by Molly Fitz
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Pringle agreed.
Yes, yes, we were on to something here. We could still solve this thing.
“Pringle, I need your expert snooping skills,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t later come to regret it. “Do you think you can help me close this case?”
He pumped his arm and made a terrible honking noise, then shouted, “Okay! Let’s hit the road, sweetheart!”
Of course, he happily agreed.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time I got back to the picnic area, Carl had already gotten up and left.
Shoot. I still had some questions I wanted to ask him, but I’d have to worry about that later.
Pringle went to find Gloria so that he could explain our plan and to promise we’d do something about the illegal hunting as soon as we found some answers. Much to his chagrin, I also made him tell the grizzly that a second payment would not be needed, that we were happy to help simply out of the kindness of our hearts.
While he took care of that, I sat at one of the picnic tables with the rifle laid out on its surface and called Charles to tell him what had happened and what Pringle and I were planning next.
Luckily, Pringle liked guns—although his primary experience was in handling the Nerf variety. Still, he was excited to implement the plan exactly as I’d laid it out. And if there was one thing I’d learned about working with animals in all my time as a pet whisperer, it was that the best results came when you got them to act on their natural behavior. Pringle loved collecting secrets via his snooping endeavors, and I’d already caught him slipping into RVs undetected earlier that day. In fact, that’s how this whole adventure started in the first place.
So now when I asked him to keep doing it, he readily agreed. The plan involved him sneaking into the campers parked at the grounds and searching for rifles or any other hunting paraphernalia. Once we found out who all might be engaged in illegal hunting, we could narrow down our suspect list.
First, though, I needed him to pay a quick visit to Junetta’s camper and find the logbook Charles had mentioned to the police. She’d recorded our arrival, which meant she had likely recorded everyone else’s, too.
Pringle made quick work of this first task and delivered the logbook to me and Charles, even taking care to set it down nicely and turn to the page we needed so that neither of us would get our fingerprints on it.
“Charles,” I said after studying the logbook for a few minutes. “Do you remember the name of the woman who accused me of killing Junetta?”
He thought for a moment. “We never got her first name, but the police officers referred to her as Ms. Stevens.”
I nodded. That’s what I had thought, too. “She’s not in here,” I said, chewing on my lip.
Charles read through each line, then swore under his breath. “You’re right. What do you think it means?”
“Octo-Cat,” I called. “Come here. We need your help for a second.”
He groaned but got up and hopped onto the table. “What do you need, your majesty?”
“Can you turn the page for us?” I asked, letting his insult slide. “Go back to the older entries.”
“Smart,” Charles said bumping his shoulder into mine. “No prints.”
Octo-Cat struggled with the task but eventually got the page turned.
I read through that page but still found no mention of Ms. Stevens’s check-in.
“Again, please,” I asked my cat.
It took three more turns of the page before we finally found an entry for a Miss Sara Stevens. The entry was made so long ago that it was in a different handwriting. She’d been here even longer than Junetta had. Hmmm.
Charles pulled out his phone and opened the Notes app. “I’m making a list,” he said as he typed furiously on the tiny keyboard. “Every lot number and the date of the most recent check-in.”
While he did that, I jotted down any names that occurred multiple times—identifying the grounds’ frequent visitors, people like Sharon.
Octo-Cat helped us turn the pages as needed, but not without the promise of many, many lobster rolls, shrimp kebabs, and cans of tuna in his future.
When Pringle returned, he looked absolutely exhausted. I poured him a dish of water and waited for him to catch his breath before asking for a recap.
“Well?” I prompted when he still hadn’t shared his findings with the group.
“Twenty-two RVs,” he said, sucking in a deep, dramatic breath, even though he’d had more than enough time to recover. “I was able to break into seventeen of them. Of those, four had rifles and two had handguns.”
“Do you remember which ones?” I prompted, after relaying this info to Charles.
“Do I remember?” he spat. “Of course, I remember.”
“Then show me.”
Pringle scampered around telling me what he’d found in each RV as well as identifying which ones he couldn’t open. I jotted it all down in a series of text messages to Charles so he could check the occupancy periods for each of our gun owners on the premises.
As Pringle approached the end of the line, I pointed to Sara Stevens’s aqua-accented Airstream. “What about this one? Did it have a gun?”
“No gun, but lots and lots of ammo. I found trail maps, too, with paths marked in red,” he said, unwittingly revealing our smoking gun.
Just then the door to the Airstream flew open, and Sara Stevens stepped out in a robe not entirely dissimilar to my own. “What are you doing out here?” she shouted, then pointed at Pringle. “And what is that thing?”
Another camper door opened and a man and woman wearing matching flannel pajama bottoms exited from it.
“Go get Charles,” I muttered to Pringle from the side of my mouth.
He saluted, then scampered off.
“Not going to answer me?” Her face was red, her eyes wild. “Then I’m calling the cops. I’m sure they’ll just love coming back out after spending half the day with us.”
She grabbed her phone and punched in the number.
“That’s enough, Sara,” a man said. “This is a public campground, not your private property.”
Sara stood on tiptoe trying to see past me in search of the voice. Even with that added bit of height, she wasn’t tall enough, though.
“Is that you, Carl?” she called out. “Don’t be fooled by her pretty face. This woman murdered Junetta today, murdered her in cold blood!”
Aww, she thought I was pretty. Not that that made me despise her any less.
Sara lifted up her phone and shouted, “Do you hear that? I have a murderer sneaking around outside my camper. Come and get her, boys.”
“Funny, from what I understand Angie only just arrived here today,” Carl pointed out.
Sara ended the call with humph and thrust her phone back into her robe pocket. “Yes, and an hour later Junetta was dead. Coincidence? I think not.”
“I didn’t kill her,” I insisted for what felt like the hundredth time. This time my confession of innocence was more for the benefit of the other campers who had come out to gawk at our confrontation. “Someone poisoned her with a pie, and I don’t know the first thing about baking.”
A gasp sounded across the way. “With my pie?” Sharon cried, waddling over in a hurry. “The secret ingredient is love, not poison. Never poison.”
Behind Sharon, I spotted Charles striding over. This gave me all the courage I needed to trot my theory out for all to hear.
“The pie wasn’t poisoned when you gave it to her,” I called to Sharon, then fixed my gaze directly on Sara Stevens. “Someone added it in after the fact. Someone who’s been around for a bit and knows all about Junetta’s open door policy.”
I paused to gauge everyone’s reaction, but no one said a thing. Charles was at my side now, standing in a silent show of support.
And so I continued. “And Junetta wasn’t murdered in cold blood. Her death was planned. Somebody was very unhappy with her. From what I can gather
, she might not have been the best campground manager, but she was learning on the job. And recently she’d learned all about an illegal hunting ring operating right here under her nose. She planned to put an end to it, to make sure the guilty parties were held accountable. But they silenced her before she could say a thing.”
“She knew.” Carl’s voice cracked and he hung his head. “This whole time, she knew. Oh! This is all my fault!”
“So you confess!” Sara shouted and pointed. “Filthy scum, no wonder Junetta left you.”
“No, no, it wasn’t me. I would have never…” His words fell away as he stumbled backward.
Catching him in a weak moment, Sara pounced. “You killed her. It makes perfect sense. You couldn’t have her, so you decided no one could.”
“When Junetta found out I’d been coming out here to hunt illegally, she was so upset. That was the beginning of the end for us.”
“You came here?” I prompted, even though I was already pretty sure I knew what he would say next.
Carl pumped his head. “Yes, I came here many times over the past couple years. The animals aren’t expecting it, so they’re easy shots. I’d bring Junetta with me on my trips sometimes, but never tell her where I was going after dark. I guess that’s why she came after the divorce, why she decided to take a job here. She thought it was just me hunting out here. She didn’t know there were more of us. Didn’t know who made it so that local law enforcement didn’t catch on.”
“Who was in charge, Carl?” I asked. “Who made it all possible?”
“She was your friend!” he shouted at Sara. “Why would you do this?”
The accused took a giant step back and pressed herself against her Airstream. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s easy to blame others when you’re trying to cover your own back,” I said, taking a step toward the cornered killer.
“You! You can’t prove anything,” she spat at me.
“Oh, but I can,” Carl said, taking out his phone and jiggling it at her. “I kept a record of every hunt. Won’t be difficult to match you up to the timeline.”
“Go away! This is my home, and you’re not welcome here!” Sara shouted, completely losing it now.
“You’re going to jail. For Junetta’s sake, I hope you rot in there,” Carl hissed.
More and more campers overheard the yelling and came outside to investigate. The police arrived a short while later to take things over. And the hysterical killer was the one who had called them herself.
Chapter Nineteen
With Junetta’s killer behind bars, Charles and I headed back to our little home on wheels for the weekend. Pringle and Octo-Cat had made themselves scarce, allowing us to cash in on some much-needed relaxation.
We slept in late the next morning, then ate our way through a massive stack of messy, syrupy pancakes in bed. It was bliss.
“If we don’t go anywhere, we can’t be forced out of relaxation mode,” I reasoned, and Charles agreed enthusiastically.
“I still feel bad about dragging you all the way out here only to have the worst weekend ever,” he said with a slight frown pulling down the corner of his mouth.
I pushed my last bite of pancakes around the edges of my plate to collect the remaining drips of syrup, then shoved the whole thing in my mouth and sighed with delight. “Well, it was a pretty bad Friday,” I said once I’d managed to swallow down that heavenly bite. “But the weekend as a whole has yet to be determined.”
Octo-Cat, who lay cuddled at our feet, popped his head up and said, “Life with Angela is often irritating, but it’s never boring.”
I decided not to translate that for Charles.
“Hey, should we grill up that salmon for lunch?” he asked with a laugh.
“Are you kidding me? It’s been sitting out since yesterday. The thing is probably covered in flies by now.”
“Actually, I already took care of that,” Pringle announced, standing in the doorway with one paw to the wall. “Sorry. I know I was supposed to let you have it as a way of saying sorry for ruining your picnic, but I was just so hungry after all that sneaking around I did on your behalf. You know how it goes.”
I nodded and set my polished-off plate at the end of the bed. “I do, and it’s okay. We weren’t going to eat it, anyway.”
Pringle cast his eyes toward the floor, then grabbed the tip of his tail and began grooming it nervously with his fingers. “Sure, but I still feel really… I don’t know… sick to my stomach. It’s weird.”
“That feeling is guilt,” I supplied with a lazy grin. “You feel bad about ruining our picnic, but really, it’s okay. I’m not mad.”
“If you’re not mad, then why do I still feel this way? How can I make it stop?” He pouted and began to twist his tail in his hands.
“Really, it’s—”
“Oh, I’ve got it!” Pringle shouted, then turned and ran off. When he returned, he jumped up onto the bed and climbed onto my lap. His little black fist was closed tight around something, but I couldn’t see what.
“I’ve been feeling sick like this for a while now, and I think it all started after Chucky and I helped those seagulls,” he said, pointing toward Charles with his free hand. I was definitely not okay with him nicknaming my boyfriend after a demonic horror doll, but seeing as Pringle was attempting a genuine, heartfelt moment here, I let it slide.
Instead I asked, “What’s wrong with the seagulls?”
“Nothing’s wrong exactly. But Charles helped with that case, and I didn’t share the payment. I thought it’s what I wanted, but I hate feeling this way. So…” He opened his palm to reveal a sparkling diamond solitaire.
I gasped, completely taken by surprise. “What? Where did you get that?”
“The seagulls gave it to us, remember? I always keep it nearby, since it’s one of my greatest treasures.”
“It’s been here all weekend? Where?” I glanced around the room. This RV was packed so tight I had no idea where Pringle may have made his secret stash.
“Don’t worry about that. If I give up all my good hiding spots, I’ll feel sick for a different reason.” He attempted a smile, but it looked wrong, thanks to all those sharp little teeth. “So do you forgive me?”
“Of course, I forgive you, Pringle.” I reached out and patted his head. Pringle wasn’t a domesticated animal and didn’t like it when I touched him, but I felt like I had to do something to connect with him in that moment.
He winced at my touch, then straightened his posture and pressed the ring into my hand. “Then here. Do with it what you will.”
“I have a feeling this is going to get real gross, real fast,” Octo-Cat droned as he jumped off the bed. “Come find me when you want to feed me.”
Pringle disappeared after him, leaving my boyfriend and I on our own. We both stared at the ring, neither saying anything. Talk about opening a giant can of worms.
When at last I couldn’t take the awkward silence any longer, I giggled and joked, “So you wanna get married or something?”
But Charles didn’t laugh. Not even a little. Instead he cleared his throat and got out of bed.
“No, no, come back. I’m sorry!” I called after him. Me and my big mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He rooted around in his luggage, then climbed into bed beside me, holding out both hands in fists. “Pick one,” he said.
I tapped on his right fist, and he opened it up to reveal a little satin box.
My breathing hitched as I looked from the ring in my hand to the box in his. “Charles, I…”
“Open it,” he said with a soft smile, watching me so closely I doubt he blinked at all.
Delicately, I lifted the lid to reveal a princess-cut diamond surrounded by a tight outcropping of amethysts.
“I planned to ask you this weekend. On our picnic actually, but then…” He sighed and watched me with wide eyes. “Well… you know the rest.”
“Are you really asking
me—?”
“To marry me? Yes.” He sat up higher in bed and grabbed both of my hands in his. “This isn’t how I’d planned it, but I love you, Angie Russo. For better or worse. No matter what. Do you love me like that, too?”
“Yes, I do,” I said as he took the ring out of the box and slipped it onto my finger. “And yes, I will marry you.”
I wiggled my fingers, delighting in the heft of my new prized accessory, at the way it sparkled in the light. Then I reached for Charles’s hand and slipped the seagull’s ring onto his pinky finger.
“A perfect fit,” I said. “Just like us.”
“Just like us,” he agreed.
We shared our first kiss as a betrothed couple, and then I pulled away and asked, “What would you have done if I picked the other hand?”
My fiancé’s eyes flashed with mischief. “Hmm, I guess we’ll never know,” he teased, and then kissed me again.
Chapter Twenty
When we returned home Sunday evening, my entire family stood waiting on the porch.
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Longfellow the Third!” Nan cried, setting off a party popper.
“I have a new daddy!” her Chihuahua Paisley barked happily.
My mother and father rushed down the steps to greet us, exchanging hugs and congratulations.
Octo-Cat hopped out of the camper and groaned. “Remind me again why you thought it would be a good idea to bring a cat on a camping trip?”
“It wasn’t our idea,” I muttered and rolled my eyes. Knowing my luck, the tabby would punish me for this sleight for many months to come—and it hadn’t even been my fault.
“I missed you, Octavius!” Paisley squeaked, then slathered him in kisses.
“Get off me, you demented creature,” he growled.
Paisley pinned him down and took great care cleaning out each of his ears.
“Okay, okay. I’ve missed you too, you little scalawag,” Octo-Cat acquiesced. He even stopped struggling as Paisley continued to pepper him with sloppy puppy kisses.
