t be heard over the noise of the party. I knew there was only one exit off Shangri-La—the strip of gravel that was the driveway—which meant there was now water on eithe
r side of me. I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to dump me in it. Maybe this was just a harmless magic trick and I’d be let go as soon as I was totally out of sight of the audience. I concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths and was comforted by the familiar smell of Whiskey Lake and the plants that grew around my house.

  The reverberations of road were replaced by the rustling of brush, and I knew we were in the woods about half a mile north of the Shangri-La main lodge. When you’re leaving an isthmus, there’s only one direction you can go, and if we weren’t on the road, we were in the woods. Someone had an interest in stealing me away from tonight’s action, but this seemed a pretty dramatic way to go.

  Suddenly, the jostling stopped, and I was set down gently. The front of the container was opened.

  “Du—”

  I leaped and zapped, once on the hand held out to help me up and once on the upper shoulder of the other carrier. I looked wildly from Jed’s falling face to the slumped body of the other bongo player. I recognized him from the bait shop. He had sold me a newspaper and Lemonheads last week and asked me how I liked the weather. I forced myself to blink and breathe. I knew from the footfalls I had been listening to that it was just the three of us in the woods, and two of us were currently ass-to-stars on the forest floor. I looked around and took in the two elm trees in front of me knotted together like lovers, the faint hum of the crowd on Shangri-La, and the whisper of breeze in the treetops. I was stiff from my temporary confinement, and looked over at what I had been carried here in. It was one of the bongo drums, a little bigger than the rest, with a side that opened out. It was probably built just for this trick.

  I leaned over and felt Jed’s pulse and then the pulse of his friend. They were both a little rapid but healthy. I considered sticking around to apologize, but then thought better of it. Both guys were probably so high that this zapping wouldn’t even be a blip on their radar screens. Besides, everyone knows it’s not cool to transport a chick to the woods in a carrier disguised as a bongo drum.