Murder Hits the Road

by K. J. Emrick

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see. There were still drops of blood in the porcelain sink. Looking into the vanity underneath, Cookie found two washcloths that were stained with blood as well. Stacia must have used them to stop the bleeding. There was nothing else here, however. Just the blood in the sink, and some on the bottom corner of the mirror cabinet.

  Just to be thorough she opened the cabinet too, and behind the mirror she found bottles of aspirin and cologne and hairspray, but that was all. There was one bottle of little blue pills, prescribed to Ernesto, and now Cookie felt embarrassed that she had even looked. If Ernesto was having—ahem—male performance problems in the bedroom that was none of her concern, and certainly couldn’t be a reason why someone had come in here last night to kill him. He was an old man trying to keep a young wife happy. If that worked for the two of them, then so be it. They should have been left alone to be happy.

  Well, she wasn’t sure if she’d learned anything here or not, but she’d found everything there was to find. It was time to go.

  As an afterthought, she pressed the button to flush the toilet. She was supposed to be in here to relieve herself, after all.

  She closed the door behind her. Jerry was talking quietly with Stacia. It was just small talk, from what Cookie could hear. Conversation to pass the time until she got done in the bathroom and they could leave. He was doing a good job of making Stacia feel better. She was laughing at something he said, and Cookie was glad to hear it. Maybe her friend would be all right after all.

  From the other end of the RV, Cookie heard Cream sneeze.

  She turned to find him sniffing around under the bed, moving from one corner to the next, snuff, snuff, snuff.

  Sneeze.

  “What’s wrong boy?” she asked, stepping down to him, leaning over to stroke his back. “Are you looking for Boxer under there? Is that what you’re doing?”

  He looked up at her and licked his mouth.

  Cookie scrunched her eyebrows down as he continued to stare at her. What was that supposed to mean?

  She leaned down further and looked under the bed.

  “Um, Stacia?” she called down the RV. “Didn’t you say that your dog was here, under the bed?”

  “Yes, I did… oh no! I didn’t realize you were down there. Is he not there? Is he not there?” She was frantic now, rushing down the length of the RV, dropping to her knees and then down on her belly to look under the bed with Cookie. “Boxer? Boxer!”

  Cookie stood up and traded a glance with Jerry. She shook her head. The dog wasn’t here.

  After seeing that for herself, Stacia jumped up and looked everywhere in the RV it would be possible for a Jack Russel terrier to be hiding. She opened cabinets, and the closet, and she even went into the bathroom even though Cookie had just been in there.

  “He’s not here,” she said, standing there helplessly wringing her hands. “My dog is gone. Where’s my dog?”

  THEY SPENT the next half hour looking around the parking areas for Boxer with no luck. The dog was nowhere to be found.

  “He was here last night,” Stacia said, almost like she was pleading with God to bring her dog back. “He was here, and now he’s gone, and my husband’s gone, and I just don’t know what I’m going to do! Cookie, what am I going to do?”

  Cookie really didn’t have an answer for that. Nothing could compare with the loss of someone’s husband, but the loss of her dog on top of that would be doubly hard to take. The mystery had just deepened, and they were no closer to finding an answer.

  What in the world was going on?

  They had circled back to Stacia’s RV now, her and Jerry and Stacia, having exhausted every place they could think of to look outside. They had gone door to door to each RV to ask if anyone had seen Boxer. No one had seen him. Humphrey Middlestead didn’t answer his door, but then Cookie hadn’t really expected any kind of help from that man. Why did he even come on these vacations, she wondered? What was the attraction for him, if he hated everyone and was just going to be miserable the whole time?

  It did make one wonder.

  Penny was walking up to them now, from far across the lawn, and Cookie had to set her thoughts about Humphrey aside. Penny was shaking her head though, and it was a safe bet what she was going to tell them.

  “I didn’t find anything,” she said. “I went through the bathrooms again. Nothing. I’m so sorry, Stacia. He just isn’t here.”

  “Did Franky…?” Stacia hesitated to ask the question. “Do you know if Franky found anything?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Stacia didn’t say anything, but she looked skeptical.

  “Listen,” Penny said, “I know my husband doesn’t like dogs but we both really tried to find Boxer. We did. I promise. There just isn’t any trace of him. We should call the police. They could help you look for him.”

  “I think the police have more important things to do.”

  “More important than finding your dog?” Penny asked.

  “Yes,” Stacia said, her voice testy. “Like finding out who killed my husband.”

  Penny’s face flushed red. She knew Stacia was right. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Stacia took a deep breath. “I know. I know, Penny, and I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m just so worked up right now. I just don’t know… I don’t think… I don’t know what to think.” She slumped against the side of the RV, her face very pale. “I should lay down. Oh, but I can’t. Not in that bed. Not where Ernesto died. I can’t sleep in that bed. Not ever again.”

  “Come over to our place,” Penny said, taking Stacia’s hand in hers. “You can rest there. How does that sound?”

  Stacia nodded her agreement. She was biting her lip too hard to say anything at all.

  Jerry wrapped his arms around Cookie after the other two women were gone. He squeezed her and held her tight.

  “What is this for?” Cookie asked.

  “Just because. You looked like you could use one,” he told her.

  “Hmm. You really are the best husband a girl could ask for.”

  “Remember that on our anniversary.”

  They laughed softly together, even though there really wasn’t all that much to be smiling about. A man was dead, and a dog was missing. In spite of what Stacia had told them, there must be someone out there who really did hate her husband, or her, or both of them. Cookie came back to the fact that someone here at the park must have done all of this. Someone with a great deal of hate in their heart.

  She looked down the row of parked motorhomes, to an ugly green Airstream. That was where they needed to go next.

  Cream barked at her and pranced around in a circle.

  “Now?” she asked him in disbelief. “How can you need to go again?”

  He sat down, looking at her with one ear up, his eyes blinking.

  When a dog’s got to go, a dog’s got to go.

  “Okay, okay fine, my little friend, but I have something to do so you have to make it quick.”

  “I can take him,” Jerry offered.

  “Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

  “I don’t mind. Obviously, you have an idea about this case that you’re dying to look into. I’ll take our furry boy here for a walk and we’ll meet up at the RV when we’re both done. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds perfect. Thank you, Jerry.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just tell me you aren’t about to get yourself into too much trouble?”

  She kissed his cheek. “You know me.”

  “Yes, and that’s why I said it.” He gave her a real kiss, on the lips, that lingered even after he stepped back with Cream’s leash in his hand. “It’s also why I trust you. Just be careful, okay?”

  “Of course. See you soon.”

  She didn’t waste any time going down to Humphrey Middlestead’s Airstream. At first, when she knocked, she put a friendly smile on her face. She needed to get him to talk, and a smile usually opened peopl
e right up. Then she thought better of that approach. Happy faces and kindness didn’t work with a man like this. He only responded to rude behavior and to hostility. People who acted like him, in other words.

  It was going to be a stretch for Cookie, but she was going to give it a try.

  She knocked again, and again, without any answer. Clearing her throat, taking a deep breath, Cookie raised her voice to a shout. “Humphrey, you get out here and open this door right this instant!”

  A few people sitting around their motorhomes looked her way, but she ignored them. Instead she banged on the RV’s door again. “Humphrey!”

  “Hey! All right, all right, keep your shorts on!”

  Cookie was shocked that he would say such a thing to her, but at least he was talking. And moving to the door by the sounds of it.

  He was not happy to see her when he threw the door open. Cookie had to step back to avoid being struck as it banged against the outside of the Airstream. Earlier he’d been in an old pair of jeans and faded plaid shirt. Now, he’d changed back into his terrycloth bathrobe. He must live in this thing, Cookie thought to herself. At least this time he had it belted closed.

  Leaning against the door frame he jabbed one stubby finger at her. “You think it’s just all right to just go banging on people’s doors?” The wrinkles in his face deepened with his frown. “Well? Do you?”

  Cookie wanted to apologize, to be nice to him and try to get him to calm down, but she reminded herself that would only make him slam the door in her face. She needed to be bold if she was going to get him to talk to her at all.

  “What I think,” she said, pointing her finger right back at him. “Is that you have some explaining to do.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then a lopsided grin smoothed out some of the wrinkles around his cheeks. “Well, well. Aren’t you the bossy one. Tell you what, Crocker, I’ll give you five minutes inside to say whatever you think is so important and then you can just turn yourself around and leave.”

  “That sounds perfect,” she agreed, “except my name is Cookie.”

  “Really? Huh. I thought I heard someone say it was Crocker. Like Betty Crocker the chef.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  His scowl said she was being dense. “Someone told me you were a chef. You know, like Betty Crocker.”

  “I am a baker, but my name is Cookie.”

  She didn’t bother telling him that Betty Crocker wasn’t a real person.

  “Whatever,” he said dismissively. “Well, come on in. What are you standing there waiting for?”

  Turning awkwardly, he sort of lurched himself from wall to furniture to wall, to get to the RV’s tiny square table. Cookie watched him, reminded again that the man could barely walk. Not without support.

  There were four separate swivel chairs bolted to the floor around the table. The wood laminate surface was cracked, and one of the chairs had a huge tear in the red vinyl seat. Cookie chose one of the others to sit in.

  Humphrey had a hard time putting himself in his chair. His bad leg didn’t seem to bend, and he more or less had to drop himself down into the chair. With a loud groan he got himself settled, and then folded his hands together in front of him. His glare, when he turned it on Cookie, was intense.

  “Did you enjoy the show? I’m an old man, and I don’t move like I used to. Get over it.”

  Cookie met him stare for stare. “I’m not one to get enjoyment from the suffering of others.”

  If he caught on to her subtle innuendo, she didn’t show it. “Well?” he prompted. “Go on. Say your piece.”

  “All right, then. You know that Ernesto Ferris was murdered last night.”

  “Of course I do. I’m old, not stupid. Just like you.”

  Him calling her ‘old’ was the epitome of the pot calling the kettle black, but she let it pass. At least he sort of complimented her by saying she wasn’t stupid. “Then, you also know someone from here killed him. Someone in this RV park.”

  His bushy white eyebrows went up. “That’s quite the leap. You some kind of detective, Miss Crocker?”

  “Cookie,” she corrected him again. “You may call me Mrs. Stansted if ‘Cookie’ is too hard for you to remember.”

  “Oh-ho!” he beamed. “You got some spunk in you. I appreciate people being forward with me. Fine. Cookie it is.”

  “Thank you. Now, as I said, I’m not a detective but I have helped the police on a number of cases. My husband is a police chief in our home town. So. Trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about. Someone in this park killed Ernesto. Someone with enough hate in their heart to beat him to death, and to attack Stacia as well.”

  He spread his hands wide. “So naturally, you thought of me. Well, that’s some fine detective work for a baker. You figure because everyone annoys me, I want to start killing people?”

  “Well, you did tell me that you wished we were all dead,” she reminded him. “You wouldn’t be the first man to make good on his inner demons.”

  A strange sort of shadow crossed over his face. “I have plenty of inner demons. Everyone does, I expect, but mine are… my own. If I acted on half the things I think about the world would be a much better place, I can tell you that. Doesn’t mean I killed anyone.”

  He was an ornery coot, that was for sure, and he was right. Him saying he wanted everyone here to die wasn’t enough to convict him of killing Ernesto. But he hadn’t actually denied being a killer, either, and she wasn’t done asking him questions. She had raised a daughter and then helped raise her granddaughter as well. She could recognize when someone was skirting the truth.

  So it was time to ask the real question.

  “Humphrey, where’s your cane?”

  “My cane?”

  “Yes. That nice, carved wooden stick of yours. I couldn’t help but notice you aren’t using it.”

  His expression turned stony, the wrinkles in his face like cracks in marble. “What do you care where it is? It’s my cane. I can choose to use it or not.”

  “I care,” she told him, “because that stick of yours has a nice big ball of wood on one end. I’ve noticed it many times. I can’t help but think how it would make a wonderful weapon with which to kill someone. Ernesto was beaten to death. That’s why I care. So. Where is it?”

  “None of your business. Maybe I mailed it off to California.”

  “Is that where your family is?”

  “Don’t ask about my family,” he told her abruptly. “Not your business.”

  “Is that why you’re so cranky all the time?” He might want her to let this go, but Cookie wasn’t going to give in just because he told her to. She needed to keep pressing him if she was going to get to the bottom of this. “Do you miss your family?”

  His fist came down on the table with a bang, surprising Cookie and making her jump. “My family is dead!” he yelled at her. “They’re gone, and I have no one. Think that gives you the right to come in here and accuse me of things? Well? Do you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she started to say. “When you get to be our age you lose a lot—”

  “Oh, for the love of Pete,” he grumbled. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t some nice, easy death of old age or heart failure. It was… it was none of your business, that’s what it was! Never you mind what happened to my family. And never mind what happened to my cane!”

  He slammed his fist down again. This time, Cookie didn’t jump.

  “I’m afraid I can’t ‘never mind’ about it.” Composed again, she leaned forward, over the table, right in his personal space. “You are not a very nice man, Humphrey Middlestead, and whether you’re a killer remains to be seen. If you didn’t do this, then just tell me where that cane is.”

  “No. No, I will not. You don’t get to come in here and drag up questions about my family and accuse me of… get out! Get out!”

  He thrust a finger at his door. He probably would have stood up to throw her out bodily but as he tr
ied to get up from the chair he fell back into it. His bad leg had given out under his weight. His face turned dark red from the neck up as he tried and tried again, his wrinkles outlined darkly. Looking at him Cookie could tell she’d pushed him as far as she could, short of using water torture or some similar technique from the movies.

  Since she didn’t even know how to use water torture, she decided that it was time for her to go.

  Besides, it wasn’t like Humphrey could get very far. Not when he could barely take two steps without falling down on himself. Although… he was in a motorhome. He’d travelled all this way with them. What was to say he wouldn’t just fire the engine up as soon as she left and then just ease on down the road?

  She made a decision, and before she could lose her nerve, she stood up from the table.

  Then with a sharp turn away from the door she rushed up to the driver’s seat.

  “Hey!” she heard Humphrey shout at her. “Hey what are you doing?”

  She didn’t answer him. He’d figure it out soon enough, just as soon as he saw her reach past the steering wheel, like this, and yank his keys out of the ignition.

  Like this.

  “You took my keys! You put those back! You little thief. You’re all a bunch of thieves, all of you! You’re taking everything I have from me! I’d be better off if you were all dead! All of you! You hear me? Give them back!”

  Cookie heard him. She heard him just fine.

  He was frantically trying to push himself up from the table as he screamed at her, and although he only managed to get to the edge, holding on with both hands to keep his balance, it was far enough that Cookie couldn’t get past him. Not without bowling him over to the floor, and if she tried there was every chance he would latch onto her and take her down with him. He was within reach of the door, which meant he would be within reach of her if she tried for it. She was stuck.