Fear of Frying (8 page)

Shelley grabbed her arm in a painful grip and hissed, "Jane, somebody killed him. Somebody who might still be standing a few feet from us in the dark."

“Killed him!"

“Jane, look at his head. Look at the big, heavy frying pan beside it. The man didn't smack himself upside the head with it. Come on.”

They scuttled awkwardly, but as fast as they could, across the campsite and down the rain-slick path. The skies had opened and were pouring down frigid, drenching rain that felt like wet sleet. Jane fell halfway down and ended up on her backside in the mud. Shelley made it to the bottom, turned to look for Jane, lost her balance, and fell to her hands and knees.

Picking themselves up with considerable difficulty, they ran toward their cabin. "Jane, we'll take the van to the lodge. Throw some towels over the seats while I find the keys.”

Like a jerky automaton, Jane did as she was told. Shelley jumped in the car, gunned the engine, shot backward a few feet, reversed, and headed for the lodge at a ferocious speed. At the front door she slammed on the brakes. The van skidded, convincing Jane that they were going to crash right inside the building. But Shelley stopped mere inches from the porch.

They flung themselves out of the car and through the front door. Above the pounding of her heart in her ears and the thunder outside, Jane thought she could hear voices in the kitchen and headed for the doorway leading to it from the reception area. Benson and his mother were there, putting away plates. They looked up with obvious alarm.

“Benson, Sam Claypool's been killed," Jane said breathlessly.

“At the campsite," Shelley added.

Benson didn't waste time asking questions. He reached for the kitchen phone extension and dialed the sheriff. Edna said, "You both look like you're about to pass out. Come sit by the fire.”

Jane glanced down. "We look like pigs. We're covered in mud."

“Then sit on the hearth.”

They did so and sat for a long time just trying to get their breath back. Finally, when they were able to talk without gasping and without their teeth chattering, Edna said, "What's this about, then?”

Jane explained about losing her watch and going back to find it and discovering Sam Claypool as well.

“I don't mean to be indelicate," Edna said, "but how did you know he was dead? Did you take his pulse or try to determine whether he was breathing? Maybe he'd just fainted.”

Jane cleared her throat. "His — his eyes were wide open even though it was raining in his face."

“And his head had been hit with that big frying pan. Up high on his forehead. It was a bloody mess and looked sort of—" Shelley took a deep, shaky, breath. "Sort of flattened out."

“Why did he stay there?" Jane asked Edna. "Or did he? Was he there when you left?”

Edna closed her eyes for a minute. "Yes, I think he was. I saw Benson speak to him when all the other guests had left."

“What were they talking about?" Shelley asked.

Edna shrugged. "I couldn't hear and probably wouldn't have paid attention anyway. Where is Benson?"

“Right here," he said from the kitchen door. He'd dressed in waterproof clothing and was heading for the front door.

“Don't you dare go up there by yourself," Edna said.

“Mom, I'm not crazy. I'm going up with the sheriff when he gets here."

“And I'm going to take a shower and go to bed," Shelley said firmly, even though her chin was still trembling with cold and fright.

“But the police will want to talk to you," Edna said.

“Then they'll have to talk to me when I'm in my jammies," Shelley said. "I've never been so cold and uncomfortable in my life. And we left a fire in the fireplace because we thought we'd be right back.”

Edna tried to keep them with offers of hot coffee, dry clothes, and beds in the lodge, but Jane and Shelley were both determined to go "home," to their own cabin and clothes.

“At least wait and let the sheriff see you safely into your cabin, and lock up really well," Edna warned.

Jane liked Edna, but was so miserable she was tempted to say, as Benson had,
Do you think we're crazy?
But she bit her tongue and followed Shelley out to the van, explaining to Benson that they'd like a little protection.

“I'll have Taylor drop me off with you and see you in safely, then walk the rest of the way.”

It would have been polite to object to this self-sacrificing offer, but they were beyond courtesy. They waited in the van with the engine running and the heater going full blast. When the sheriff appeared, Benson hopped in the car with Taylor, and Shelley drove the van behind them. The sheriff not only took the time to see them inside, he quickly checked thebathroom, closet, and storeroom, made sure the glass doors were locked and drapes drawn, and they locked the door after him.

Jane and Shelley discarded their filthy, freezing outer clothing in the storage area. Jane said, "You're a faster shower taker than I am. You go first.”

She put on her robe over her underwear and huddled on the floor in front of the fireplace.

Shelley walked into the bathroom door, and came back out a minute later in her long T-shirt nightgown. "I'm too tired. And I'm sick of water falling on me."

“Poor Marge," Jane said, her voice muffled by her pillow. She struggled up to a sitting position. "I wonder when they'll tell her."

“Not until they've taken the body away, I'd guess. I hope she doesn't have to identify it in that condition. I wonder where she thinks he is."

“Still at the campsite? Alive at the campsite, mean," Jane suggested. "Or maybe she assumed he went on down to the lodge. It's not that late, you know." She held up the watch that had started their ill-fated quest. "It's only nine-thirty."

“No," Shelley said, then glanced at her own watch and said, "My gosh, you're right. It seems like it ought to be nearly dawn." She thought for a minute. "I haven't had time to really take this in, but who would want to kill Sam Claypool? He was such a boring, innocuous person. I can't imagine him rousing that kind of passion in anybody."

“Maybe it was that drunken nutcase, what's his name?"

“Oh, Lucky Smith. Maybe. He could have gotten tanked up and figured it would really wreck things for Benson if a guest were found dead."

“Kind of an extreme way to make a point.”

“That's why they call them extremists," Shelley said. "Why don't you make us some coffee.”

“Because my legs have solidified. Give me a second and I'll do it. I wonder who else might be roaming around in the woods and up to no good.”

“On a night like this, not many," Shelley said. "But you're always hearing about batty survivalists in remote areas.”

Shelley nodded. "Yes, but I think most of them have their own land and warehouses for their weapons. I don't think they do much camping out in the rain in October. Although, for all I know, that could be their very favorite activity," she added with a wry smile.

“Should we go over to Marge's cabin when the police have told her?"

“A sympathy call? I don't think so. She's got her family with her. John and Eileen. I think it would be butting in. We can take her some food when we get back home. I guess we'll all leave tomorrow instead of staying on. Liz is going to be disappointed that she can't make a thorough report.”

Jane looked at Shelley. "You're blathering."

“I know. I need fresh coffee to slap around my brain cells.”

Jane hoisted herself off the floor and applied what little energy she had left to the coffeemaker. There was a small, high window at the side of the house facing the road. She could see occasional glints of light, but couldn't tell if it was distant lightning orflashlights in the woods. As she measured out the coffee, an official car of some kind went by silently but quickly.

Jane went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and hair, and put on a flannel nightgown. As she went back to pour the coffee, there was a knock on the door that frightened her out of her wits.

“Don't open it!" Shelley said.

“Who's there?" Jane called.

“Sheriff Taylor, ma'am." It was the "ma'am" that convinced her. He came into the cabin, dripping like a sponge. "Did you ladies both see this body?"

“Yes. Briefly," Jane said.

“And you say it was Sam Claypool?”

Jane and Shelley glanced at each other, and Shelley replied, "What do you mean. . we 'say' it was Sam Claypool? It was. There was no mistaking him. You met him yourself, earlier today."

“And exactly where did you see this?"

“At the far end of the campsite from the path we came in on. There's a semicircle of big rocks," Jane said. "Well, medium-sized. And he was just on the other side of them. Sheriff Taylor, these are odd questions. Why are you asking them?”

He sighed. "Well, ma'am, it's because there's no body up there. Not Sam Claypool's or anybody else's."

“What!" Jane and Shelley yelped in unison. "Not a sign," he said.

“Somebody moved the body?" Shelley asked. "Either that or. ." The sheriff left the words hanging in the air.

“Or what?" Shelley asked.

“Or you imagined it," he replied bluntly.

“Neither of us are in the habit of imagining bodies," Shelley said angrily. "We're not lunatics!"

“I didn't mean you were," he said, not at all convincingly. "But it was dark, raining, you're in unfamiliar territory—"

“City slickers, you mean? Who can't tell the difference between a corpse and a pile of dead leaves?" Jane asked. She was as mad as Shelley. "We
saw
Sam Claypool's body. There was no mistaking it. We were standing only a couple feet from him. He was lying on his back. His eyes were open and he'd apparently been smacked in the head with a frying pan that was on the ground next to him. There was blood.”

Taylor was shaking his head and glaring at them from under his heavy eyebrows. "We've had people here swear they've seen the ghost of a pioneer woman. It's easy out in the woods. There are strange shadows, animals, and tonight it was pouring down rain, there was lightning. It doesn't mean you're crazy, just that—"

“It was a body," Shelley said firmly. "If Sam Claypool's not dead, where is he?"

“I just sent my deputy to their cabin. We'll know in a minute or two.”

"well, he is
missing," the deputy reported to the sheriff a few minutes later.

Jane and Shelley had dragged their bedspreads off the beds, and were huddled in them by the doorway where they were eavesdropping.

“See!" Shelley exclaimed.

Sheriff Taylor glared at her and turned back to the deputy. "When did he go missing?"

“His wife says" — the deputy consulted his notes—"that he said he wanted to just sit by the fire for a bit and told her to go on back to the cabin. She walked back with her brother-in-law and his wife and went to bed to read. Fell asleep and didn't even realize he still hadn't come back until I wakened her. Now she's in a panic."

“The couple in the cabin across from her are her in-laws. Better send them to her," Taylor said. "Keep her as calm as possible until we have this sorted out."

“That's it," Jane said to Shelley. "I'm giving up and getting dressed. We're not going to get any sleep.”

Taylor overheard this. "Good idea. I'd like all you people in the lodge. My deputy will escort you down there when you're ready. Don't come outside unless he's here. Don't roam around anyplace on your own.”

Jane closed the door, muttering, "Can we possibly look as stupid as he seems to think we are?”

Shelley looked at Jane, then down at herself. Both were clad in several layers of nightwear topped with matching bedspreads.

“Yes," she said.

They put on clean, dry clothes, but had to don the wet, muddy ponchos. The deputy — who turned out to be named Reedy, which was a serious disappointment to Jane, who wanted him to be called Fife — was waiting for them. The rain had again let up a little bit, but they hurried along as quickly as possible anyway for fear it would start up again. And it did, just as they reached the lodge. There were several unfamiliar cars parked in front, plus an ambulance, but no sign of the people who went with the vehicles.

Inside, most of the rest of the guests and staff, plus the ambulance driver and another police officer, were milling around. Allison wasn't in sight, but Benson, Edna, and one of the boys who had helped with dinner and entertainment had thrown together hot cocoa, coffee, and an assortment of doughnuts, apparently on the premise that a crisis always went better if there was plenty of food around. John Claypool was moving the sofas away from the fireplace and setting up rockers from the porch to hang clammy ponchos over to dry. He looked like a man who wanted to find something to do to keep his mind occupied.