The Blue Coyote (The Frannie Shoemaker Campground Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen Musser Nortman

  There was comfort in the dappled sunlight on the table and the groans and cheers generated by the game. Frannie would lose herself in the play and banter only to be jolted to reality at the sight of a searcher in the woods or the sheriff’s car on the road. She needed to find out when Bernie Reid had done a program at the RST school. Maybe Tammy remembered but she didn’t even know which campsite Tammy and her family were at.

  Mickey won the first game, and they flipped the dominos back over, stirring them with the flats of their hands to accomplish a shuffle of sorts. They each drew seven more and set them on edge; Joe’s arranging took a little longer until he was sure they were evenly spaced and that Mickey couldn’t see what he had. No one had a double twelve but Jane Ann had a double eleven and put it in the middle to start the game.

  The men rehashed the football game between turns—a close Iowa victory—and Nancy described a new project her community development agency had started.

  While Frannie was waiting for her turn, she noticed a generic beige sedan rolling slowly down the road toward the Trats’ campsite. The glimpse she got of the head in the driver’s window gave her a start; she wasn’t sure if it was a feeling of hope or doom. The man was Agent Warren Sanchez of the State Department of Criminal Investigation. Frannie and Larry had both cooperated and butted heads with him after the murders at Bat Cave State Park. She hoped Sanchez had stronger memories of the former.

  She caught Larry’s eye, and nodded toward the passing car. It was too late to see the driver and Larry raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “Sanchez,” Frannie said quietly and played a double three. “Chicken Foot!”

  Mickey and Jane Ann had been at Bat Cave with the Shoemakers and turned to look at the car going up the road, but Ben said “Who’s Sanchez?”

  “A DCI agent who was at Bat Cave when we were,” Larry answered. “I guess I’m not surprised. If they determine this actually was a kidnapping, the FBI will probably be called in too.”

  Sabet looked up from deciding her next play. “FBI? I thought that girl was just lost.”

  “We don’t know yet,” Frannie told her. “We hope that’s the case and that they find her soon.”

  “I think one of those Blue Coyotes got her,” Joe said solemnly. “They should look for him.”

  Frannie looked at him, surprised. She thought he was in the camper changing clothes during that discussion with the ranger. Apparently he heard just enough through the open windows to fire his imagination.

  Sabet looked at her brother with scorn. “There’s no such thing as a blue coyote, Joe.”

  “Ha! Those people said—,“ retorted Joe before Frannie shushed him.

  “I think it’s your turn, Joe.” The game continued while the adults kept one eye out for more activity on the road. Sabet won the second game, and Jane Ann got up from the table and stretched.

  “We’re doing steaks tonight? I’m going to fix some potatoes in the Dutch oven so I think I’ll go mix up the sauce.”

  Ben licked his lips. “I can’t think of anything that isn’t better with sauce.”

  “I’m doing a salad,” Frannie said. “And I have bread pudding in the cooker.”

  Nancy said, “I have a new recipe for roasted Brussels sprouts and pears. I think I’ll partially cook the sprouts in the micro, and then finish them in foil on the coals.”

  “Eww—,“ Sabet started to say but her grandpa pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at her. She ducked her head and snickered as she stacked dominos back in the tin.

  “We all love Brussels sprouts,” he said firmly. “Why don’t you go in and help Granny Fran toss the salad—but not on the ceiling! Joe can help me get more firewood out of the truck.”

  She began to giggle uncontrollably at the lovely thought of lettuce and tomatoes on the ceiling and ran into the camper with the dominos. Larry and Joe headed to the back of the pickup and Larry pulled a large tub of firewood from under the cover.

  “Can you get one end of this, Joe?”

  “Sure!” Joe reached up and grabbed one end and his face showed the strain as he gamely helped lift it down to the ground.

  “Quite a helper you have there, Mr. Shoemaker,” a voice said from the side of the truck. Larry looked up to see the short stocky frame of Warren Sanchez. His dark straight hair fell across his forehead, which he frequently swept back in a trademark gesture with his left hand. He held out his right hand to Larry. “We meet again—sooner than I expected.”

  Larry stood up straight and took the hand. “Yes, unfortunately, under these circumstances. I’m afraid there are some here that consider me a suspect as well.”

  “I’ve heard. Sounds to me, though, like your window of opportunity was pretty limited, based on the timetable the sheriff described.”

  “My wife will be glad to hear that.”

  “I thought maybe she would have this solved by now,” Sanchez said with a small smile.

  Larry rolled his eyes. “She has her theories.”

  “I’m sure she does. Seriously, I would like to talk to her. Ranger Sommers said Mrs. Shoemaker accompanied her to interview a Ms. Sloan?”

  “That’s the woman who Taylor Trats talked to?” Larry said.

  “Yes, and now she seems to have disappeared. And Sommers said that she specifically instructed the woman to stay put.”

  Larry’s mouth dropped momentarily. “Joe, go see if Uncle Mickey and Ben will help you take this wood over, okay, Bud?”

  Joe nodded eagerly and headed over toward Mickey while Larry led Sanchez toward the trailer steps. When they got inside, Sabet was covering a bowl of greens with plastic wrap and Frannie was making room in the refrigerator for the bowl. She looked up and, with a slight frown, saw Agent Sanchez follow Larry in the door. He fumbled briefly with the temperamental door latch and turned to face her. She relaxed a little at the sight of his pleasant expression. Surely, if he suspected Larry, it would show.

  “Mrs. Shoemaker,” he greeted her with a little nod. “How are you doing?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I understand.” He looked at Sabet, hesitating. “Is this your granddaughter?”

  “Yes, this Sabet—Sarabeth. Sabet, this is Agent Sanchez from the Department of Criminal Investigation.”

  “Wow,” said Sabet.

  “Why don’t you go out and make sure your brother doesn’t give Uncle Mickey too much trouble while we visit a minute?” Larry suggested.

  Sanchez opened the door again and Sabet went past him giving him the eye the whole way. She’s probably wondering if he has a gun, Frannie thought.

  “Mrs. Shoemaker,” Sanchez began.

  “Please call me Frannie.”

  He looked uncomfortable, one of those people raised to reserve use of first names only for close friends. “Um, I understand you went with Ranger Sommers to identify the woman Taylor Trats asked for help.”

  Frannie became curious. “Yes, I did. Why?”

  “She seems to be missing. Ranger Sommers said she told the woman not to leave the campground.” He didn’t make it a question but was obviously looking for verification.

  “That’s what she told her—Ms. Sloan, I believe.”

  “We’ve checked the whole campground and no sign of her.”

  “Hmmm. I mentioned to the ranger that I thought it was odd that she didn’t have a vehicle—only her tent. The ranger thought it might be parked in the overflow parking.”

  “Her registration didn’t have a license number on it—but I understand that many people don’t put those in. Don’t have it memorized and plan to do it later. So we are having to check registrations on every car in that lot. Meanwhile, I wondered if you noticed anything about her that might be helpful. You don’t seem to miss much.” His compliment was grudging.

  “Nooo, except she did say the incident had happened an hour and fifteen minutes before. I thought that was pretty precise for something like that. Do you mean that her tent and her stuff is gone too or just
her?”

  “Just her, as far as we know. There’s a small tent, a lawn chair, and some firewood.”

  “Sleeping bag or air mattress?” Frannie asked.

  “No.”

  Larry said, “That’s odd, too. Any clothes?”

  “No again.” He looked back at Frannie. “Your husband says you have theories about this case?”

  Frannie looked at Larry, surprised. “Well, it’s more like I have questions.” She told him about the road workers, their behavior, and the proximity of construction to the last child abduction. “I told the sheriff about that and he seemed interested; I think he was going to check to see if any of these guys worked near Sharm Crossing. Then a little while ago, a woman at the playground told me that the storyteller who’s performing here gave a program last spring at her son’s school near Sharm Crossing.”

  “Was it at the same time as that disappearance? I remember the case.”

  “I didn’t realize until I got back here and looked at a map where RST School was. She just said it was in the spring.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Just Tammy. A young woman with at least two children.”

  “Well, that should be easy enough to check. I imagine the storyteller has had pretty thorough background checks, though, with all the performances he does for kids. No connection to this Ms. Sloan that you know of? You didn’t see her talking to either the road workers or the storyteller, did you?”

  “No, the only times I’ve seen her was when that little girl stopped her in the road, when we passed her on our hike, and when the ranger and I went to talk to her,” Frannie said.

  “Well,” Sanchez said. “Sounds like a lot of loose ends. Thanks for your help. I’d better get back to the sheriff and see if anything else has turned up.” He fumbled again with the door and headed down the steps with Larry and Frannie following. Sanchez nodded at Mickey and Jane Ann as he left the campsite.

  “Agent Sanchez!” Larry called after him and loped to catch up to him.

  Sanchez turned. “Yes?”

  “I forgot to ask—the sheriff said we needed to stay in this campsite. Is that still the case? There’s another program at the Nature Center tonight that we’d like to take the kids to and we also generally use the campground showers and restrooms during the day.”

  Sanchez shook his head. “As long as you’re in the park, I don’t think there’ll be a problem. I’m actually in charge of the investigation now, although I don’t want to step on the sheriff’s toes any more than necessary. I’ll talk to him but you can go anywhere in the campground.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sanchez left and the adults all eyed one another, waiting for someone else to speak.

  ****************

  Happy Camper Tip #6

  Roasted Brussels sprouts and pears: Trim and halve 1 pound of Brussels sprouts and precook in the microwave 4-5 minutes. Toss the sprouts with a Bartlett pear cored and wedged and a couple of shallots cut in wedges with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Spread on a large piece of foil. Sprinkle with sea salt and pepper and 1 tablespoon of lemon juice. Add a few sprigs of fresh thyme and seal the foil into a packet. Sprinkling with a little balsamic vinegar adds a nice touch, too. Lay the packet on grill over the fire or in coals and cook for about 10 minutes, turning once.

  Chapter Seven

  Early Saturday Evening

  “Gran, can I go see if Tessa can come over for a little bit?” Sabet asked.

  Frannie nodded. “Don’t go anywhere else though. Stay where I can see you.”

  “Okay.”

  Frannie checked on Joe’s whereabouts and found him preoccupied again with his marshmallow gun. She took the opportunity to fill the other adults in on Sanchez’ visit.

  “Sounds like he doesn’t suspect Larry, at least,” Mickey said.

  “No, and I hope he convinces the sheriff and the ranger of that too.”

  “Frannie’s envisioning me in stripes, I’m afraid,” Larry said.

  “It isn’t a joke, Larry. These things can get way out of hand,” she answered.

  “Sounds awfully strange that Ms. Sloan is gone, too,” Nancy said. “And her stuff is still there?”

  “No sleeping bag or clothes, but her tent and lawn chair are.”

  Sabet returned to the campsite. The forlorn expression on her face gave Frannie a twinge. “What’s the matter, honey?”

  “Her mom said she can’t play with me again. What did I do?”

  Frannie put her arm around Sabet’s shoulders. “Nothing. You didn’t do a thing. People are just out of sorts because of the missing girl.”

  Sabet looked up at her. “Why do they think Grandpa did it?”

  Frannie cleared her throat. Miss Big Ears, indeed. “They don’t know him like we do. And when something like this happens, people look for someone to blame. Grandpa talked to the girl last night and that’s all they know, so they’re blaming him. Agent Sanchez knows Grandpa and doesn’t believe he did it and soon the sheriff and the ranger will know that too.”

  “This is crazy,” Sabet said, and Frannie heartily agreed.

  “Sabet, you want to help me with the Brussels sprouts? And I have some other things to bring over,” Nancy said.

  The expression on the girl’s face was now comical. She liked Nancy and was a willing helper, but a little reluctance crossed her face at the mention of the hated vegetable.

  “Sure,” she finally said. She followed Nancy back to the Terell’s trailer, toting and cooing to Chloe.

  Joe tuned into what was going on around him. “I want to help too!”

  “You can help me finish the potatoes,” Jane Ann said.

  “Can I wear Uncle Mickey’s cooking hat?” Joe asked, jumping up.

  “Absolutely.” The two headed into the Ferraros’ RV.

  Larry and Mickey stoked the fire while Ben brought more firewood over from his camper. Temporarily without a task, Frannie sat and stared unseeing at her hands. This whole episode was so unreal that one part of her brain told her heart—or her stomach—wherever the emotions were, that this had to work out—things this unjust wouldn’t stand in the light of examination. But the other part of her brain knew that sometimes they did. There are miscarriages of justice. Should she have confidence that wouldn’t happen here? Or prepare herself for some bizarre twist and do whatever she could to help clear her husband? And this all detracted from the real issue: finding the Trats girl.

  Another strange car pulled alongside their campsite, a compact nondescript gray sedan. A short, dark-haired young woman got out wearing dark slacks, tailored jacket, and white blouse and carrying a clipboard. She tugged at her jacket, smoothed her hair and headed toward their group. As she approached, she glanced at her clipboard.

  “Larry Shoemaker?” Her gaze shifted quickly from one man to another. Larry raised a hand and stepped forward.

  “I’m Larry Shoemaker.”

  She looked at Frannie. “Are you Mrs. Shoemaker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we talk in private?”

  “What is this about?” Larry asked, somewhat defensive.

  “Mr. Shoemaker, my name is Maya Brown. I represent the local office of the Department of Human Services. I have some questions to ask you.”

  Frannie’s stomach lurched again. Now what? Would this never end? Larry led the way inside the camper. He indicated that Ms. Brown could have the chair while he and Frannie sat on the couch. He didn’t wait for Ms. Brown to explain her visit. He said again, “What’s this about?”

  She took a deep breath and hunched forward, concentrating on her clipboard. “I understand you have a grandson staying with you?”

  “Yes, just for the weekend,” Frannie jumped in. “Why?”

  “We have received an abuse report about him.” Maya Brown finally looked up at them.

  “What!?” Frannie sat forward as Larry lightly put a hand on her arm. “What are you talking about?” She felt her voice come out in a scr
eech.

  Instead of answering, Ms. Brown posed her next question. “Where is your grandson now?”

  Larry said, “He’s in the next camper helping my sister with supper.” It crossed Frannie’s mind that now the woman probably thought they were using Joe as slave labor, too.

  “All right, I’ll talk to him when we are done here. The boy has some bruises?” She tugged at her jacket again.

  “Yes, I took him and his sister on a hike earlier this afternoon, and he slipped on a rock and fell in the river. His sister got to him first and pulled him out but he scraped his cheek and bruised his arm. Who made this complaint, anyway?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Weren’t you watching him?”

  “Of course I was watching him. But he’s seven and if you knew anything about children, you would know that seven-year-olds don’t stand still. What do you mean, you can’t tell us? We have a right to know who—“

  “Not in abuse cases. Did you get him medical treatment?”

  “No!” Frannie threw her hands up. “This is crazy! It was that Trats woman, wasn’t it, who complained?”

  “Frannie,” Larry said. “Calm down. We will get this all straightened out.”

  “Why didn’t you take him to the ER or somewhere for treatment?” The woman was determined not to deviate from the proscribed questions.

  “It was a small scrape and a little bruise. I wouldn’t take anyone to the doctor for that.”

  Ms. Brown cocked an eyebrow as if Frannie’s judgment would be suspect in all such cases and wrote on her clipboard. She then took down contact information for Sam and Beth. Frannie cringed. She would have to contact Sam before this woman did.

  Ms. Brown asked Larry if he would take her to “the child.” Larry nodded, cast a sideways glance at Frannie, and led the way out of the camper. Frannie followed, reluctant both to face the music and to be left out. On the way across the campsite, Ms. Brown said to Larry, “I will also need to talk to the boy’s sister.”

  “She’s helping another friend with food next door. I’ll get her while you talk to Joe.” He tapped on the screen door of Ferraro’s motorhome and called out, “Jane Ann?”