Of Blood and Water: Campground Murders (Virgil McLendon Thrillers Book 1)

by catt dahman

  David shook his head, grinning and motioning her to wait as he reached into the dresser and removed a pair of earbobs that were long, dangling gold balls with bits of green glass. “This is exactly what you need.”

  Lucy, still frowning, used the mirror to help her put the earbobs through the holes in her ears and to look at herself in the big mirror set into a contraption that made it flip this way and that; David adjusted it so she could see herself from head to toe. Her hair was a bit messy, and her face was pale, but she looked classy and fancy, even if she did think so.

  She smiled and said, “Now, don’t I look like a silk purse! No sow’s ear for me.”

  David, wearing khaki slacks and a navy sweater, offered Lucy his arm, and they walked downstairs where they heard a clank of plates and rattling flatware coming from the kitchen.

  “Lucy Louise! Is that you?”

  “Of course, it’s me; who’d ya think was here, your mamma? You idiot.”

  “Naw. You look refined.”

  “Refined. What is that, like oil?” She looked suspiciously at him.

  “Naw, I mean I am complimenting you, Lucy. You look really nice, all fixed up in those nice duds.”

  Lucy wrinkled her nose, “I don’t look silly, do I?”

  “Not a bit,” Stan said, holding her chair out. She looked at him suspiciously as well, for fear he might be planning to yank her chair away and make her fall, so she sat down by herself, giving him a warning glance.

  There was a pork roast cooked with onions, potatoes, and pink apple rings, a funny salad, and some bread and butter. Stan and Ronnie pounced on the food, digging in, but Lucy looked over her salad.

  “Is it okay?”

  “I don’t rightly know since I ain’t sure what it is. I know these is cucumbers ‘cause of my grandma always made pickles out of them. That’s little bitty tomatoes.”

  David was patient and said, “Right. And those are pickled peppers, pearl onions, black olives, and feta cheese.”

  “Smells like dirty feet, doesn’t it?” Ronnie asked.

  Stan gave him a dirty look and ate the salad, enjoying the good food after having lived off junk from little stores, beef jerky, soda, chips, and beer for the past few weeks. He savored a little culture that had returned to his meal.

  Lucy tried a pickled pepper and nodded it was fine. She tasted a black olive and smiled and then tried some of the cheese, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s good, Ronnie; you’re just unkooked.”

  “Uncouth, Lucy.”

  She started to get angry but was distracted by watching David wipe his mouth with a napkin; she did the same and folded her napkin back into lap like he did. Faintly, she remembered her grandmamma teaching her manners at dinnertime and showing Lucy how to act right, but that was before Lucy’s mama had brought men home, all of them drunk and fighting.

  Lucy pushed the memories away and concentrated on enjoying her food. She swallowed and asked, “Do you eat like this all the time?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What about your daddy?”

  “I’ll explain to him that we’re going to have some guests a few days as it’s the only Christian thing we can do: offering you a place to stay while it’s so cold outside. After all, I could use some help cutting firewood, doing some others chores, as well as some cooking and cleaning since he’s laid up with the arthritis.”

  Ronnie picked his teeth. “Now, David, we hope you aren’t doing this on a ‘cause we saw that boy you shot. I would be just ashamed if I thought you felt like you had to put us up.”

  David finished his iced tea and said, “I can appreciate that, Ronnie. It’s because of Christian charity and a need for some help and for some social company, but it’s not because I am afraid of your telling on me. First, I am guessing you three haven’t been perfect angels out there, and you aren’t very keen on the police in your business. Second, I don’t feel threatened at all. If I did, I would have already killed you,” David said as he met Stan’s eyes and then Ronnie’s.

  Ronnie looked at Stan, eyebrows raised. Stan nodded thoughtfully.

  “You know what I wanna do? Take a long, steamy, hot as-can-be bubble bath, look at them other fancy clothes, and then sleep in that nice, soft, warm bed. Is that where I’m sleeping, or did you have something else in your mind, David?” asked Lucy as she rolled her shoulders a little, making the sweater tighten on her curves.

  David felt a stir of excitement but pushed it away. “That was my parents’ room, and you can use it, Lucy.”

  He made a tray of food and took it upstairs while the trio cleaned the kitchen; David asked them to clean extra well.

  Aaron listened unhappily to David but finally had to agree since they had seen David shoot, something David played off as that he had shot and the boy fell, but not that he had shot the child.

  Aaron wasn’t pleased the three would be around to nose into their lives, but the help with chores would be appreciated. He warned David never to trust the trio and to keep the doors safely locked.

  Lucy, giggling, gave David a kiss on the cheek and danced off down the hallway back to her room. After making sure the doors were secure, he thanked Ronnie and Stan and sat with them in the den where a fire roared. Big, cozy chairs filled one end of the room, and tall bookshelves and a desk lined the walls. “If I’m not doing chores, you can find me mostly in here. I took this area after I came back from the war, and when my dad is feeling all right, he comes in here for most of the day.”

  “There are a lot of books.”

  David nodded at Ronnie. “I like to read. I have my hobbies. I collect little things, so if I am not in here, I am likely with my collections, and those doors stay locked. I tend to be private and stay to myself at times.”

  “Well, okay. I think I saw a pool table on the other side of the house.”

  “Yes, you’re welcome to enjoy that or the kitchen or roam about. My father’s suite is off limits as are a few rooms, but you can roam about the rest of the house as you wish.” David showed them the bar with some regret since he doubted the young men knew the good stuff from the cheap. He poured each a triple shot of whiskey, convincing them to have the drinks over ice and not with cola.

  “I never dreamed people lived this way,” Ronnie admitted. He wasn’t a truly bad sort, just a poor boy from the wrong side of town and not quite smart enough to get away from his upbringing. Other than a few drunken fights, an assault charge, and some shoplifting, his record was fairly clean. His drunken parents and slutty sisters probably hadn’t noticed his absence from the house except for missing the little paycheck he brought home from the garage where he changed oil and asked, “Fill ‘er up, Mama?”

  He was going nowhere and figured he’d get some girl knocked up, marry her, and have a bunch of kids soon enough. They’d live in a trailer house, and he would drink to forget the crap-life he had, and then one day, he’d kill someone in a fight over his whoring wife and get locked up down to the state prison where some asshole would try to corn cob him, and he’d fight back and get shanked.

  Until then, he liked hanging out with Stan because Stan was smart, good-looking, and tough and they had fun together. Stan was the only person who ever treated Ronnie like he had a brain; Stan would understand that Ronnie was excited about seeing all the books and having a chance to read them and maybe not be laughed at when he sounded out the big words, those he understood, but couldn’t spell or read so well.

  “If you fix some breakfast and lunch…just a sandwich is fine or soup…and dinner, and I can rest after dinner (and read, he thought); then, I’ll chop you so many cords of wood you’ll never get cold again, David. I’ll work like a plough horse. You want me to tune up your truck so it purrs or clean the gutters, or fix them loose shutters, too? Yep, I can work,” Ronnie said. He meant it. He was a hard worker, just prone to day dreaming and forgetting what he was supposed to be doing.

  “Good. That will help. I have groceries delivered, so anything special you want in the next
few days, let me know. Work for you, Stan?”

  “Like a dream.” Stan lit a cigarette.

  “So I see that you and Ronnie went to high school together and that you decided to take off for some travel across the country. Why did you go, Stan? Just because you were failing college classes?”

  Stan sipped his whiskey. “If I had told them, you would have to imagine the look my father would have had on his face, like a little kid seeing his ice cream fall upside down on the sidewalk and knowing he didn’t have another nickel. He would have been so disappointed. And my mom, she would tear up and never make a sound, but later she’d bawl her head off. Every time I screwed up, it was like I had stabbed them in the stomach and twisted the knife. Like I was the only kid to get an ulcer in my belly by the time I was eight because of having to see my parents take things so personally and make me feel so shitty about myself.”

  “Around that house, they walked on eggshells,” Ronnie said.

  “We did too, sometimes, ‘cause my folks dropped junk on the floor and never cleaned up. Eggshells, bread crusts, cat food…whatever fell on the floor,” Lucy said.

  “She had a messy house,” Ronnie told David with a shrug.

  “Yeah. When I knocked over a vase and broke it, my mom cried a week solid like someone had died, and my dad looked at me like I had killed the family pet. Mom asked why I hated her so much. Anyway, call me a coward or whatever, but I was failing, and I just hit the road. I couldn’t watch them weep and yank their hair out over me,” Stan said.

  “Not my Daddy. He would have beaten me, maybe to death,” David smiled. “No, I don’t hold it against him. I knew better and what would happen. I knew consequences, and I didn’t want them, so I did well in school. Mostly. He was strict.”

  “And you still shot that kid, same as I would’ve had I been there with a nice shiny gun and nothing interesting to do. Your father beat on you and brought you up tough, and my folks ignored me and stayed drunk, and we aren’t any different. Stan is the same, and he had money and parents that gave a shit.” Ronnie blew smoke through his nose.

  Stan chuckled, “You are smarter than you know, Ronnie, my man.”

  David led Ronnie and Stan up the stairs and to the far wing where Lucy was, opposite of his father’s suite. The room was in shades of gold and rose, uncluttered, furnished with heavy, ornate tables and chairs, two double beds, twin dressers, armoires, and several thick, soft, wool rugs. David pointed out the large bathroom next door.

  “Plenty of towels there, and I think you’ll find everything you need. Is this okay?”

  “It’s better than okay. You’re a good sort, David.”

  “If I’m not up, make yourself at home and have a go at the kitchen. Sometimes my father and I don’t eat breakfast. If that happens, I’ll find you before lunch.” David turned with a wave and walked down the hallway. He barely knocked on Lucy’s door before cracking the door open and peeking inside where he saw her under the covers and heard her snoring lightly.

  From the bathroom came the scent of vanilla, combined with lavender and an oriental, heavy, musky fragrance; it was some of the bath oil, a French blend that reminded David faintly of his mother. The fire crackled with golden light, taking the blues and purples of the room and making them only light and dark shadows. Pillows and cushions in cream almost glowed in the light.

  Lucy was about twenty although she claimed to be eighteen and was too old, perhaps to train correctly or teach, and she was a messy pile of clay, without form or function. She wasn’t cute. But David thought that with work, she might be trained right, taught to obey and to be properly quiet, demure, and cultured. Her plain looks might pass for classic, avant- garde beauty. It was possible, and how much better was it to start with a shapeless form than something already sculpted and fired in a kiln.

  Tabula rasa.

  David retired to his small, locked room that was just off the den and warmed by the same fireplace as in the den; he dreamed of the possibilities.

  Lucy dreamed of laughing, standing at the upstairs balustrade, looking down at her subjects and smiling gently. “Off with their heads,” she would say.

  Stan let the whiskey muddle his head and thought that the wood- cutting and other chores would build his body, take away the baby fat, and toughen him. He imagined being a strong, tough-guy.

  In the other bed, a few feet from Stan, Ronnie dreamed as well. He imagined a father beating him and wriggled with excitement, considered all the beautiful books with their passages to read and understand about every place and every time possible, not only in this world, but on other planets as well. He thought about the hot shower he had taken and the soft, clean, expensive pajamas he was wearing, the Egyptian cotton sheets like butter against his skin, the fragrance of lemon wax, a distinct scent of lavender, and fresh linens.

  Ronnie dreamed of becoming David.

  Chapter Four: A Murder of Crows

  Jerry Parker was twelve and having a good time at scout camp, well as much as possible while living in a crude manner, using portable potties and eating camp food. He was working steadily on his badges. A First Class Boy Scout, he was working on bird watching, horseback riding, fishing, canoeing, advanced first aid, wildlife, hiking, star gazing, and historical sites.

  This campsite was the location of a place where Lewis and Clark stopped. There were three branches to the river: the Jefferson, the Madison, and the Gallitin. The campground area was over five hundred acres and was a few miles off I-99. The rivers and pristine woods were fresh and clean, and the mountains made a perfect backdrop, secluded from the small town but still close enough for visitors to get supplies.

  With four trails covering over two thousand miles and six mountain ranges, there was a chance to see the small, usual wild life as well as the grizzly bear, grey wolf, bald eagle, lynx, elk, and bighorn sheep if a person were fortunate. Although the camp was clear and open, deep woods circled the area, hiding secrets and making the camp dark before sunset. Moonlight and starlight barely reached the campgrounds.

  Jerry, a scout, was exhausted after a day of horseback riding, swimming with his fellow scouts, and practicing first aid in various settings. He had learned CPR properly and was confident about his ability to act in an emergency although he never knew what might happen; he faintly figured that if he saw a scout chop off his own leg or arm with an axe, he would vomit before thinking of first aid.

  After supper he stood alone and watched the boys. Some ran around playing, some worked on badges, some sat around the campfire, and some sat alone or in small clusters. Others cleaned up the meal, and voices were a low hum around the camp. Jerry slapped a mosquito.

  With a rake, he cleaned the site, leaving rake-marks in the dust, plucking some grass, and erasing footprints that would reappear in minutes. For now, the tines of the rake left orderly marks in the gravel and dust, removed the bigger stones and sticks, and made everything look better. Jerry was neat by nature, but not overly so.

  That night the boys sat around the campfire, and with ghost stories exhausted, they told about other stories they knew from books, and the only one that stood out was by some author named Mark Woods.

  The book was a scary premise and disturbing; the boy said this Woods guy was a rather brutal author but the book was scarier than most of the junk out there. Jerry read spooky tales in his comic books mostly, but he was determined to look up the writer in the library when he went back home even if the writer was a creepy old guy from England; they seemed to have more ghosts over there anyway.

  One of the counselors, concerned the talk was too frightening for the younger boys, asked them to change subjects, eliciting groans from the older scouts. It was okay since part of the fun was seeing how far they could push the boundaries before being asked to change topics.

  “Why do you think they did all that?” one of the boys asked Jerry as they finished brushing their teeth and rinsing.

  Jerry was puzzled, “Did what? Who did what?”

  �
�In the story, the one about the ghostly friend by that old man in England. Why didn’t they leave?” Charlie asked.

  “Because then there wouldn’t be a story,” Jerry said. He ignored Charlie as Charlie asked some of the other scouts about the story. It was stupid to question something told over a campfire and obviously told with details and major parts missing. Besides, Jerry didn’t want the whole book ruined because he wanted to read it himself, savoring all the scariness.

  He was tired. Even the other three boys were yawning and getting ready for bed after combing hair, washing faces, and using the facilities. The day had been a little cooler, and instead of zapping their strength with summer heat, the weather livened them, making them run and work harder so they exhausted themselves.

  Instead of tossing in bed against the summer heat, they wouldn’t be as restless but could burrow into their bags and sleep deeply. Jerry yawned over and over as he stumbled back to his tent, ready to dream of ghosts and scary robots.

  “I’m ready for lights out. You gonna write your mom?” Jerry asked the boy who faithfully wrote a page each day to his single mother. He didn’t want to look at baseball cards, comics, or even the French postcards Erby had hidden in his locker.

  “Nah. She’s got another new boyfriend she said in her letter this morning. Another one. Wonder if this one will last until I make it back home to meet him,” the boy sounded hopeful.

  Jerry shrugged. Normally, he might ask about the situation and offer some advice, but he was just too tired, and it sounded like an emotional situation that might require time to consider.

  “She has a lot of boyfriends, it sounds like,” Erby said.

  ‘So? What is that supposed to mean?” Mike glared, but in his pinched, thin face, it came across as his face wrinkling pitifully. Without being aware, he reached for his asthma inhaler and shot a stream into his mouth, never losing the confused look.

  This wasn’t the first time he had heard whispers and innuendoes about his mother. He saw how men looked at her with longing and how women looked at her with distain. He was innocent, but not stupid. Normally, he ignored it all, but no one ever came out and said that much out loud, and it was his mother for crap-sake.