At fifty-one years of age, I had no desire to hone my survival skills in the deep, dark woods, where danger might be lurking around every corner. With the snap of every limb, I’d fear I was about to be mauled by a bear or a mountain lion. I’d run out of pepper spray before we reached our camping site, just reacting to phantom assailants. I had my own little pink-handled gun now, too, but randomly firing bullets at figments of my imagination might make my fellow campers a bit uneasy.
Stone would probably insist I catch my own supper in a rippling stream, too, and he should have learned from his first attempt to teach me to fish it was a recipe for disaster. He would spend his entire vacation untangling my fishing line and digging hooks out of somebody’s flesh, most likely his own.
Stone and I own and operate a bed and breakfast lodging facility in Rockdale, Missouri, called the Alexandria Inn. Alexandria is my given name even though everyone calls me Lexie. We both lost our first spouses years ago, and met and fell in love back east when I was there investigating a murder case that involved the welfare of my only child, thirty-year-old Wendy.
Now we were celebrating our first anniversary and Stone felt we needed to get away for a couple weeks to rest and relax, and enjoy ourselves. Ever since he told me he was planning a secret vacation to celebrate the end of our newlywed status, I’d been hoping he had booked a western Caribbean cruise during which we could ingest entirely too many calories at a midnight chocolate bar, and stuff ourselves like throw pillows at the endless buffets. The onboard entertainment and nightly shows would, no doubt, be fascinating, and the ports of call would offer endless possibilities.
I could visualize myself snorkeling the second largest barrier reef in the world, in Belize, and riding a zip line through the forest in Roatan, Honduras. I hoped to swim with the dolphins in Cancun, as well. For some odd reason, being eaten alive by sharks or plummeting to earth from a high cable did not scare me as much as the thought of a boll weevil finding its way into my sleeping bag. A walking stick, no matter how harmless Stone assures me they are, can creep me out like nobody’s business.
You see, I really do enjoy new adventures, but roughing it in a tent and having to squat behind bushes to relieve myself, were just not my cup of tea. My idea of roughing it is when room service is late. I was preparing my rebuttal in my mind when Stone’s next words made me stop in my tracks.
“Not tent-camping, honey. I’ve rented three class-C motorhomes, and reserved sites at an RV park in Cheyenne, Wyoming, during the largest outdoor rodeo in the world, called Cheyenne Frontier Days. I’ve even purchased tickets to several nightly concerts, including a couple of your favorite country music artists.”
“Oh, well, that’s different then. I can picture us driving down the interstate while fixing lunch at the same time,” I said, my spirits lifted instantly.
“Yes, and these rigs have all the comforts of home, just in slightly smaller proportions in some cases. And not only that, I won’t have to pull over at every single rest stop between here and Cheyenne, since you always have a cup of coffee in your hand. You can use the john in the RV at seventy miles an hour,” he said.
“It’s not just me who needs to visit the rest stops on a regular basis. You tend to need to stop frequently too,” I said, a little insulted by Stone’s comment.
“I can’t help that I have an enlarged prostate, my dear. Besides, I was only teasing you. Getting out and walking around intermittently helps prevent blood clots from forming in our legs. We probably need to do that even when traveling in a motorhome. The exercise will be good for us, and adequate circulation becomes more of an issue at our ages.”
“Isn’t getting older a barrel of fun? I can remember the days when we never gave issues like those a second thought,” I said. “Now, just forgetting where I laid my keys makes me panic, convinced that a rapid-onset case of Alzheimer’s is kicking in. It does run in both our families, you know.”
As Stone was responding, it suddenly occurred to me that I had lead us far away from the initial topic of conversation, and also that we must not be going on the trip alone. “Why did you rent three motorhomes, by the way?”
“I’ve talked Wendy and Andy, and Wyatt and Veronica, into joining us on our venture. I knew you’d be delighted to have them all along on the trip. They were sworn to secrecy, knowing I wanted to surprise you for our anniversary.”
Wendy was living with Stone’s nephew, Andy, who, like his Uncle Stone, had also relocated from South Carolina. I was certain it was only a matter of time before they tied the knot and began producing some grandchildren for me. So far, the closest they’d gotten to giving me grandkids to spoil, was adopting two baby alpacas, which they’d named after a ’70s sitcom. I could just see us inviting Mork and Mindy to sit in on our next family portrait.
Wyatt was a dear friend of ours whom we’d met when a guest was murdered in our inn on its opening night. Detective Wyatt Johnston had served on the Rockport police force for sixteen years, and he dropped by nearly every morning to devour enough pastries to provide any normal person with his entire daily recommended caloric intake. His girlfriend, Veronica, was the only daughter of the murder victim from that inaugural evening at Alexandria Inn. She had moved back home to Rockdale from Salt Lake City after inheriting her father’s historic Italianate mansion here. Like us, she had turned it into a bed and breakfast, which she called Little Italy Inn.
I thought highly of Veronica, but I wasn’t totally convinced she’d be that delightful to travel with. All the lotions and potions she couldn’t live without would more than fill the small bathroom in a motorhome, and probably the storage space under the bed, as well. High-maintenance was an under-statement when it came to Wyatt’s girlfriend. And the young lady couldn’t ever manage to get anywhere on time, which drove me crazy at times. We couldn’t join her and Wyatt on a run to Dairy Queen for ice cream cones without waiting an hour for her to get ready. How nice does one have to look to drive up to a window and have a chocolate sundae passed out to her by a sixteen-year-old, pimply-faced boy on summer vacation?
“How nice to have company on our trip,” I told Stone. “Traveling with two younger couples will only enhance our vacation and keep us entertained and amused, I’m sure. Now that I know I won’t have to share my bedding with a rattlesnake and my meals with a swarm of ants, I’m getting excited.. After all the murder cases I’ve unwittingly gotten myself involved in the last couple of years, I could use a vacation.”
“Unwittingly?” Stone asked. “I’d describe it more as continuously throwing yourself in front of moving trains.”
“Well, whatever,” I replied. Then I quickly changed the subject back to our upcoming trip before Stone began reprimanding me for my habit of finding myself knee deep in doo-doo while investigating murder cases I had no business being involved with in the first place.
Cozy Camping
by
Jeanne Glidewell
~
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Cozy Camping
from your favorite eBook Retailer,
visit Jeanne Glidewell’s eBook Discovery Author Page
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Page forward and complete your journey
with an excerpt from
SPIRIT OF THE SEASON
A Lexie Starr Mystery
Novella
Excerpt from
The Spirit of the Season
A Lexie Starr Mystery
Novella
by
Jeanne Glidewell
My Lexie Starr holiday novella is dedicated to all the members and past members of the military, and their families. As a token of my personal appreciation, I am donating all the proceeds from the sale of this novella to the Leavenworth, Kansas, Chapter of the Toys for Tots program. I hope you will consider donating an unwrapped toy, or two, to your local Toys for Tots Chapter, which benefits many underpr
ivileged families and helps them to all have a merrier holiday season.
When I walked into the smoke-filled auction barn the following evening, I looked around the room for a portly gentleman with less than a handful of hairs strategically combed across his head in a pitiful attempt to look like he wasn’t only fourteen plucks short of being completely bald.
I spotted him almost immediately. He was surrounded by a swarm of men who were vying for his attention, and I could hear his bellowing laugh clear across the room when someone tickled his funny bone. I watched him reach up and pat down his few remaining hairs, apparently to prevent his secret of being nearly bald from getting let out of the bag.
I wasn’t planning on bidding on anything, but I wanted to look like I had a reason to be there, so I signed up at the counter and was given a wooden placard with the number sixty painted on it.
I then headed to the concession stand to purchase a large cup of coffee. After one sip of the strong brew, I decided the city hall’s vending machine couldn’t possibly produce coffee that tasted any worse than the cup I’d just paid three bucks for. But that, of course, didn’t prevent me from planning to drain the cup and possibly return for a refill.
If at all possible, I wanted to land a seat right next to the mayor. I walked over and with my back to the throng of people enveloping him, I pretended to be engrossed in a text message on my phone. I was on high alert, waiting for him to make a step toward the metal bleachers, which were like those you’d find in a junior high school gymnasium.
When at last he headed in that direction, I dashed toward him, nearly knocking three people over in the process. In my haste, I spilt about a quarter cup of the crappy coffee on the back of an elderly man’s overalls, but he seemed oblivious to it, so I didn’t stop to apologize. However, I did rue the loss of about seventy-five cents worth of the awful tasting, but caffeine-infused, beverage. Maybe Wyatt was right. I had no boundaries when it came to drinking coffee.
When I realized that I wasn’t going to beat a tall, slim gentleman coming from the opposite direction, to the only empty seat next to Bradley Dunn, I pointed to the floor directly behind the lanky fellow, and hollered, “Look out!”
When the man stopped abruptly, and turned around in alarm, I practically flung myself into the seat he’d been about to sit down on. The bewildered gentleman looked back toward me with a questioning expression, and I said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I saw a big wad of gum on the floor and I didn’t want you to accidentally step on it and get it all over your shoes. It must have just been one of those floaters I’ve been prone to ever since my botched retinal surgery.”
The man just shrugged, and looked at me like he’d just come in contact with an escapee from an insane asylum. He turned around and found himself a seat three rows back on the opposite side of the bleachers. I felt a little embarrassed, but I got over it quickly when I reminded myself I’d been successful in getting a seat right next to the mayor. In my somewhat crazed state of mind, it was akin to getting an audience with the Pope.
I didn’t want to seem too obvious or anxious to speak to Mr. Dunn, so I sat quietly while the auctioneer began speaking in that rapid-fire manner that always amazed me. When a heard a mosquito flying by my ear, I swatted at it and unintentionally bid fifteen bucks on an old accordion that looked like it had been shipped to America on the Mayflower. Luckily, another woman who looked nearly as old as the accordion outbid me.
After several more items had been auctioned off, there was a pause in the action as the auctioneer’s assistant went to retrieve the next item on his list.
I took this opportunity to turn to the mayor, and ask, “Aren’t you Mr. Dunn, the mayor of Rockdale?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, without even turning to acknowledge me with even a quick glance in my direction. A flitting gnat would have received more attention than I did.
“Did you happen to hear about the theft of some very expensive toys from the storeroom at City Hall, which had been donated to benefit underprivileged children?”
“Yeah, I heard something about that,” he replied, with a total lack of interest.
“I’m the person who conceived the idea for the appeal to the public for toys and other helpful items for a struggling family in our community. Do you have any idea who could have done such an awful thing as to steal some of these donated items? I know you were in the building that evening, and I wondered if you happened to see anything unusual, or see anyone suspicious enter or leave the building, possibly with a large box of toys,” I spoke earnestly.
“No, sorry. I’ve been too busy with a lot more important things to dwell on the loss of some silly toys. An issue like that, of such low caliber, would have been the last thing on my mind Sunday night. I really can’t be bothered with such trivial matters when I have an entire town to look after.”
He turned away from me, as if to signal my allotted thirty seconds of his precious time were up. His nonchalant dismissal of the theft and me infuriated me. Who did he think he was? Maybe he thought he really was as important as the Pope, and his time was beyond valuable.
This was Rockdale, where the streets were rolled up at seven, and the three stoplights in town began blinking red at that same time. How could this pompous ass show such little regard for the welfare of local citizens, and the happiness of helpless children? I knew Stone wanted to stay on the good side of all the people involved with the city government, but I couldn’t suppress my anger with Mayor Bradley Dunn’s callous attitude, and his condescending treatment of a family in his jurisdiction.
The Spirit of the Season
by
Jeanne Glidewell
~
To purchase
The Spirit of the Season
from your favorite eBook Retailer,
visit Jeanne Glidewell’s eBook Discovery Author Page
www.ebookdiscovery.com/JeanneGlidewell
~
Discover more with
eBookDiscovery.com
Jeanne Glidewell and her husband, Robert, live in Bonner Springs, Kansas. When not traveling or fishing in south Texas, Jeanne enjoys reading, writing, and wildlife photography. She’s the author of Soul Survivor, and five Lexie Starr mysteries. A member of Sisters-in-Crime, she’s working on more Lexie Starr mysteries. You may contact her through her website, www.jeanneglidewell.com.
Jeanne is a pancreas and kidney transplant recipient and volunteers as a mentor for the Gift of Life program in Kansas City. The promotion of organ donation is an important endeavor of hers. Please be an organ donor, because you can’t take your organs to heaven, and heaven knows we need them here.
Table of Contents
Cover
Acknowledgements
Cast of Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Excerpt from COZY CAMPING - A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 6
Excerpt from THE SPIRIT OF THE SEASON - A Lexie Starr Mystery, Novella
Meet Jeanne Glidewell
Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky Page 22
