Ripped To Shreds

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "That's nice." Ricky's tone made it apparent he couldn't have cared less. But his next remark made me plug up my left ear with my index finger to more easily isolate his and Desireé's voices, and block out as much of the droning of surrounding patrons' conversations as possible. In a blasé manner, he said, "I assume she's still running around with Boonie Whetstone, particularly now that Aunt Bea's gone."

  "I told you that was just hearsay, son," I heard Desireé reply. "There's no actual proof the two were having an affair behind Bea's back. I can't believe Boonie cheated on her, or you'd think she'd have had some idea of his infidelity. After all, they ran their campground together for many years, and that's practically a 24/7 responsibility. And if Bea had any suspicion of Boonie having an affair behind her back, she'd have told me about it, I'm certain."

  "Maybe Aunt Bea had no clue about it, or maybe she knew about the affair and didn't care. You know how much they'd seemed to have grown apart. Well, no offense, but I know I'd have cheated on that intolerable bitch if I were Uncle Boonie. With just about any woman that caught my eye, in fact." Ricky clearly despised his Aunt Bea.

  "Watch your mouth, boy, or you've seen your last dime from me. That's my sister you're talking about. Besides, you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Richard! You're beginning to sound like your father."

  I barely heard the young man's grumbled response, but it sounded like a remorseful apology. He surely didn't want Desireé cutting off his funds, particularly with her mother on her death bed. I'd noticed that when he asked about Desireé's mother, it hadn't sounded if he was upset about her impending death. Quite the opposite, in fact. I wondered if he had some reason to believe he'd benefit financially from his step-grandmother's death. To me, he'd sounded impatient for her to kick the bucket. His conversation with Desireé ceased when their waitress brought their check and they stood up to leave.

  The decision to have supper at the popular steakhouse had been an advantageous one. I was mentally patting myself on the back for my cleverness. So imagine my mortification when Desireé stopped next to our booth as she prepared to depart. I watched all of the color drain out of my husband's face after she said, "I'm holding that (blankety-blank-blank) you wanted for you, so stop by whenever you're ready to pick it up."

  Rather than tell you the exact words Desireé used, I'll just leave her very graphic remark to your imagination. But I will tell you I'd never been more embarrassed in my entire life than I was at that moment. Not only did Rip nearly choke on the long swallow of beer he'd just taken, Desireé's remark was a shocking jolt to all of the diners within earshot, as well. For the next ten seconds, every eyeball in the joint was fixed on me. It was so deathly quiet in the room you could have heard a fly doing the breast stroke in someone's chicken noodle soup.

  Chapter 21

  On the drive back to the campground, after Rip's blood pressure had come back down to near normal, I explained the ill-mannered remark Desireé had made as she and her stepson were leaving. I didn't want him to think I'd turned into a past-her-prime, wanna-be porn star right before his eyes. He got a good chuckle out of my story, knowing how humiliated I'd been following Desireé's parting jab. She was on to me, Rip pointed out. "And she clearly didn't appreciate your fanatical tactics. Foolish, too, I might add."

  "Well, my approach was a bit brash, but it served its purpose." I felt compelled to defend my actions for, if nothing else, I was putting my heart and soul into it. Rip was acting willy-nilly, just showing an intermittent interest in the case when it suited him. I needed him to be as adamant about getting to the bottom of Bea's death as I was or our time and effort would likely all be for naught.

  "Okay, I can almost see your point about Desireé. But, tell me, sweetheart, what purpose did intruding on the Harris's privacy serve?" Rip had finally gotten Rick's ex-wife's name right, but as much as I wanted to change the subject, this was not the proper time to commend him for it. Besides, I had the feeling I wouldn't be able to segue my way out of this conversation no matter how hard I tried. Considering the circumstances, Rip wasn't apt to be as easily distracted as he usually was.

  "Oh, um, so I guess you heard about that, did you?" I looked down at my feet as I spoke. "That one didn't quite work out the way I planned."

  "So I assumed. Have any of your shenanigans, while investigating murder cases at least, ever panned out the way you intended them to?"

  "Yes, they have!" I could only come up with a pitiful three-word retort, so I said all three as emphatically as I could. "How did you find out about the Harris fiasco?"

  "I was in the office buying a canister of butane for the grill this afternoon while you were sorting through (blankety-blank-blanks) at the Naughty Pine Playhouse," Rip said, teasing me unmercifully and using the same obscene words the sex shop owner had used earlier. I could tell my face was beet-red. It felt like you could have fried an egg on it. Rip studied me for a moment and said, "I'm just kidding you, sweetheart. So, anyway, while I was in the office, that gal with the laundry, Jane—"

  "It's Jan. Janelle Tyson-Simms, to be exact. Even her name has a snooty ring to it, doesn't it?"

  "Jane, Jan, Janelle, whatever. The point is, I thought you told me she was only a temporary replacement for Bea, and Boonie had hired a full-time office clerk."

  "I did. That's what Jan told me, and I met the new girl, a work camper named Cheri Beets, a day or two later. Maybe it didn't work out. As big a flirt as Boonie seems to be with pretty young ladies, she probably felt uncomfortable around him."

  "Very possible," Rip concurred. "Boonie was hanging all over Jane today, and she didn't appear to be very thrilled about it either."

  I was astounded that Rip couldn't remember Janelle's nickname for more than the nine seconds that had elapsed since I'd corrected him. I was also surprised by his observation. I asked, "Why would that be? She's been having an ongoing affair with him, even before his wife's death, and I think their clandestine relationship might have played a part in Bea's death. Maybe Jan was disgusted that Boonie was being so transparent about his attraction to her when she thought he should be behaving more discreet about it, particularly when his wife's untimely death was still fresh in everyone's mind."

  "Possible, but not probable. Now let me get to back to how I found out my wife was a Peeping Tom."

  "I am not a Peeping Tom!" I spoke very defensively for someone who had got caught red-handedly peering into another camper's window. I knew Rip was once again being intentionally cynical, mocking my actions, and I didn't appreciate it one bit.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Would you prefer being classified as a voyeur instead?"

  "Knock it off, buster!"

  "Okay, okay." Rip chuckled. "I'll cut you some slack. So, anyway, a man was in the shop complaining that some woman with wavy salt and pepper hair, who was probably in her late fifties, was standing on their picnic table bench and looking through their blinds into their RV while his wife was home alone, packaging up gift bags to send overseas to a few of the American veterans stationed on foreign soil."

  "He said late fifties? Really?" I asked, flattered to be mistaken for a woman a decade younger. "Okay, so they send packages to vets. Very admirable. And?"

  "And what?" Rip asked. "Mr. Harris's description of the meddlesome culprit was all I needed to hear to figure out who he was referring to. After the man left, Jan told me John Harris, and his wife, Barb, are heavily involved in researching wildlife statistics in order to help prevent the extinction of different species."

  "Yeah, I know. It's a noble undertaking, I admit. And kudos on getting Jan's name right."

  "You're avoiding the issue, Rapella."

  "Okay, okay. I'll admit prying into their business turned out to be totally uninformative and extremely painful."

  "My point, exactly! Which reminds me, John also asked Jan about the closest shipping store. He said he needed to know where he could ship gift boxes off to veterans stationed around the globe. It appears he and Barb put togethe
r collections of toiletries, phone cards, snacks, and other essentials for the vets as a way of showing their appreciation to the men and women who put their lives on the line every day to protect our freedom here at home. They're the kind of philanthropic people the world needs more of."

  "Yeah, I agree." I realized Rip was right and I now felt confident in removing them from my suspect list, too. It felt good to be eliminating suspects one by one. Eventually, with any luck at all, I'd have only one suspect left: the killer.

  Barb and John's humanitarian efforts explained the boxes I'd seen on their table. I felt a little silly about having them on my list in the first place, as well as embarrassed by my impulsive decision to peer into their window. But, in line with the slogan, 'no pain, no gain', if you don't risk a few thorn pricks, you can't gather beautiful rose blossoms. I just hoped I'd find the guilty rose before I needed a blood transfusion from all the pricks I was accumulating.

  Even with Ranger Rick, Desireé, and the Harrises crossed off, I still had a number of people left I'd been unable to justifiably clear. I was determined not to quit trying to cross off suspects until that lone suspect remained. There were Janelle and Boonie, along with the owners of the competing campground, Leo and Charly Brown. To my mind, there was at least one other suspect we might be overlooking, who had sufficient motive to kill Bea Whetstone. I just couldn't quite put my finger on who it was.

  The Browns seemed like nice people, incapable of murder, but how many times do we hear people on television saying they would never have believed their next-door neighbor was capable of dismembering a slew of sorority sisters and storing their body parts in a chest freezer in their basement? And yet that sweetheart of a neighbor next door was ultimately convicted of doing that very thing to a dozen or more victims. See my point? Even the vilest among us may be skilled at putting on a front, convincing acquaintances that they're a kind, friendly, stand-up kind of individual. In fact, those are exactly the kinds of people one should be most distrustful of in some instances. But don't misunderstand me. I don't believe you should automatically be wary of the little old lady next door just because she bakes you a plateful of snickerdoodles while you're recovering from your appendectomy. Although, given the opportunity, it wouldn't hurt to check out the contents of her chest freezer.

  I really wanted another chance to speak with the Browns, but wasn't sure how I could arrange it after the last fiasco. In my gut, I really didn't think the couple were guilty of anything, other than retaliating with tricks of their own when the Whetstones tried to steal all their customers.

  However, if I made another trip to their campground, I'd half expect to be forcefully removed from their property. On the other hand, maybe they'd be somewhat relenting if I made the effort to say I was sorry about the incident. I did owe them an apology, after all.

  But first I wanted to speak with Janelle Tyson-Simms again and planned to head straight to the office after I'd had my quota of two cups of coffee the following morning.

  * * *

  "Where's Jan this morning?" I asked Cheri Beets, who was standing behind the cash register, counting the money in the till and notating the totals on a yellow post-it note. "When you weren't here yesterday, I thought maybe you'd decided this job wasn't for you."

  "Oh, it's all right. Owner's a little too touchy-feely for my taste, but other than that it's not so bad. Yesterday, he asked another person to fill in for me so I could go have my vision checked and order a new pair of glasses."

  "That'll cost you! What I had to pay for my last pair would have made a nice down payment on a new car." While I was nonchalantly making small talk, I was exaggerating, as I am wont to do, but not by much. "Well, I won't bother you any longer."

  "You're no bother," she replied. Cheri was a sweet and polite young lady, and much easier to deal with than Beata Whetstone, or even Janelle Tyson-Simms. "If you were needing to talk to Jan, she told me yesterday she had a hair appointment today."

  Her comment triggered a memory of a question Desireé had asked Ricky at supper the previous evening. "Did I tell you I ran into Janelle at her weekly hair appointment last Wednesday?" I recalled her asking her step-son. Today was Wednesday.

  "Thank you, Cheri. Do you happen to know what salon she uses? I need to get something done with this mess and am not familiar with the hair salons in town." I ran my hand across the top of my unruly mop of hair as I spoke.

  "I use Donna Duca at the Hair Affair Salon on Klondike Drive," the affable young lady said. "She's great! You should go to her salon."

  "No, offense, dear, but I'd prefer to go to the same salon Jan uses." Even as I was speaking, I knew there was no way Cheri could help but be offended by my remark. I might as well have just said, "Your hairstyle is absolutely atrocious and I'd rather go to someone who has at least some clue about styling hair properly."

  "Oh," Cheri said. As I'd feared, she had taken my comment personally. And who wouldn't have? I felt bad because she was such a friendly gal. Cheri was jovial and polite, yet helpful and professional. She was the ideal individual for dealing with the public.

  "I should clarify my response," I said contritely. I certainly didn't want to insult her and leave a sour taste in this sweet lady's mouth. "Your hair is gorgeous! Mine could never look that nice no matter who took a crack at it. Thing is, if I go to the salon she uses, I'll be able to talk to her while we're both being worked on."

  "Oh, of course. I understand completely." The crestfallen expression disappeared from Cheri's face and one of gratitude replaced it. She glanced up at a large clock on the wall. "I'm almost positive Jan said her ten o'clock appointment was at the Snip Joint on Main Street, right next to the nail salon. If you leave within ten minutes, you'd both get there about the same time."

  "Oh, good idea. Thanks, Cheri. You are a real sweetie."

  * * *

  Rip reluctantly approved of my idea to "accidentally" run in to Jan at the hair salon. He pleaded with me to use diplomacy when conversing with her, and under no circumstances, accuse her outright of murdering her boyfriend's wife. Sometimes my husband shows very little faith in my ability to use tact and decorum when the situation calls for it. Not wanting to give him the time or a reason to change his mind, I didn't remind Rip that I could tip-toe around a dicey subject as delicately as anyone.

  But I did have to ask, "So, John Harris really thought I was in my fifties, huh?"

  "Late fifties," Rip replied dryly.

  "Even so, that's ten years younger than my real age. Very flattering, don't you think?"

  "I guess. But, then, I've never thought you looked anywhere near your age, darling. I've always suspected you'd discovered the fountain of youth and never thought to share it with me."

  "You look much younger than sixty-eight too, honey." I gave Rip a longer than usual kiss before I left. His compliments had me smiling all the way to the salon. I was anxious to return home with a new hairstyle that made me look even younger.

  I didn't have much time to spare if I wanted to get there at the same time as Jan. I slipped out of my faded Dallas Cowboys t-shirt and put on a tangerine-colored blouse. I gave my dentures a quick once-over with my toothbrush. Lastly, I studied my current hairdo. I could think of no conceivable way a stylist could make it look worse, so decided to make a last-minute choice of styles once I got there. Because, after all, what could possibly go wrong with this strategy?

  A lot, as it turned out.

  * * *

  I couldn't make a last-minute appointment, naturally, so was relieved to see a "walk-ins welcome" banner stretched across the green awning over the entrance. I greeted the perfectly proportioned black woman at the reception desk just inside the front door. I told her I'd like to get a more fashionable hairdo. I admired her long, dark brown dreadlocks, and commented on how beautiful her hair was. I wished I had enough hair to pull off such a youthful style, but doubted Rip would be overly enthused if his bride of fifty years came home from the hair salon with dreadlocks. She thanked
me for the compliment. I smiled, and then said, "I'd opt for your figure too, if I could have my druthers."

  "Druthers?" She asked, with a confused look on her face. "What's that?"

  "Never mind. Not important," I replied with a smile. I wasn't sure I could come up with a definition of the word. At least not at a moment's notice. But, as someone who habitually used clichés, I wondered when "if I had my druthers" had become an archaic idiom of the past.

  I scanned the customers at the individual stations and discovered I'd beaten Jan to the salon. As I walked over and sat in a chair in the waiting area. I told the receptionist, "I'm going to wait until my friend arrives if that's all right with you."

  "Of course. What's her name? I can check to make sure we have her on today's schedule."

  I hadn't really wanted to let on I knew Jan and infer we had planned to meet here at ten, but I didn't have a choice at this point. "Her name's Jan."

  "Jan? We actually have two people named Jan on the schedule for ten. Jan Dorsey hasn't arrived, but Janelle Tyson-Simms, who occasionally goes by Jan, is having her hair done by Kerri this morning."

  "Yes, that's the one. We've been friends for so long that I always call her Jan. I'll just wait for her to arrive. Her appointment's at ten, right?"

  "Um, yes. So, ma'am, exactly how long have you been friends with Janelle?"

  "It seems like forever. Why?"

  "She's already here, sitting in that second chair over there." The receptionist pointed toward a willowy brunette who was chatting with her hair stylist. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize her."

  Uh-oh. I actually didn't recognize her. Apparently, just as I'd confused Ricky for Richard Myer Senior, I had apparently mixed up Jan Dorsey with this Janelle Tyson-Simms. I'd experienced my second mistaken identity in as many days. Janelle did resemble the Jan I knew from the campground, except for the squarer face and dark-rimmed eyeglasses. "That's Janelle Tyson-Simms?" I asked, just in case there was some kind of misunderstanding on the receptionist's part. But there was no mix-up on her part, I realized, after she nodded.