Ripped To Shreds

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "I couldn't even begin to guess," she replied. "If it does turn out to be a case of murder, I'd imagine there will be a long list of candidates who might have been vying for the opportunity. Neither my husband, Leo, nor I would ever carve somebody up with a knife like that, even though we have had unpleasant dealings with her in the past. We tried to get that sign you mentioned taken down. We were forced to take the Whetstones to court, but we lost the case. As you probably noticed, it's still there, and we're not but a couple of miles farther down the road."

  "Yes, I did see that. In fact, I wouldn't have known about this campground if the lady working in the store this morning hadn't told me about you and advised me to check here for the stuffed bison."

  "Well, bless Janelle for small favors then. If Bea were still alive, she'd have never uttered a word about us, I guarantee you. Her business acumen was shrewd, I'll admit, but it was also cut-throat, and she didn't care whose throat she had to cut to get a leg up."

  Her comments were intriguing, but hardly informative or unanticipated. So, I dug a little deeper. Which basically means I lied even more outlandishly. Even as I spoke I knew my tone sounded more accusatory than conversational. "It seems you already know about the new twist in the case. They've determined Bea was killed with a knife even though the majority of the slashes covering her body were the result of marauding animals post-mortem. What do you know about that development in the case?"

  The appraising gaze from Charly was hard to decipher. I couldn't tell if it was an expression meaning, "how much does this old buttinsky know?", "is this old lady wired and working undercover for the police?", or "why in the hell am I going out of my way to help this nosy old busybody?" I was waiting for her to throw the catalogs back into her desk drawer, point me to the exit, and caution me not to let the door hit me in the hind end on my way out.

  I was completely taken off guard when, instead of being angry, Charly laughed. "Who are you? Nancy Drew? Like everyone else in town, I heard the sheriff say that Bea's body had sustained slashing wounds, most likely by an animal. If it was a human perpetrator who ripped her to shreds, I'd hazard to guess he or she didn't do it with a gun."

  "Good point!" I relented.

  "The sheriff hosted a televised press release that Leo and I attended. I even asked the sheriff if we should be taking extra precautions for the safety of our customers. We'd yet to hear any recent news about the possibility of human involvement, though. Trust me, Leo and I had nothing to do with her death, if that's what you're insinuating."

  Charly laughed again, but it wasn't in an "ain't I funny?" way. It seemed more like a "you ain't got nothing on me, lady" sort of way.

  Following Charly's cue, I chuckled and said, "You got me, Charly! As a young reader, I always dreamed of being a detective when I grew up. And, yes, Nancy Drew truly was my idol. Pardon me if I sounded like I suspected you of murder and mayhem. Nothing could be further from the truth."

  Nothing could be more spot on, I said under my breath. "But after speaking with you, I'm more convinced there's something more devious behind Mrs. Whetstone's death. Technically, everyone she knew is a potential suspect. As they say, you're guilty until proven innocent."

  "I'm pretty sure no one says it that way, particularly the United States justice system." Charly appeared weary of me all of a sudden and I couldn't imagine why.

  Deciding I'd better veer away from the subject of Bea's death, I said, "So, enough about Bea Whetstone. Let's see if we can locate the buffalo toy in one of your catalogs."

  I was praying she wouldn't be able to find the toy. Unfortunately, God clearly was once again busy performing more important miracles at the time. Obviously he'd not checked out the price of the toys I was about to get hung with or he'd have been as aghast as I was and most likely have done something to intervene. After scanning a couple of catalogs, Charly turned a couple pages in the third one, and exclaimed, "Bingo! Here it is!" She then spun in her chair to face a computer monitor on her desk, and furiously typed in a web address. Pointing to an image on the screen of the exact same stuffed animal I held in my left hand, she said, "Fifteen bucks apiece. A dollar cheaper per toy if purchasing ten or more at one time. Cool, huh?"

  "Very. But I don't think it's going to pan out, after all. I need them in a couple of days to pass out at the reunion, and I sincerely doubt they'll arrive that quickly." I thought I would chatter a short while, thank her for her efforts, and bid her adieu. In line with that idea, I said, "I'm looking forward to seeing everyone. I rarely get to see all thirteen grandchildren at one time. Giving them each a stuffed animal at the Bison family reunion was just a passing fancy. No big deal, really. Well, I best be going so my husband doesn't worry about—"

  "Done!" Charly exclaimed excitedly as she forcefully tapped the left side of her mouse, clicking the cursor on the "submit order" tab.

  "What?" I had just stood up and headed toward the office door. At her exclamation, my head whipped around to face her, like an owl who'd just heard a mouse squeak behind him.

  "I ordered them for you!" She said this in the same self-satisfied tone she'd have chanted, "Hip, hip, hooray, I saved the day!"

  "What? You did what?" I was alarmed. I'd never actually meant to order any of the dorky-looking critters, especially one hundred and sixty-eight clams worth. In fact, I'd planned to return the one in my hand if I could get the Rest 'n Peace park store to take it back, along with the rest of the silly crap I'd purchased there. Assuming all the Wyoming RV parks ordered their souvenirs from the same vendors, I'd bought a variety of items in hopes of showing up at the Sweet Sixteen campground store with at least one their store didn't also carry. I'd pulled it off, too. But, actually ordering a dozen of them was never part of the plan.

  "I ordered them! Twelve of them at only fourteen bucks apiece, and free shipping because the order is over one hundred and fifty dollars. Isn't that awesome?"

  "But, but, but didn't you hear me say I needed them—"

  "No worries, Mrs. Bison," Charly assured me. "As a loyal customer of the Out West Supply Company, I get overnight shipping at no additional cost. Which means—in this case—you benefit, too. You can pick them up here anytime after ten tomorrow morning, and have them in plenty of time to take to the reunion."

  "You don't say."

  Charly beamed, proud to have been able to help take care of my dilemma for me. "Now every Bison grandchild will have a bison of their own."

  "Swell," I replied, forcing an expression of gratitude, wondering if it was too late to cancel the order. I couldn't think of any logical way to tell her I'd changed my mind, post-order. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow around noon, or shortly thereafter."

  I could be sly, cunning, even downright deceptive. But I wasn't the type to stick Charly Brown with another dozen stuffed animals she wasn't apt to sell in the next decade or two. I'd bite the bullet and pick the stupid things up the following afternoon and pretend to be happy to have them. Then, because we couldn't spare the space in our trailer to haul them around for years on end, I'd pass them out like Halloween candy to any of the toddlers I saw "toddling" around the campground. I'd start with the young girl I'd nearly made swallow her binky when I screamed that one day I thought I was about to come face to face with a cougar after leaving the laundry room.

  I walked out of Charly's office, mentally kicking myself for not having anticipated such an outcome. I needed to bone up on my scheming skills.

  My jaw dropped when I looked up to see that both tires on the driver's side of our Chevy truck were flat. Again! The vandal, or vandals, had shown mercy on me, though. They hadn't slashed them this time. Only the air had been let out.

  I turned to head back into the store, when a handsome, dark-haired man, walked by and stated the obvious. "Looks like you got a couple of flats there, ma'am. Sorry about that! I'd like to wring them mischief-making punks' necks!"

  I'd seen a photo on Charly's desk and recognized the man as her husband, Leo. I was surprised to hear h
im make the same inference Boonie had. What kids did both men suspect of these tire-assaulting pranks? Was there a gang of hoodlums on the loose who were sneaking into one campground after another and flattening random people's tires? It didn't seem feasible to me. In fact, it seemed deliberate, as a way to warn me or impede my progress in my investigation venture.

  I borrowed Leo's cell phone to send a "yelling" text to my husband. AT SWEET 16. TWO FLAT TIRES AGAIN. JUST NEED AIR. Leo had offered to air them up himself and, in retrospect, I should have accepted the offer. But I told him my husband always carried cans of Fix-a-Flat and would take care of the flats himself. I wanted Rip to see them with his own eyes. Maybe then he'd agree with me that our tires were being flattened intentionally.

  It was evident to me someone was sending us a message. I had an idea why we were being victimized, but needed to find out for certain and figure out who was behind it. Most probably, whoever assaulted my tires was the same individual who assaulted, and killed, Bea Whetstone.

  Just as Charly exited the store and joined her husband and me in the parking lot, Rip and Boonie pulled into the campground in a four-wheel drive Dodge Ram with a "Rest 'n Peace" logo on both of the truck's doors. I swallowed hard. It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that I'd taken our only vehicle, with the cans of Fix-a-Flat under the rear seat, and Rip would have had to hitch a ride with someone to come to my aid.

  Boonie jumped out of the driver's seat. He and Leo exchanged hard glares, as if the two adversaries were involved in a bar fight and trying to intimidate each other before the brawling began. After a few tense seconds, Boonie turned his attention to me. "Sorry this happened to you again, Mrs. Ripple! Ornery no-account kids! But don't fret; me and your husband will take care of it and have you back on the road in no time."

  I swallowed hard a second time when I recalled I'd told Charly Brown that my last name was Bison and my husband was Native American. I don't think she saw a man with Indian heritage when a short, chubby, ghostly-white guy with a bald head, whom Boonie had just referred to as my husband, stepped out of the truck.

  "What the—" I heard Charly utter. The fierce look she gave me said it all as it sank in that I'd fed her a load of crap. Without even a "howdy-do" to either man, Charly turned and strode angrily back toward the campground store. I watched as Leo followed her without making further eye contact or exchanging one word with Rip or Boonie, his rival campground owner.

  I felt bad, because I had sincerely liked Charly and would have chosen her as a friend over Bea any day of the week. Just before she reached the front door of the shop, I shouted out to her, "Sorry, Charly. Probably best if you cancel that order right away!"

  Chapter 15

  "Those no good sons-a-bit—"

  "Now, now, dear." I reached over to pat Rip's thigh in a calming manner. He was careening around a curve on the edge of a steep cliff as we made our way back to the Rest 'n Peace campground, on a set of brand new tires that were filled to the gills with Fix-a-Flat. Boonie had bidden us farewell shortly after helping Rip air up the tires in the Sweet Sixteen parking lot. In parting he'd said, "Can't stand to be on enemy soil any longer than necessary."

  No longer convinced a gang of juvenile delinquents were responsible for our two pairs of flats in one morning, Rip was livid. "I'm beginning to think whoever's behind Bea's death is on to the fact we're sticking our noses into the investigation, and they're trying to put a stop to our meddling."

  I was delighted. Even though I was a world-class meddler, I would have preferred he refer to our investigating as probing rather than meddling. Still, I was pleased that Rip had come over to my way of thinking and hopped aboard my "let's put 'em away" train. Or, so I'd thought. I excitedly exclaimed, "All the more reason to step it up a notch!"

  "All the more reason to remove our noses from where they don't belong," Rip countered. And just as quickly as he'd hopped aboard my train, he'd bailed off. "We can't afford to put new tires on this truck every day. And I don't know about you, but I have no desire to stir up a hornet's nest. We know for a fact this particular hornet would not hesitate to sting anything or anyone that gets in its path."

  "But don't you think this is a sign that Bea was killed by someone, like the same 'someone' who's trying to derail us?"

  "Not necessarily. Even though that was my first inclination too, we mustn't jump to conclusions over what could easily have just been a coincidence."

  "We also mustn't ignore the fact it could just as easily not have been a coincidence," I said in rebuttal.

  "I suppose. However, I still think it'd be in our best interests to take a step back and let the homicide detectives handle it. If any evidence is discovered that points to foul play, they'll have to re-evaluate their 'animal encounter gone bad' deduction."

  So, here was my dilemma. I couldn't disagree with Rip's reasoning, or balk at his decision to take a step back and let the Buffalo Police Department handle the case. Rip was a smart man and, as a career law-enforcer, he made sound decisions, not rash ones like those I had a tendency to make on occasion. He'd been my protector and the love of my life since we were both eighteen. He would never put me in harm's way, or allow me to place myself in a dangerous situation, even when I was dying to do so.

  All of this raced through my mind as I sat silently in the passenger seat, looking straight down from my window at the sheer wall of a rock cliff just a few feet to my right. I held my breath as Rip sped around curves like he was Mario Andretti. I was holding on to the door handle with a death grip. If the need arose, I was prepared to fling the door open and then jump, drop, and roll; a sequence of moves I'd learned many moons ago in a self-defense class for women. I'd still end up dying, most likely, but at least I'd look better doing it.

  Even though my mind told me to listen to Rip and follow his advice, I couldn't quite wrap my head around the homicide department's conclusion that Bea was the victim of an animal attack.

  For one thing, there appeared to me to be scads of people anxious to see the last of the highly intolerable Bea Whetstone. It was practically one of those situations where decent, law-abiding folks felt compelled to line up and take a number to see who got first crack at the detestable woman.

  And what could be a more workable plan than to slice and dice her in a private location, then dump her in the woods behind her campground and make it appear as if a cougar or bear had ripped her to shreds? With no one to witness the murder, the perpetrator could've high-tailed it out of the forest, knowing the smell of fresh blood would draw predators from far and wide to attend the picnic, with Bea as the main entrée.

  Even though I was not a big fan of the victim, I wouldn't want a terrible fate like that to befall anyone—even her. I still find it abhorrent that someone could steal another human's life and get away with it scot free. Free to go on with their own life, until old age or until some meddler who was approaching old age—like me—caught up with them.

  So there lay the dilemma I found myself in. It was the age-old question people often ask themselves: do I follow my head, or my heart? Unfortunately, in my case anyway, the heart won every time.

  Chapter 16

  It was about four o'clock and we'd just returned from watching Willie's ball game. That afternoon, Willie's team beat the Worland Warriors ten to three in round one of the championship tournament. Despite the team's victory, Willie was upset with himself for fumbling a grounder, allowing the base runner on third to score, striking out twice, and hitting into a double play. Rip reinforced the importance of good sportsmanship to his nephew when the four of us stopped at the ice cream shop for cones following the game.

  "It's teamwork, Willie. There's no 'I' in 'team'. I've seen you pick up the slack when one of your teammates was in a hitting slump. Today it was Jason, who was errorless at shortstop and hit two homeruns, who carried the load and led your team to victory. You need to shake it off and come back ready to pound it out of the park in your game on Sunday. Your team won, for goodness sakes! Cel
ebrate and be content with the victory."

  Willie nodded. He'd always looked up to his Uncle Rip and had taken his advice to heart on many occasions. I knew this time would be no exception and was anxious to see how he bounced back in the next round of the tournament.

  While the fellows conversed about the game, Cora and I chatted about what to get Tommy for his tenth birthday. While Cora was listing suggestions, I studied her fingernails. They were long, perfectly manicured, and had pale, almost skin-toned, pink polish. When she noticed my fascination with them, she said, "I just got them done this morning. I always get this color because it nearly matches my cuticles, and that makes it less obvious when I'm overdue for another manicure."

  "It's a very nice color, dear," I said. "Much better than the woman I saw in the post office the other day who had her nails all painted black. Can you imagine that? Black fingernails? I was afraid she was going to cast a spell on me, so I skedaddled back to the truck after I'd picked up our bundle of mail. We use a mail service in Livingston, Texas, that was designed with RVers in mind. They forward our mail to us wherever we are."

  "That's awesome. Do they—?"

  "So, anyway," I interrupted. I'd strayed far afield from the topic I'd worked so hard to segue into. Rip and I were keeping the full scope of our investigative involvement in Bea's death under the rug as much as possible, so as not to cause our worry-wart niece unnecessary concern. "How about those black fingernails? Ever seen the like?"

  "Not often, but once in a while. I've run into this one gal a couple of times at the salon in the past few months who got a manicure and pedicure with a black gel polish the last time I saw her there."