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

by Karen Musser Nortman

  “Almost straight west. Runs right under the nature center.”

  “So where’s the entrance?”

  “Did you see the road to the bird watching station when you were at the center?” She nodded. “If you follow that down to the river, the entrance is right there. Used to be a dam there but it’s been removed. Then the exit at the other end comes right into the power plant so the water could run the turbine. What are you planning, anyway?” He raised his eyebrows and puffed on his pipe.

  She laughed. “Nothing, honest. When those women were killed yesterday, it happened just a few minutes before we got there. But we never met anyone when we were going down there. So how did the murderer get away?”

  “Ahhh,” said Jim. “But not many people know about the tunnel. I don’t think there’s been much interest in many years. Why do you think your murderer would know? You think it’s someone from around here?”

  “I have no idea. But I just can’t figure any other way they could have gotten away. The tunnel might explain that.” She looked over at the road as Larry’s and Ben’s trucks pulled in. Larry jumped out of his with a look of concern on his face, but relaxed into a grin when he saw Jim Larson.

  “Jim!” He held out his hand. “Did you come to check on my invalid wife?”

  “No, she just—”

  “Mary Louise sent him down to entertain me with stories about the area around here,” Frannie interrupted.

  “You sounded funny on the phone,” Larry said.

  “I had just woke up when Jim stopped and then you called. I was pretty disoriented and I didn’t know who Jim was.”

  “Well, I’d better get on with my chores.” Jim winked at Frannie, emptied his pipe into the fire pit, and stuck it back in his pocket. “See you later.”

  As they watched him go, Frannie explained further to Larry. “I had never met him and when I woke up to see him standing over me, it scared me to death! You should have told me that Mary Louise’s husband looks like Gentle Ben.”

  “I didn’t realize that you’d never met. Even when we were up here before?”

  Frannie shook her head. “Him I would remember. How was the ride?”

  “Excellent,” said Mickey. “We stopped for lunch at a little tavern in McCormick, but the best part was that it was all downhill. Literally. Lots of talk everywhere about the murders.”

  “So what did you do all day?” Jane Ann asked.

  “Well, let’s see. The sheriff was here, a TV reporter, the sheriff and deputies again to take the twins’ trailer, then Mary Louise, then Jim.” She ticked them all off on her fingers.

  “A TV reporter?” Larry looked concerned again.

  “Relax, dear—I told her I didn’t know anything and then the deputies showed up to move the trailer so she and her sidekick had to get out of here.”

  “Anything new on the murder front?” Jane Ann said.

  “Sorenson was mainly looking for info about last night. But she did say that the one twin—Virginia, we think—was hit on the side of the head and knocked into the machinery. The other, Valerie, was strangled.”

  “Really?” Donna plopped down in the chair beside her. “That’s weird.”

  Frannie agreed.

  “‘We think?’“ Larry repeated. “I thought you were staying out of this.”

  “I am. But you were there with me when Mary Sorenson first looked at the bodies and we talked about which twin was which.”

  “But why would a murderer hit one of them and strangle the other?” Donna said.

  Larry started to say something but closed his mouth again.

  “What?” Frannie asked.

  “Nothing.” He turned and went to put his bike behind the trailer.

  Frannie’s antenna went up. He knew something that he wasn’t sharing. Just because he was an ex-cop, Sorenson probably told him something in confidence. Hmmm.

  Donna and Jane Ann retired to their respective trailers for a rest. Larry returned and said he planned to watch golf.

  “I thought we had a date,” Frannie said.

  “A date? Oh, the pie shop. Didn’t you have any lunch?”

  “I had a lovely lunch that Mary Louise brought me. We could go later, after golf.”

  “Okay, we can—,” he stopped and looked at his watch. “No, let’s go now.”

  Frannie’s eyebrows went up at the change of heart, especially since golf was concerned. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. You deserve a reward for staying here all day.”

  “True.” She grinned and levered herself out of her chair.

  At the Pie Shoppe, Frannie chose lemon meringue while Larry ordered another piece of apple.

  “You’re in a rut,” she told him.

  “I know what I like.”

  They each got a cup of coffee as well and carried their purchases to a wooden booth. Being Sunday afternoon, the place was empty and the woman at the counter had the radio tuned to a country station while she cleaned up from the onslaught of weekend cyclists.

  “So,” Frannie said, savoring the creamy tang of the lemon, “what do you know that you aren’t saying?”

  He sipped his coffee and paused a minute. “That’s why I thought we should get away for a bit. Sorenson told me last night that the little backpack she found by the door to that other room, you know? There was no ID, but there was a handgun in it.”

  Frannie sat up straight in surprise. “Larry, you old meddler, you!”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. I don’t want you actively involved in this or any other investigation. But you seem to have an instinct for this and just wondered what your take is on it. Just don’t mention it to anyone else for the time being.”

  She decided not to gloat over this small victory. She didn’t want to be actively involved, but the puzzle of it intrigued her.

  “Sorenson is sure the backpack belonged to one of the twins?”

  “Fairly sure. The keys to their trailer were in it. She’s checking to see if the gun is registered.”

  “So one of them came to the power plant with a gun—maybe carries it all the time, but maybe just expected to need it on this occasion. And yet didn’t use it. She must not have felt threatened by whoever the murderer is.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “It appeared to me that Virginia, if she was the one hit on the head, died first, because of the way they were laying. What do you think?”

  He nodded. “That’s the way it looked.”

  “So maybe the gun belonged to her. If it belonged to Val, wouldn’t she have tried to get it when her sister was attacked?”

  “You would think so, but maybe she didn’t have time or was too frightened to think about it. When you saw one of them leave that morning, did you see a backpack?”

  “Definitely not. Just the camera bag.”

  “So we think one must have hiked and she had the backpack.”

  Frannie agreed. “Seems like it had to be that way. Whoever the gun is registered to must have been the one that hiked.”

  “Not necessarily. It could have been registered to one, but they both used it or at least knew about it.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. Here’s another weird thing. Yesterday when I walked to the restrooms in the afternoon, that guy Richard was sitting outside, so I stopped to give him my condolences. He claimed he hardly knew them; even acted like he barely remembered which one he met on the cruise. Yet, the night before, when he and Val were in a clinch on the road, he didn’t seem to be having memory problems.” She paused and grinned. “But, on the other hand, he also didn’t seem to recognize me even though I was walking with Val before he called out to her.”

  “Really?” He contemplated that over a bite of pie. “Just because he had a fling that he doesn’t want to admit to, doesn’t make a motive for a double murder.”

  “I know. I can’t figure that either. I’m more inclined to think the camera bag is the key. They said they took pictures of the old trailer and also at the n
ature center, but I can’t imagine a motive there unless they have that crabby receptionist accepting a bribe or something.”

  He looked at her and smirked. “A bribe? For what?”

  “Just thinking out of the box.”

  “Looks like a storm moving in,” the counter woman called over her shoulder as she stood looking out one of the west windows. Frannie and Larry both looked over and realized it had certainly gotten darker.

  He stacked his coffee cup on his plate. “You done?”

  “Unless I lick my plate but I know that would be tacky.”

  “Mickey would do it.”

  They took their dishes to the bin, said goodbye to the counter woman, and headed back to the truck. Frannie managed to get in with a minimum of grunts and contortions. They were just crossing the bridge when a crash of thunder heralded a downpour.

  Larry leaned forward slightly and peered through the thrashing wipers. “If this keeps up, it will put a damper, so to speak, on cooking supper.” They had planned to grill barbecued chicken thighs.

  “We could cook the chicken inside in the electric skillet.”

  “Could,” he said. “Or we could just get wild and eat out.”

  “Mickey’s probably already got a place spotted,” she said.

  “How are you feeling? You seem to be moving a little better.”

  “It is better. Kind of like a stitch in the side from running. Well, I think so. Been a long time since I ran anywhere.”

  “The junkyard at Bluffs last fall,” he reminded her.

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  When they pulled into their campsite, the fire circle was of course deserted and lights glowed in each of the campers. They sprinted for their own unit, or at least Larry did, Frannie following more slowly, holding an old brochure over her head. They had just gotten inside when Larry’s phone rang. From the insults Larry flung at that innocent bit of technology, it was either a telemarketer or Mickey. Since the call ended with a discussion of a suppertime, it must be Mickey. Larry frequently carried on long conversations with telemarketers but almost never had supper with them.

  He hung up. “That was Mickey.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s proposing a road trip for supper.” Mickey followed diner and restaurant shows on TV; his choices were usually spot-on.

  “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.

  Chapter Twelve

  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 t
hrough 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.”