Peete and Repeat (The Frannie Shoemaker Campground Mysteries Book 3) (13 page)

“Something from one of his shows?”

“Not this time. He’s suggesting Farrell’s tavern where that floozie does her singing. Actually, he said Mary Louise says the food is excellent.”

“Wow. That should be interesting. How soon?” Frannie said.

“About an hour and a half. The others are all on board.”

“Great. Time for a little nap. I’ve had an exhausting day. It’s been at least two hours since my last snooze.” She kicked off her shoes and put them in the shoe cubby, grabbed a fleece throw, and headed to the bedroom.

“Well, those brain cells take energy, too, you know. I’ll wake you about fifteen minutes before we go, okay?”

“Sure.”

She slept for an hour and when she got up, found Larry comfortably snoozing the recliner, the golf tournament on TV struggling bravely on without him.

Sunday Evening

With directions from Mary Louise, they found the tavern easily enough. It stood clustered with two other old wooden storefronts, the remnants of an abandoned town, optimistically located a century ago on an expected railroad route that never materialized. The inside featured worn wooden floors, mismatched chairs and Formica tables, an assortment of beer signs providing most of the dim lighting, and a dull roar of voices and laughter. They pushed a couple of tables together and perused the plastic menus propped between a pitted chrome napkin dispenser and a couple of disreputable looking salt and pepper shakers.

“Nice place,” Larry said to Mickey with a smirk. “I forgot my tie.”

“Food’s supposed to be good,” Mickey retorted.

Donna eyed a sticky spot on the table in front of her. “Anyone bring any wipes?”

Jane Ann laughed and Donna said, “I’m serious. Anybody have any?”

“I’m sure the waitress will wipe the tables off for us,” Nancy said in a low voice.

“Well, I’m not eating off it this way,” Donna said. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and looked around for said waitress.

With none in sight, Rob went to the bar and returned with a wet rag. He wiped both tables, and draping the rag over his arm, said to his wife, “Would madame care for an aperitif before ordering?”

Donna was not amused. All she said was, “I hope the kitchen is cleaner than the rest of the place.”

“Oh, they don’t have a kitchen,” Mickey said. “They cook it all in back by the outhouse.”

“Out—? Mickey, you’re just putting me on,” Donna loosened up a little and even gave a forced smile.

“Mickey?” Ben said. “Never.”

The menu consisted entirely of baskets. Shrimp baskets, chicken baskets, hamburger baskets, tenderloin baskets. Also offered were baskets of appetizers: deep-fried mushrooms, cauliflower, cheese, pickles, zucchini, and jalapeños. By the time they had all made their choices, a gaunt and grizzled waitress appeared at the table, older than any of them by at least a decade. Her weathered face, framed in frizzy grey hair, evidenced many years of smiles and sadness.

“Getcha?” she said.

They gave their orders while she glanced between them and other patrons. She wrote nothing down, just nodding from time to time. As she hurried away, Ben said, “No way we’re all going to get what we ordered.”

“I don’t know.” Nancy watched the woman push through a swinging door in the back. “She looks pretty seasoned.”

“Salty, you mean?” Mickey commented.

While Larry and Rob got pitchers of beer and soda and a tray of mugs and glasses, Frannie scrutinized the tavern. Most of the patrons appeared to be locals who knew each other well. In the front far corner, she noticed familiar faces. “I think that’s the guys from the old trailer by the campground,” she whispered to Jane Ann. At a round table in the shadows, backs to the wall, were the older scruffy guy and the skinhead. “According to Mary Louise, Mel something and his son, Dale.”

“Probably here to see Ms. Rump,” Jane Ann said. While they were waiting for their food, the skinhead got up and slouched past them to the restroom. His jeans looked well past their laundry date and the tight black t-shirt sported symbols and a logo unfamiliar to Frannie—she assumed some heavy metal group. His arms bore several complex tattoos and he looked straight ahead as he passed.

The food arrived, baskets and baskets of it. The ‘baskets’ of course were plastic ones, in primary colors, but, contrary to their expectations, every order was correct. Frannie, not a great fan of fried food, was delighted that her shrimp was not over-breaded or over-fried. It really was good.

They were just finishing when another familiar figure walked by their tables.

“Hey! Y’all did come out to hear me! Bless you. Ah’m jes tickled pink.” Frannie groaned inwardly in embarrassment for the woman. She looked up first into the structured chest, on up to the top of an even more structured hairdo.

“Well, we heard the food was good here, too, so it’s a double bonus, sort of.”

“Sure is. Welcome! Hope y’all enjoy the show.” Jonie squinted her eyes and lifted one shoulder in what she thought of as a coquettish gesture. As she sashayed through the room blessing this customer and being tickled pink by that one, Frannie said in a whisper only loud enough for her group to hear, “Country singers don’t really look like that any more, do they?”

Rob shook his head. “Maybe that’s why she is still waiting for a call.”

But later, they decided that it wasn’t only her style of dress that kept her in Minnesota. Her voice wasn’t bad, but by the time she added her cheesy accent and her impression of several country stars, the quality of her voice was lost. The group stayed through the first set and decided to leave during Jonie’s break. The rain had let up and they were all eager to get back and relax in more comfortable chairs around a fire.

The men slipped a few bills into the tip jar on the bar, and they were almost out the door when a loud crash to the right distracted them.

It was the skinhead kid, confronting a large red-headed young man.

“Shut yer mouth!” screamed the skinhead in a high-pitched voice, leaning across an overturned chair.

The bartender, a wizened guy who appeared to be in his seventies and could have been a brother to the waitress, hurried over to break it up.

He started to say, “Hey, Dale, cool it…” Dale swung around, fists up, to take on this new opposition, but lowered his fists a bit when he saw the bartender. His face was still twisted with anger at whatever the redhead had said, but he wasn’t about to hit an old man.

Mel Dubrak reached the confrontation by then and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. Dale shook it off.

“Leave me alone, old man! You’re just like the rest of ‘em.” He twisted away and stormed out the door.

As the bartender headed back to his station, Frannie said, “What was that about?”

The bartender looked at the closing door, wiping his hands on the towel he carried. “Oh, young Dubrak thinks he’s some kind of revolutionary. Sees conspiracy everywhere and some folks like to say things to stir him up.” He shrugged. “Just local entertainment.”

Frannie’s group continued out the door. Dale Dubrak had his hand on the door handle of the old gray pickup when Mel opened the bar door and yelled, “You ain’t takin’ that truck. Find your own way back.” He closed the door without waiting to see if his son obeyed him.

Dale glared at the closed door and started to trudge down the gravel road. Frannie was struggling to follow Nancy into the crew seat of the Terells’ pickup when Ben called out to the young man’s retreating back.

“If you’re going back to the campground, we can give you a ride.”

Dale walked a few more steps and slowly turned around, eyes narrowed.

“You’d have to ride in the back,” Ben continued as Dale shuffled back toward them. The young man shrugged, but Frannie said, “That isn’t necessary, Ben. I can slide over. Nancy only takes up as much space as half a person anyway.”

Ben looked in the open window at her. “Are you sure? You don’t need to be jostled around.”

“I’m fine,” she fudged a little on the truth. She
was
looking forward to her recliner, but for a few miles she could survive.

Larry held the passenger door open so Dale could climb in the back. He hugged the door, keeping a space between him and Frannie. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Once in, Ben pulled the pickup out to follow Rob and Donna’s truck. Frannie turned to their rider and said, “I’m Frannie Shoemaker. Do you live with your dad?”

He looked at her, surprised apparently that anyone would want to speak to him, and said, “Just for a while.”

“What do you do?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, are you working, or going to school, or what?”

He looked out the window. “I’m training.”

“Oh,” she said brightly. “For the military or a marathon or something?”

He looked at her again with hooded eyes, said, “Something like that,” gave a half smile and turned back to the window.

Since there was nothing to see in the dark countryside, Frannie took the hint and remained silent the rest of the short trip. When they reached the campground, Dale leaped out of the truck at the first opportunity, looked directly at Ben and thanked him, ignoring the others. He took off in an easy lope cutting through the campground toward the old trailer at the end.

“What an odd duck,” Nancy said, watching him go.

“He wasn’t very forthcoming about what he is training for,” Frannie said.

“Probably just an excuse for doing nothing,” Ben said. “He doesn’t give me the impression that he’s very ambitious.”

Mickey and Larry were busy building a fire and, of course, arguing about it, while Rob and Jane Ann got out lawn chairs. Once seated, Frannie told them all what she had learned from Jim about the tunnel.

“So it’s still accessible?” Rob asked.

“That’s what he said. He said you can see the entrance from the bird watching area at the nature center. I’d like to see that. We didn’t get to see much of the center on Saturday.”

Larry looked at her with narrowed eyes, but Rob jumped in. “I’d like to try one of the high ropes courses. Maybe we should go back there in the morning. And we never did get to do any of the trails.”

Jane Ann studied a brochure that she had picked up on their visit to the center. “This map shows a ‘Night Sensory Course’ out behind the Visitor’s Center. I wonder what that is?”

Mickey started to open his mouth, but she gave him a look and said, “Don’t even say it.”

“Afterwards, we could go have lunch at that wooden diner in Burdensville,” Donna said.

“And maybe shop a little?” Rob grinned at his wife.

“Maybe. Just a little,” Donna answered.

“We should’ve stopped at the pie shop on our way home and gotten some pie for dessert,” Ben said.

“Oh!” Donna jumped up, knocking over her chair. “I have fresh strawberries and we picked up ice cream yesterday in Burdensville. I almost forgot!”

After a little round of applause, Rob and Donna headed across the road to their camper. The golf cart puttered up as they reached the road, driven by Jim this time with Mary Louise and the cat riding shotgun. Donna invited them for ice cream and they eagerly accepted.

While they waited, Frannie and Larry filled the owners in on the events of the evening at Farrell’s.

Mary Louise shook her head in disgust. “That Dale! Sometimes I wonder if he didn’t join some cult or something. He did quit drinking and that’s a blessing, but he’s always spouting stuff about imperialists and the downtrodden. He spends a lot of time on the high ropes course over at the nature center and at the shooting range.”

“He said he’s ‘training,’ but wouldn’t say what for,” Frannie said. “Just gave a funny little smile, like it’s a secret or something.”

Mary Louise shrugged. “I’m not sure I even want to know.”

Rob and Donna arrived back with bowls of ice cream and strawberries. As usual, the group was easily distracted by food. While she ate, Frannie thought about Dale Dubrak and why he might be so secretive. But when she finished she said to Mary Louise, “I didn’t notice when we drove in. Is Richard still here?”

“Yup, ‘sposed to be here all week. Jim says he comes every year to bike the trail. Great dessert, by the way. Haven’t had many fresh strawberries yet this season. How are you feeling?”

“Better. Hurts if I turn too quickly, or we hit a bump in the truck, and I feel pretty winded a lot of the time, but a lot better than yesterday at this time.”

“Great!”

They quizzed Jim about the tunnel and its history, especially during the prohibition years. Finally Rob collected the bowls and spoons, the Larsons putted away in the golf cart, and the rest began dispersing to their campers. Mickey and Larry launched into a discussion of the baseball season.

Once inside, Frannie opened her laptop, which she kept charging on the dinette table. She did a search for ‘Ellis-Reynolds Chicago.’ She found several references to Richard and the securities firm he worked for. She typed in a search on the firm and found recent articles about an investigation but no names were mentioned in those. Another search on just Reynolds and Chicago yielded some historical information, mostly about prohibition. A man named Herbert Reynolds had been actively involved in bootlegging operations. Now, that was an interesting coincidence.

She closed out of that and checked the weather for the next day as Larry came in with Cuba.

“What’s it look like?” he said, looking over her shoulder at the radar map.

“Good,” she said, closing the laptop. “No rain for tomorrow.” She eased herself out of the bench seat.

“Excellent. I’m turning in.”

“Me too,” she said. And they did.