“Is anybody but me an unrepentant smoker?" Al asked the group when they'd finished eating.
Jane and Edna admitted as much and walked down to the road to indulge themselves well away from Bob Rycraft's more-in-pity-than-in-anger gaze. Al brought along a tin can with a half inch of water in it to serve as an ashtray. They found a log to sit on and Edna said, "Al, what do you do for a living?"
“I work for a bank," he said.
“Oh? I used to work at a bank as a teller when I was young. What do you do there?"
“I'm the president," he said with a grin.
Edna and Jane simultaneously yelped with laughter.
Al looked embarrassed. "Well, it's a really small bank.”
They smoked in companionable silence for a few minutes, then returned to the group just as Benson was unveiling a pineapple-upside-down cake that had been cooking in one of the reflector ovens. Almost everyone protested that they were too full to eat any more; well, maybe just a bite or two. The cake disappeared at an alarming rate.
“What a lot of stuff you've got to carry back," Jane said to Benson.
“We'll just take back the food tonight. The boys will come back for all the cooking utensils in the morning. They're too hot to carry around now," he said with a satisfied grin. His party had been a great success.
The young men, who had already packed up most of the leftover food, now dragged out a banjo and a guitar and prepared to entertain them. They played a couple folk-song-sounding numbers that Jane didn't recognize, but liked, and then began to play "Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”
To nearly everyone's astonishment, Sam Claypool started singing with them. He had an amazingly good voice. The young men kept playing and quit singing in honor of the superior performer. When the last note died away, they were all silent for a long moment, then John started clapping. "Still got the talent, haven't you, Sam? Good job!”
Everybody else joined in the applause. Sam actually smiled, and Jane realized he was quite a good-looking man. It was a shame his smile was so infrequent. Everyone urged him into singing some more, and after consultation with the young men with the instruments, he obliged. He sang another folk song and then one of Jane's favorites, "Love Hurts," which always reduced her to tears. Jane was surprised that a man who appeared to have so little personality and social grace could put so much feeling into a song.
The concert was cut short by a crack of thunder and a sudden, short burst of rain. The campfire hissed and steamed. The young men put their instruments back in their protective cases. Edna and Allison started gathering up silverware and linens. Jane and Shelley tried to help, but were shooed away.
“You're our guests. We don't let guests help," Edna said firmly. "Scoot on back to your cabins before you get drenched."
“The rain's already stopping," Jane protested, but to no avail. She and Shelley got their flashlights and picked their way down the short incline to the road. Eileen was somewhere behind them, fretting about her pink slipper getting wet. Liz was advising her on the proper care of blisters.
The cabin was warm and cozy. They got out of their ponchos and the top couple layers of their clothing. Jane went to pull the drapes and realized that it had stopped raining and there was moonlight filtering down through the trees. "What bizarre weather," she said.
“That was one of the best meals and nicest evenings I can remember. Want a cup of coffee?"
“I don't suppose you have tea, do you?" Jane asked. She lighted the fire she'd prepared and abandoned the night before. The kindling crackled, spit, belched smoke, and suddenly burst into tiny flames that licked hungrily at the bark on the logs.
“I have tea bags and one of those little coil heaters," Shelley said.
“I'm surprised you didn't bring a cappuccino machine along.”
They fixed their drinks and sipped them in friendly silence. Jane sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, marveling at what a nice little fire she'd managed to create and feeling hypnotized by the sight, sound, and smell of it.
“I think I may just sleep in my clothes," Jane finally said. "I'm too tired to get up and take them off."
“We might as well go to bed early, I guess," Shelley said. "What time is it?”
Jane glanced at her watch — or rather, her bare wrist. "Shelley, my watch is gone."
“It's probably in your purse. Or on the bathroom counter."
“No, I looked at it when we got to the campsite. Oh, rats! I've lost my watch!"
“We'll go look for it in the morning."
“After it rains all night? Can't you hear the rain starting up again?”
Shelley groaned. "It's not waterproof?"
“I think so, but it could get washed away or covered with mud and I'll never find it." She was donning her sweater. "The kids got it for my birthday. I can't lose it."
“You're not going out alone," Shelley declared. She was shaking the moisture off her poncho.
It was raining in earnest by the time they sloggedtheir way back to the campsite, which was now deserted. The fire was out, the cooking utensils were stacked together, getting a bath in the rain. The formerly festive table was naked, and its tentlike canopy had been dismantled and taken away. Jane and Shelley minced around, shining their flashlights at the ground, hoping to catch a glint of the missing watch.
“I don't think I was anywhere but right here at the table," Jane said. Cold rain had found a way under the hood of her poncho and was trickling down the side of her neck.
“Didn't I see you walk over to the far end to put your scraps in that wastebasket that was over there? It might have fallen off then.”
Jane inched her way carefully, making small sweeps of the ground with her flashlight. "Here is it!" she called. "Thank goodness! I wonder if it still— Oh, my God!”
She'd held the watch up to her ear with her left hand while ignoring where the beam from the flashlight was pointing.
“What's wrong?" Shelley asked.
Jane stood frozen and speechless for a moment, then whispered, "Shelley, there's a body here!”
Eight
"A what!" Shelley said, rushing forward and tripping over a rock.
“A body. A dead one," Jane said with a horrified croak.
Shelley got her balance and joined Jane. "Where? Stop thrashing around with that flashlight.”
“I'm shaking. Here. See?"
“Sam Claypool," Shelley said. "Come on, we have to get Benson to call the police."
“I'll stay here," Jane said, trying to sound brave. "It's not right to just leave him here in the rain.”
Shelley grabbed her arm in a painful grip and hissed, "Jane, somebody killed him. Somebody who might still be standing a few feet from us in the dark."
“Killed him!"
“Jane, look at his head. Look at the big, heavy frying pan beside it. The man didn't smack himself upside the head with it. Come on.”
They scuttled awkwardly, but as fast as they could, across the campsite and down the rain-slick path. The skies had opened and were pouring down frigid, drenching rain that felt like wet sleet. Jane fell halfway down and ended up on her backside in the mud. Shelley made it to the bottom, turned to look for Jane, lost her balance, and fell to her hands and knees.
Picking themselves up with considerable difficulty, they ran toward their cabin. "Jane, we'll take the van to the lodge. Throw some towels over the seats while I find the keys.”
Like a jerky automaton, Jane did as she was told. Shelley jumped in the car, gunned the engine, shot backward a few feet, reversed, and headed for the lodge at a ferocious speed. At the front door she slammed on the brakes. The van skidded, convincing Jane that they were going to crash right inside the building. But Shelley stopped mere inches from the porch.
They flung themselves out of the car and through the front door. Above the pounding of her heart in her ears and the thunder outside, Jane thought she could hear voices in the kitchen and headed for the doorway leading to it from the recep
tion area. Benson and his mother were there, putting away plates. They looked up with obvious alarm.
“Benson, Sam Claypool's been killed," Jane said breathlessly.
“At the campsite," Shelley added.
Benson didn't waste time asking questions. He reached for the kitchen phone extension and dialed the sheriff. Edna said, "You both look like you're about to pass out. Come sit by the fire.”
Jane glanced down. "We look like pigs. We're covered in mud."
“Then sit on the hearth.”
They did so and sat for a long time just trying to get their breath back. Finally, when they were able to talk without gasping and without their teeth chattering, Edna said, "What's this about, then?”
Jane explained about losing her watch and going back to find it and discovering Sam Claypool as well.
“I don't mean to be indelicate," Edna said, "but how did you know he was dead? Did you take his pulse or try to determine whether he was breathing? Maybe he'd just fainted.”
Jane cleared her throat. "His — his eyes were wide open even though it was raining in his face."
“And his head had been hit with that big frying pan. Up high on his forehead. It was a bloody mess and looked sort of—" Shelley took a deep, shaky, breath. "Sort of flattened out."
“Why did he stay there?" Jane asked Edna. "Or did he? Was he there when you left?”
Edna closed her eyes for a minute. "Yes, I think he was. I saw Benson speak to him when all the other guests had left."
“What were they talking about?" Shelley asked.
Edna shrugged. "I couldn't hear and probably wouldn't have paid attention anyway. Where is Benson?"
“Right here," he said from the kitchen door. He'd dressed in waterproof clothing and was heading for the front door.
“Don't you dare go up there by yourself," Edna said.
“Mom, I'm not crazy. I'm going up with the sheriff when he gets here."
“And I'm going to take a shower and go to bed," Shelley said firmly, even though her chin was still trembling with cold and fright.
“But the police will want to talk to you," Edna said.
“Then they'll have to talk to me when I'm in my jammies," Shelley said. "I've never been so cold and uncomfortable in my life. And we left a fire in the fireplace because we thought we'd be right back.”
Edna tried to keep them with offers of hot coffee, dry clothes, and beds in the lodge, but Jane and Shelley were both determined to go "home," to their own cabin and clothes.
“At least wait and let the sheriff see you safely into your cabin, and lock up really well," Edna warned.
Jane liked Edna, but was so miserable she was tempted to say, as Benson had, Do you think we're crazy? But she bit her tongue and followed Shelley out to the van, explaining to Benson that they'd like a little protection.
“I'll have Taylor drop me off with you and see you in safely, then walk the rest of the way.”
It would have been polite to object to this self-sacrificing offer, but they were beyond courtesy. They waited in the van with the engine running and the heater going full blast. When the sheriff appeared, Benson hopped in the car with Taylor, and Shelley drove the van behind them. The sheriff not only took the time to see them inside, he quickly checked thebathroom, closet, and storeroom, made sure the glass doors were locked and drapes drawn, and they locked the door after him.
Jane and Shelley discarded their filthy, freezing outer clothing in the storage area. Jane said, "You're a faster shower taker than I am. You go first.”
She put on her robe over her underwear and huddled on the floor in front of the fireplace.
Shelley walked into the bathroom door, and came back out a minute later in her long T-shirt nightgown. "I'm too tired. And I'm sick of water falling on me."
“Poor Marge," Jane said, her voice muffled by her pillow. She struggled up to a sitting position. "I wonder when they'll tell her."
“Not until they've taken the body away, I'd guess. I hope she doesn't have to identify it in that condition. I wonder where she thinks he is."
“Still at the campsite? Alive at the campsite, mean," Jane suggested. "Or maybe she assumed he went on down to the lodge. It's not that late, you know." She held up the watch that had started their ill-fated quest. "It's only nine-thirty."
“No," Shelley said, then glanced at her own watch and said, "My gosh, you're right. It seems like it ought to be nearly dawn." She thought for a minute. "I haven't had time to really take this in, but who would want to kill Sam Claypool? He was such a boring, innocuous person. I can't imagine him rousing that kind of passion in anybody."
“Maybe it was that drunken nutcase, what's his name?"
“Oh, Lucky Smith. Maybe. He could have gotten tanked up and figured it would really wreck things for Benson if a guest were found dead."
“Kind of an extreme way to make a point.”
“That's why they call them extremists," Shelley said. "Why don't you make us some coffee.”
“Because my legs have solidified. Give me a second and I'll do it. I wonder who else might be roaming around in the woods and up to no good.”
“On a night like this, not many," Shelley said. "But you're always hearing about batty survivalists in remote areas.”
Shelley nodded. "Yes, but I think most of them have their own land and warehouses for their weapons. I don't think they do much camping out in the rain in October. Although, for all I know, that could be their very favorite activity," she added with a wry smile.
“Should we go over to Marge's cabin when the police have told her?"
“A sympathy call? I don't think so. She's got her family with her. John and Eileen. I think it would be butting in. We can take her some food when we get back home. I guess we'll all leave tomorrow instead of staying on. Liz is going to be disappointed that she can't make a thorough report.”
Jane looked at Shelley. "You're blathering."
“I know. I need fresh coffee to slap around my brain cells.”
Jane hoisted herself off the floor and applied what little energy she had left to the coffeemaker. There was a small, high window at the side of the house facing the road. She could see occasional glints of light, but couldn't tell if it was distant lightning orflashlights in the woods. As she measured out the coffee, an official car of some kind went by silently but quickly.
Jane went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and hair, and put on a flannel nightgown. As she went back to pour the coffee, there was a knock on the door that frightened her out of her wits.
“Don't open it!" Shelley said.
“Who's there?" Jane called.
“Sheriff Taylor, ma'am." It was the "ma'am" that convinced her. He came into the cabin, dripping like a sponge. "Did you ladies both see this body?"
“Yes. Briefly," Jane said.
“And you say it was Sam Claypool?”
Jane and Shelley glanced at each other, and Shelley replied, "What do you mean. . we 'say' it was Sam Claypool? It was. There was no mistaking him. You met him yourself, earlier today."
“And exactly where did you see this?"
“At the far end of the campsite from the path we came in on. There's a semicircle of big rocks," Jane said. "Well, medium-sized. And he was just on the other side of them. Sheriff Taylor, these are odd questions. Why are you asking them?”
He sighed. "Well, ma'am, it's because there's no body up there. Not Sam Claypool's or anybody else's."
“What!" Jane and Shelley yelped in unison. "Not a sign," he said.
“Somebody moved the body?" Shelley asked. "Either that or. ." The sheriff left the words hanging in the air.
“Or what?" Shelley asked.
“Or you imagined it," he replied bluntly.
“Neither of us are in the habit of imagining bodies," Shelley said angrily. "We're not lunatics!"
“I didn't mean you were," he said, not at all convincingly. "But it was dark, raining, you're in unfamiliar territory—"
/> “City slickers, you mean? Who can't tell the difference between a corpse and a pile of dead leaves?" Jane asked. She was as mad as Shelley. "We saw Sam Claypool's body. There was no mistaking it. We were standing only a couple feet from him. He was lying on his back. His eyes were open and he'd apparently been smacked in the head with a frying pan that was on the ground next to him. There was blood.”
Taylor was shaking his head and glaring at them from under his heavy eyebrows. "We've had people here swear they've seen the ghost of a pioneer woman. It's easy out in the woods. There are strange shadows, animals, and tonight it was pouring down rain, there was lightning. It doesn't mean you're crazy, just that—"
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