Bead onTrouble

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  "Information," I said. "No one is saying anything. I can tell you about the camp and a little about the people, but we don't know a thing about the murder. Do you?"

  "Actual y, very little. The woman was May Polaski."

  "Feather. May Feather."

  "Not legally. Her ex-husband is Gene Polaski."

  "Now there's an authentic Native American moniker," I said. "Are they publicly releasing her name yet?" He shook his head, no, and I asked, "What about news of the murder?"

  "Well, you know Channel Seventeen—I'll bet they've reported it, but there wasn't anything on the radio driving out here." The stations monitor each other like the characters in the old Spy vs. Spy, so Larry would know_

  I'd asked the question because of my family. If one of them heard that there'd been a murder at Green Clover, they could have some bad moments before they found out it wasn't me. And that it wasn't Beth or Shannan, I needed to make some calls pretty quick to get that cleared up.

  "Okay," I said. "I guess we can talk here." We were in the middle of the wide path.

  Larry looked surprised. "I assumed we were going to the crime scene. If my sense of direction is still working, it's down this way; at least that's part of it. The crime scene, I mean. The other half is down on the campground, but that's sealed off."

  "It was here?" I asked.

  "I would bet that if we went much farther, we'd run into some police tape."

  "Do you know how she was killed?"

  He shook his head. "A cop friend told me that she was bruised, but that could have been from the fall. He also said, off the record, that he didn't think she drowned, even though they found her half in the river. Her neck was broken."

  That made an ugly picture. "Do you know when this happened?"

  "I don't think any one does."

  "Well, you're not much help. Will you tell me when you find out? I have the feeling that you'll hear a lot sooner than I will."

  "I can do that:' he said. "And how about if you give me an interview? Nothing important, just about the camp."

  "Wouldn't you prefer someone more colorful?"

  He raised one eyebrow. "More colorful than Katherine Zoe Camden? How is that possible?"

  "I meant a professional beader, since this is a bead retreat. I'm just an amateur, and not even a very good one."

  "Works for me."

  "This way." I led him back toward the trailers, telling him about Green Clover and giving him some background on the bead retreats. When we got to the clearing with the trailers we were almost run over by Angie Hogencamp, who was charging toward her own sleeping-and-schlepping trailer. She had her head down, muttering under her breath.

  "Angie," I said, "What's the problem?" Her head of curly gray hair came up, and she looked surprised to see us.

  "The problem would be that ass in the private dining room. Officer Peterson. I told him everything I heard last night, and he—"

  "You heard something? What?" I asked. "What did you hear?"

  "Now, see, that's the kind of response I was looking for.

  He talked to me like I was either demented or lying, neither of which is true at the moment. Tomorrow, maybe, but not today."

  "Consider the source," I said, remembering what he'd said about the Camden name. "If you want, in a little bit, we could commiserate together."

  "Sure. When did you have in mind? I was planning on getting something to drink, and then hitting something. I haven't decided what."

  Larry was listening all too intently, but the man was a reporter, so it was expected. I said to her, "How about if I meet you at the tetherball clearing? You can beat that ball into submission, and I'll help." First I had those phone calls to make. "Say, in twenty minutes?"

  "You're on." She started to give me a high five, but I was slow and she missed, smacking empty air, instead. "You see?" she said. "That's the way my day has gone." She shrugged and went into her trailer.

  "If," Larry said, "she tells you something important, you will call me, right?"

  "Quid pro quo," I said, walking up to the TonyCraft Fifth Wheel. "And now let me get you someone to put on camera."

  I knocked on Tony's door and noticed that it took only a second for him to appear. He was wearing a pressed denim shirt with the TonyCraft logo over the pocket and his hair looked recently combed. In his hand was a ruby red beaded belt of six or eight strands of glass beads held together by seed bead loops. There were bead tassels on the ends, and in the sunlight the belt shone like a maharaja's jewels.

  "Kitzi, what a surprise," he said to me, but his eyes were on Larry. I guessed that Tony'd been watching out the window, trying to figure a way to get on television. That made things easier for both of us.

  "I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine He needs someone to interview—he's with the news media. Would you be interested?"

  I introduced the two men, who shook hands. They were almost the same height, but Larry looked more substantial, like a solid person. Tony was thinner and seemed a little wimpy in comparison.

  "I'd be willing to talk on camera," Tony said.

  "We'll have to go back to the van," Larry said, gesturing toward the front entrance.

  "No problem." Tony started to hand me the belt, but I shook my head.

  "Makes a nice prop," I said.

  "Oh, right:" Then he said, 'Why don't you wait in the trailer for me? Get yourself something cold to drink?"

  "Actually, I need to call my family. Since we're going to be on the news, I don't want them worrying."

  "Mi casa es su casa. And my cell phone, too. Larry, give me just a minute," Tony said as casually as if they were old drinking buddies.

  Tony ushered me inside where it was dim and much cooler. To my left was the dining booth where he'd obviously been sitting, judging by the strands of red beads lying across the table. I went straight to them since my beading time at camp had been minimal, so far, and I was feeling deprived. "Oh, wow. More belts:'

  I would have reached for them, but he said, "I gather you didn't want to talk to any reporters."

  "No, actually, I didn't!"

  He opened a full-length pantry to reveal strands and strands of beads on cup hooks. More jewel tone belts were also on hooks, and Tony casually picked up the ones from the table and put them away. I wanted to climb into the cupboard and run my fingers through them all, but Tony closed the door, shutting off my view. Next he took a cell phone from the narrow shelf beside the table. "Here you go."

  I shook my head to help me break out of the glitter-induced trance. "Are you sure?" After his earlier talk about poor business, I didn't want to make expensive calls on his dollar. "I'll just run down—"

  "I don't mind. I get about a million minutes a month, and I never use them all." He handed me the phone. "Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator." He started to go then turned back, "Any coaching for me?"

  His personality had transformed back to Mr. Charming.

  "You'll be great," I said. "Just talk normally, the way you do in your demonstrations."

  "Damn straight," he said with a smile. "And the belt is a great idea." He held it up. "I sort of had that intention all along." Tony Campanelli was as devious as I'd suspected.

  "Be back."

  And he went out, leaving me alone in his lair.

  The interior colors were primarily greens and browns with accents of deep purple, creating a combination that was masculine and a touch bohemian. It wasn't the usual bachelor pad, but then Tony wasn't the usual bachelor.

  Directly in front of me was the couch, then the kitchen area. I moved over to the booth, sat down, and picked up the cell phone.

  The air conditioner turned on with a gurgling sound, and I felt chill bumps go over my entire body.

  This was Tony Campanelli's trailer. May was dead, killed by someone who'd done her bodily harm; Tony was one of the few men on the grounds.

  I'd already jumped up when my better sense kicked in. I sucked in some air, then peered out
the curtains. The deputy was opening the front gate so Tony and Larry could get to the news van.

  I had just been handed an opportunity to take some action that might get this murder investigation over and done with. And I had no excuse not to.

  After thinking it through, I decided on just a little look-see around the trailer. No reading mail or anything like that—just looking.

  I started with the refrigerator.

  That was something of a cop-out, as my son used to say, but I was a novice and needed to get into this slowly. Besides, Tony had said I could get something to drink. I opened the refrigerator door to discover that the inside was nice and clean and held mostly things to drink: bottled water, diet RC, regular Dr. Pepper, some V8, and a six-pack of Heineken Ultra. In a bin I found a couple of bananas, an apple, and two peaches.

  This guy was squeaky clean.

  Which meant I had to look further. I closed the door without taking anything and after another quick peek out the window to assure myself that Tony was busy elsewhere, I moved to the back of the trailer. There I looked in the bathroom. The little square of space was was on the toothpaste (Tom's Natural Spearmint) and the towel was hung precisely by the small shower.

  Not only squeaky clean but exceptionally neat, as well.

  Next was the bedroom. I held my breath as I nudged open the door. I don't know what I'd expected but what I found was a carefully made bed, a closet with a few pairs of jeans, three shirts, and a pair of loafers. The mirror above the dresser was streak-free, and the only spot that could remotely be called cluttered was the top of the dresser. There was a rose and a couple of pieces of candy wrapped in gold foil.

  A rose? I edged forward to take a closer look. It was a real, red, long-stem rose wrapped in white tissue with a red ribbon holding it together. There was no card and the rose had been there a while, since the petals were limp and withering. Now that was interesting.

  Then I looked a little harder at the candies and discovered that they weren't edible. Well, I actually couldn't judge that, but they weren't chocolates. They were Gold Coin condoms.

  One wilting red rose and three unopened condoms. A hot date gone bad? And three condoms? At my age that seemed like optimism, but then what did I know? Feeling prurient, I looked around for a trash can, just to see what might be in it, but a strange noise came from outside.

  I hustled back to the dining room table, careful to leave the bedroom door at the same angle it had been before.

  Then I peeked outside. Apparently it was the air conditioner that had made the noise, but it didn't matter; I was relieved to have an excuse to stop snooping. In my many years of life I have done some things that were illegal, and to my regret, a few things that were actually immoral, but poking around in Tony Campanelli's bedroom felt downright tacky.

  I filed away what I'd learned and checked the window again. Tony had his back to me, still fingering the belt, and they were recording. It was going to be a few more minutes.

  I picked up the cell phone. I could make my calls and with luck be out before Tony returned. Then I'd think some more about what I had found.

  First I called my son, who is an upwardly mobile techno-marketing whiz. At twenty-nine, he's working for one of the large firms in town, and by everything I can see, doing rather well. The reason I called him first was that if my mother heard anything about the murder, he'd be the one she'd turn to for reassurances.

  "You've reached the voicemail of Will Camden, I'm in meetings most of the day, blah, blah, blah ." My son is single, bright, and I think very dear, but he is going through a very "busy" phase of his life.

  I left a message explaining that there'd been a death at the camp, someone I knew but not well, and while we were upset, everyone else was fine. Including Beth and Shannan.

  To Will, Shannan fills the role of the adoring younger sister, one that his real sister, who is older, does not. He calls Beth his "other mother," so both of them are important to him and he needed to know they were safe.

  I added that it would be good if he called his grandmother or maybe stopped by to see her after work. I didn't say that it would be nice if he could arrange to do that before nine o'clock when his workaholic day ended. The original suggestion was should be enough. He doesn't like suggestions any better than the rest of us. I did tell him I loved him, and that •I'd be checking messages on my cell phone if he wanted to call back.

  Considering the circumstances, I had to figure Green Clover's cell phone rule was temporarily suspended.

  Next I called my daughter. Katie is thirty-one and has three of the most adorable and brilliant children I've ever seen, but I'm not in any way prejudiced. What grandmother is? Clifford Camden Brewster, aka Cliffie, and his twin sister, Shelby, are five. He can read pretty well, feeds their dog in the evening, and informed me on his last visit that moths are nocturnal. Shelby is an athlete who swims, plays T-ball, and can outshoot her father at basketball.

  She's also into beading. I baby-sit them as often as possible, but I always wonder who's in charge.

  Their little sister, Gabrielle, just turned three. She is the seductress of the family, and to balance that out, has the temper of a dictator. Gabrielle doesn't need a keeper, she needs staff, but I love her just the same.

  Once more I heard the click of an answering machine, and I repeated much the same message I'd left my son.

  Last, I called my mother, and wonder of wonders, she was out, too. Probably gardening. "Mom, it's me, Kitzi."

  "It's after lunch on Friday, and I just wanted you to know that I'm at camp and doing fine." The problem was that my mother forgot things. Not all the time, but often enough that she worried herself and me. I didn't want to frighten her. "Remember when I used to send you letters from camp? 'Dear mom, my broken leg doesn't hurt but my poison ivy is killing me' ?" I laughed. "Well, I don't have either of those. I did my demonstration and it turned out great. I'll tell you about it when I get home Sunday evening. If you need anything call Will or Katie. I love you.

  'Bye:'

  I was looking for the button to end the call when Tony returned. I'd been hoping to be gone before he got back.

  "How was it?" I asked.

  He smiled. "I made them promise to say that I was Tony Campanelli of TonyCraft. I also held up the belt as a sample of what I'm teaching at the retreat."

  "Good going," I said_ His portion would be edited to seconds, and precious few of those, but you could never tell what Larry might leave in.

  "Did you get your calls made?" Tony asked, placing the belt on the table.

  "Yes, thank you." I handed back the phone. "Well, I guess—"

  "Can you spare a minute?"

  "Oh. Sure. Okay," I said, my hand automatically going for the belt. My fingers caressed the sparkling beads. "Do you live here full-time? In the trailer?"

  "You must be kidding. There wouldn't be room for me."

  He opened a cupboard above my head, and I leaned out enough to see bags and bags of bead kits.

  I hadn't looked in the cupboards; now I didn't have to.

  "Oh, wow."

  "This is my storage and my office. I do sleep here when I travel to shows, but I'd go nuts if I had to live here all the time. I have a house in Clarksville." That's an old section of Austin where things are kind of funky and way over-priced. Made me wonder again about how bad his business was. "You don't have anything to drink," he said. "What can I get you?"

  "How about a bottle of water?" I asked. "Do you have any of those?" I was playing the innocent, like I hadn't checked things out,

  "Sure." He reached into the refrigerator behind him and brought one out. "Do you want a glass?"

  "Oh, no." I pulled open the top and took a drink. He was being awfully nice. "You wanted to talk to me?"

  Finally, he slid into the booth to a spot across from me.

  "Look," he said. "I owe you an apology. I was a little over the line when I shut down your computer this morning. I, well, it's just that I'm so stressed.
And now with the police here . . . anyway, I didn't mean to be a jerk."

  It was a nice speech, but he hadn't apologized. He'd merely stated there was a need to apologize. "I understand," I said.

  Tony's eyes, rimmed in curly, dark lashes, were on mine.

  "Thanks. I didn't want you to be pissed at me. You've always been someone I admire, and what with the cops and everything, we all need to stay friends and stick together."

  "Right." Which would be the equivalent of sticking to a prickly pear. He was definitely up to something.

  "You're better with people than I am," he went on. "If the police were going to talk to anyone, I figured it would be you. Did they? Talk to you? Tell you anything about how May died?"

  "No, nothing. Sorry," I added. "Obviously, they haven't said anything to you, either."

  "Oh, well, they're pretty closemouthed." He fidgeted with the bead belt in front of us, and I dropped the end I'd been holding. He seemed more than mildly curious about May's murder. "I'm not trying to sound like a complainer," he added, "but this is the last thing we needed, what with the Tivolini contract and all. How is Beth holding up?"

  "She seems to be doing fine. We haven't talked about it today, but then there hasn't been time to talk about anything." Another aspect of Green Clover that was notable by its absence was conversation.

  "Her husband's a lawyer, isn't he? Is he with one of the big firms?"

  "Not too big." And just where was Tony going with these questions?

  "But he's successful, right? He's a partner?"

  "Yes, with Ruff, Gonzales, Bailey and Burnett. Why?"

  Tony shrugged. "I just worry about Beth. She doesn't seem equipped to handle al the demands of a company like Tivolini. The design work is just the start of it. I'm sure they'll want promotion, too, and that's not Beth's forte. I don't mean she's not good at little workshops or demonstrations, because she is; I'm not trying to put her down. I just can't see her at a dinner party given by Ivana Trump, and that's the kind of thing that Tivolini would expect. Big charity functions . ."

  He stopped, maybe realizing who he was trying to snow. I could think of at least one evening when Ivana Trump had attended a charity auction in my home, and Beth had been there, too. They'd gotten along very well, exchanging horror stories about remodeling, if my memory served me.