Ripped To Shreds

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "But actually, the high and mighty Jaclyn Wright is just the sheriff of a one-horse town half the size of Rockport."

  "Actually, Buffalo seems to have horses all over the—"

  "Please don't interrupt." Rip chided me as if he hadn't just interrupted me half a dozen times in a row. I'd known as soon as I'd opened my mouth that Rip was in no mood for levity and I should have kept my fly trap closed.

  I was surprised Rip had made the trip to the police station, given the fact he wasn't nearly as quick as I to think there might be something ominous about the two photos. However, the promise of a lengthy foot rub from me could usually persuade Rip into doing anything short of bungee-jumping off the Bay Harbor Bridge in Corpus Christi, dressed only in a Speedo and pink flip-flops. The man loved to have his feet rubbed more than anything in the world besides me, his daughter, an aged bottle of Chivas Regal Scotch, and a good Cuban cigar—and not necessarily in that order.

  Rip reached for the remote control, switched the channel to the news station, and then hit the mute button. He turned back toward me and said, "Oh, I almost forgot. I heard something very interesting at the barber shop today."

  I usually complained every time he paid to have his hair cut. With only a handful of hairs left, I felt like he was paying a dollar for each hair the barber snipped. Truth be told, I think Rip enjoyed going to the barber shop for the entertaining gossip that came free with every haircut. Today I didn't care if he'd paid fifty bucks for the haircut. I was too intrigued in the ever-increasing bizarreness behind Bea's death to bicker about something so insignificant. "What did you hear?"

  "It has to do with that lady in the red coat at the televised press release."

  "Wasn't she the lady who asked the sheriff what safety concerns she should have at the campground she and her husband owned?"

  "Exactly. Their names are Leo and Charly Brown."

  "Charlie Brown?"

  "Charly's spelled C-H-A-R-L-Y, according to Elmer, the barber who trimmed my hair. Marrying a man named Leo Brown was just a comical coincidence. No pun intended. But, anyway, the Browns own a campground called the Sweet Sixteen RV Park."

  "Sweet Sixteen is an unusual name."

  "It makes sense in this case," Rip countered. "The campground's just over two miles west of Rest 'n Peace on Highway Sixteen, which is affectionately referred to as the Sweet Sixteen Highway."

  I was confused as to why Rip thought this bit of news was so fascinating. I assumed he'd eventually explain so I continued to listen. He veered off into a lengthy explanation of all the well-known landmarks along the highway that ran from Devil's Tower in Eastern Wyoming to Yellowstone National Park on the western side of the state.

  "There's the Ten Sleep Canyon, the Cloud Peak Skyway—"

  "Excuse me, Rip. I need to get a meatloaf in the oven for supper. Can I expect you to get to the point sometime in the near future?"

  "Oh, yeah. Sorry. Didn't mean to go off course like that," he said, an impish grin on his face. "So, anyway, it seems the Browns recently lost a civil law suit against the Whetstones. Because they're in close proximity to each other, they naturally compete for the same customers. Late last spring, the Browns dropped their overnight rates by twenty percent to encourage RVers to drive past the Whetstone's park to stay with them instead."

  "That ploy would have worked with me."

  "In return, the Whetstones began offering one free night with every three you paid for, which basically would amount to a twenty-five percent savings. Then when the Browns cut their monthly rate, the Whetstones cut theirs even more drastically."

  "Gee, I wish we'd been here then!"

  "It got to the point both parks were almost paying customers to stay at their facilities. Something had to give before they both went belly up."

  "What happened next?" His story reminded me of a pricing war between two competing gas stations years ago in Rockport. Both stations ended up folding. Working out an equally fair solution together, they could have figured out a way that both stations could continue to flourish. It was a prime example of biting off your nose to spite your face.

  "Finally, they came to the conclusion neither park could make it with the rock-bottom camping rates and both went back to their original rates. But the conflict didn't stop there. The Whetstones put in the large indoor swimming pool with slides and dual diving boards to attract families with children. People, including you, enjoy utilizing it for the exercise, too. Adding the pool appeared to work, as more and more customers chose Rest 'n Peace over the Sweet Sixteen park. So the Browns emptied their nest egg to add brand new machines in their laundry room, and a new clubhouse with an exercise room, bar area, pool tables, ping pong tables, and a variety of other activity options for RVers."

  "How did the Whetstones counteract all the enhancements made at the Sweet Sixteen park?"

  "They got down and dirty," Rip replied with an ornery smirk. "They put up that huge sign about a quarter mile before the entrance to Rest 'n Peace that reads, 'Don't miss your last opportunity for miles to stay in a fully-appointed RV park. REST 'N PEACE at the best campground in the Bighorn National Forest.'"

  "And?" I had seen the sign and was on the edge of my seat, anxious to hear how the Whetstone's strategy had worked out. It was a clever idea, albeit a little too radical in my opinion.

  "Their scheme was successful. There's no safe or easy place to turn a large recreational vehicle around for many miles. Like us, most RVers were hesitant to bypass what sounded like their last chance to find satisfactory accommodations without having to drive another hour or two. The Sweet Sixteen RV Park became a ghost town within days. The Browns claimed defamation and filed a lawsuit to have the sign removed. Although the judge found the sign objectionable and morally contemptible, there was no law preventing the Whetstones from displaying it."

  "But the Whetstones' sign is based on a lie," I said, appalled at the court's decision. "Insinuating they're the only decent campground for miles is untrue."

  "The term 'miles' is technically accurate whether you're referring to a thousand miles, or only two. There's two and one quarter miles between the two RV parks. So, by law, it's a factual statement."

  "Wow," I said in astonishment. "Talk about a couple of sneaky snakes!"

  "Yes, but it has to make you stop and think. Could the bitter dispute between the campground owners have escalated to the point of murder? I've heard of many motivations for murder that are a lot lamer than that over the years. Money makes for a powerful motive."

  Rip was right. I knew how nasty Bea could be, and if the Browns were anywhere near her level of maliciousness, who knows what could have developed. As the smell of our supper baking filled our comfy little home, I told Rip what I'd learned in the laundry room.

  With an oven mitt on each hand, I removed the pan from the oven. I almost dropped the steaming meatloaf on the floor after Rip's next remark. "Maybe doing a little snooping around isn't such a bad idea, Rapella. The list of people with motives to want Bea eliminated is growing longer all the time. Not to mention, I'd rather enjoy watching that mouthy, overbearing sheriff eat a little crow."

  One should never underestimate the power of wanting retribution to avenge a wrong committed against them. In this case, all it took was the desire to serve up a heaping plateful of crow to sway Rip over to my way of thinking.

  Chapter 11

  The sound of heavy rain and small hail pelting the aluminum roof of our trailer woke me up early the next morning. I slipped on some jeans and a sweatshirt before going into the small bathroom to use the toilet, insert my dentures, and run a comb through my curly mop of salt and pepper hair. Rip was already watching CNN and drinking coffee in the living room when I ambled out to join him.

  I picked up the coffee carafe to pour myself a cup just as there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and was surprised to see Ranger Rick had stopped by again. I asked him if he'd like to join us for a cup of coffee. After he accepted my offer, Rip held his now empty c
up out and asked if I'd mind pouring him a refill while I was fixing a cup for the ranger.

  "Good morning, Ranger." Rip greeted him in a jovially fashion. "What's up?"

  "Not much. Just happened to be in the neighborhood. I saw your lights were on and thought I'd stop by."

  I knew the two men had instantly clicked the day the ranger came by to return our binoculars and camera. I had grown fond of Rick, as well. Still, it seemed odd to me to have him drop by before seven in the morning for no reason whatsoever. Odder still was why the forest ranger would be in the neighborhood that early. He'd have to have been driving around in the RV park to notice our lights were on.

  However, I was happy to see him. I thought it'd be an opportune time to question him about his relationship with his former sister-in-law. Having shown interest in looking into the woman's death, I thought Rip might bring up the subject, but was disappointed when their conversation drifted far away from that topic.

  I wanted to seize the opportunity to learn anything we could pertaining to the case. Reluctant to jump right to the point, I adopted a playful bantering tone and asked, "Do you have a family, Rick? Any budding forest rangers, or rangettes?"

  "Rangettes? I'm pretty sure the females in my department refer to themselves as rangers, just as their male counterparts do." That was the extent of Rick's response after chuckling at my remark. It seemed to me as if he was trying to avoid discussing his personal life. But then, I have a tendency to automatically suspect everyone of duplicity.

  Rip, who's not usually so quick on the uptake, understood I was trying to segue into a conversation about his ex, so he added, "If you're anything like me, Rick, the last thing you'd want a son to do is follow in your footsteps. It'd scare me to death to have a child go into law enforcement these days. It's 'damned if you do and damned if you don't', it seems. When it comes to defending themselves, police officers' hands are almost tied now. They have to wait until after they've been shot dead before responding in kind. If a cop is forced to shoot a suspect who's threatening them, a large portion of the population wants them to serve more time than the thug they were trying to protect that very same population from. One time, when I was still a beat cop, I—"

  Oh, boy, I thought. I can see where this is going if I don't put the brakes on his anecdote right now. I'd heard the long and winding story he was about to tell so many times I could have told it myself, verbatim. The tale usually preceded a dozen more accounts of incidents that had happened during his career in law enforcement. Rip might have been quick to pick up on my objective, but being easily distracted, he was even quicker to drop it like a red hot poker and focus on his own.

  I knew it was only a matter of minutes before Rick looked at his watch, feigned alarm, and said, "Oh no! If I don't head out right this second, I'm going to be late to a very important appointment. I'll take a rain check, though, because I'd love to hear the rest of your story." Then he'd drive to a popular local cafe and relax over a second cup of coffee that he could have gotten free at our place, relieved at escaping our trailer before his eardrums turned to stone.

  "Oh, yes!" I exclaimed. Both Rip and Rick's heads pivoted toward me in surprise. "Now I remember what I wanted to tell you the next time we saw you. I was at the beauty parlor yesterday—"

  "Really?" Rick replied in bewilderment. I hadn't taken into consideration my hair looked like a nest of field mice had taken up residence in it. With nearly fifty years of practice at reading Rip's mind, I could read Ranger Rick's pretty well, too. He was thinking, I don't know what you had to pay, lady, but you got royally screwed.

  "Of course, I haven't had time to comb it out this morning." I knew my face was flushing so I quickly continued. "But what I wanted to tell you was that I was chatting with another lady in the salon who appeared distraught. I asked her if she was all right and she told me her sister, Bea Whetstone, had recently suffered a gruesome death."

  "What?" Rick looked as if I'd just informed him I'd seen his photo on a wanted poster in a Tijuana post office. "Did she give you her name?"

  "No." I was surprised at his reaction to the story I'd concocted.

  "Leggy redhead? 'Soiled Rotten' tattoo on the side of her neck?"

  "Soiled rotten?" It sounded to me as if he'd misspoken. "I saw only the top of her tattoo because the cosmetologist had just put a towel around her neck. But don't you mean spoiled rather than soiled?"

  "Unfortunately, no. You'd understand if you'd ever met her."

  "She was a redhead, however," I said, fabricating to match the description he'd given of his ex.

  "What else did the woman say?"

  "Not much. But when I casually mentioned a new friend of ours, named Rick Myer, discovered Bea's body, she appeared as though she was quite familiar with you. Truth be told, she acted as if I'd slapped her when I told her it was you who discovered her sister's body." After my remark, I watched carefully for the ranger's reaction.

  Rick smiled when I mentioned we considered him a friend now, because I thought he probably could use a friend to lean on. He'd given me the impression he was a very lonely man. But other than the smile, he showed little reaction to my provoking comment except for a barely discernable hint of contempt.

  "Yeah, I guess you could say she's familiar with me since Desireé and I were married for ten years. She filed for divorce last August. She then immediately hooked up with a plumber in town. I'm certain she'd already been cheating on me with him for several months. The hardest part is missing our eight-year old daughter, Olivia. Dez makes me jump through hoops to spend any time at all with her. I see my son even less often. He's older though, and the result of a short relationship I had with a classmate during college."

  Rick looked more hurt than angry. I felt sorry for the man. I couldn't imagine being separated from my own daughter, Regina, especially when she was still a young child in her formative years. And the very idea of being divorced from Rip made me sick to my stomach.

  "I'm so sorry I mentioned it, Rick. I didn't know–"

  "Don't worry about it. It's water under the bridge. Desireé owns a shop in town now and lives with her new boyfriend, Marco Paules. It's been hard for me, but Dez had no problem moving on."

  "I'm so sorry." I apologized again, almost wishing I hadn't even brought the subject up. But that sudden tinge of regret didn't stop me from wanting to know more. "If you don't mind me asking, what kind of shop does she own?"

  "It's that gaudy building with the brown trim about two blocks west of the Chamber of Commerce building on Main Street. You've surely seen it. It's been a bone of contention with a lot of residents since it opened. I had a lot of reservations about it myself."

  "Are you talking about the building that's surrounded by the Ponderosa pines?" Even as I asked him, I was curious if Rick found the color of our travel trailer as gaudy as his ex-wife's shop. As I recalled, their color combinations were nearly identical. But, then, I realized her shop probably didn't have any painted sunflowers to class the place up like the Chartreuse Caboose had.

  "Yes, that's it. It's appropriately called the Knotty Pine Playhouse." Rick sounded scornful, but I thought it was a cute name for a shop surrounded by pine trees that most likely sold toys and games for children in their daughter's age range. I wondered what kinds of items were sold there and why it'd be a bone of contention to residents, unless, like Rick, they thought the color of the building was atrocious. I decided I'd have to stop in sometime and look around. I needed to purchase a birthday gift to mail off to a ten-year-old nephew on the Ripple side of the family, and figured this might be the perfect place to pick something up.

  I started to ask Rick more about Desireé's shop, when he suddenly glanced at his watch and said, "Oh, my! It's almost eight. I need to go right now. If I don't get to work on time, my boss will be on me like shit on a shingle. Oh, sorry, Rapella. Please pardon my language."

  "Quit apologizing for your language, Ranger. A colorful choice of words has never bothered me one bit, a
nd I enjoy a good old cliché as much as anyone."

  "You can say that again!" Rip said, with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

  "I enjoy a good old cliché—" Before I could jokingly finish repeating myself, the door was shutting behind Ranger Rick. He was, undoubtedly, breathing a deep sigh of relief at having escaped before being faced with even more uncomfortable questions he wasn't anxious to answer. I knew he was probably on his way to the cafe for that second cup of coffee I mentioned earlier.

  * * *

  "Sure seems like Rick left rather abruptly," Rip said.

  "I thought so, too."

  "Must have a tough boss. He never really mentioned why he stopped by to begin with. Reckon he wanted to ask me something? It was obvious he was uncomfortable talking about his ex, Destiny."

  "Her name's Desireé."

  "Whatever. I wish now you hadn't even brought the subject up. I don't want him to think we suspect him of anything. Especially now that we know why he didn't want to own up to knowing the victim. Having Destiny up and divorce him out of the blue like that was probably hard for Rick to accept."

  I didn't correct him, but I made sure to let him know he'd said the woman's name wrong again. "Maybe he thinks Desireé was influenced to divorce him by another party, perhaps her sister, Bea."

  "Really? You think Bea influenced his ex?" Rip asked sarcastically. "You don't think the plumber who was reaming out her pipes might have had something to do with Destiny's decision?"

  "Well, yeah. There's that too. And once again, her name is Desireé."

  Rip reached for the remote and turned up the volume to listen to the details of the latest mud-slinging episode involving a candidate in the upcoming presidential election. It was time for me to get breakfast prepared, knowing Rip would moan and groan about his cup of strawberry-flavored yogurt with granola sprinkled on it. His complaint would be in the nature of, "I'm a retired cop, not an anorexic sorority girl. I need more than a dollop of sour, bacteria-laden milk with a teaspoon of bird food on top of it to sustain me."