Fear of Frying jj-9

by Jill Churchill

  “It was a body," Shelley said firmly. "If Sam Claypool's not dead, where is he?"

  “I just sent my deputy to their cabin. We'll know in a minute or two.”

  Nine

  "well, he is missing," the deputy reported to the sheriff a few minutes later.

  Jane and Shelley had dragged their bedspreads off the beds, and were huddled in them by the doorway where they were eavesdropping.

  “See!" Shelley exclaimed.

  Sheriff Taylor glared at her and turned back to the deputy. "When did he go missing?"

  “His wife says" — the deputy consulted his notes—"that he said he wanted to just sit by the fire for a bit and told her to go on back to the cabin. She walked back with her brother-in-law and his wife and went to bed to read. Fell asleep and didn't even realize he still hadn't come back until I wakened her. Now she's in a panic."

  “The couple in the cabin across from her are her in-laws. Better send them to her," Taylor said. "Keep her as calm as possible until we have this sorted out."

  “That's it," Jane said to Shelley. "I'm giving up and getting dressed. We're not going to get any sleep.”

  Taylor overheard this. "Good idea. I'd like all you people in the lodge. My deputy will escort you down there when you're ready. Don't come outside unless he's here. Don't roam around anyplace on your own.”

  Jane closed the door, muttering, "Can we possibly look as stupid as he seems to think we are?”

  Shelley looked at Jane, then down at herself. Both were clad in several layers of nightwear topped with matching bedspreads.

  “Yes," she said.

  They put on clean, dry clothes, but had to don the wet, muddy ponchos. The deputy — who turned out to be named Reedy, which was a serious disappointment to Jane, who wanted him to be called Fife — was waiting for them. The rain had again let up a little bit, but they hurried along as quickly as possible anyway for fear it would start up again. And it did, just as they reached the lodge. There were several unfamiliar cars parked in front, plus an ambulance, but no sign of the people who went with the vehicles.

  Inside, most of the rest of the guests and staff, plus the ambulance driver and another police officer, were milling around. Allison wasn't in sight, but Benson, Edna, and one of the boys who had helped with dinner and entertainment had thrown together hot cocoa, coffee, and an assortment of doughnuts, apparently on the premise that a crisis always went better if there was plenty of food around. John Claypool was moving the sofas away from the fireplace and setting up rockers from the porch to hang clammy ponchos over to dry. He looked like a man who wanted to find something to do to keep his mind occupied.

  Jane handed her poncho and Shelley's to him, and he arranged them neatly over the back of a chair. "You ladies found him, didn't you?"

  “Yes, we did," Jane said.

  “I should have gone back sooner," John said. "I told Eileen he'd stayed behind and I was concerned that he was worried about something."

  “You went back to the campsite?”

  John nodded and adjusted a few folds of fabric as if it were very important. "Went up there to see if he wanted to talk, but I didn't see him."

  “And you didn't look around?" Jane asked.

  John shrugged. "No reason to. He was sitting by the fire when we left. When I got back, he wasn't. I didn't have any reason to hunt for him. I just figured he'd gotten tired of sitting out there in the rain."

  “Then what?"

  “Huh? Oh, the rain was letting up, so I strolled on down here to the lodge and looked in the windows to see if he'd come here. Place was mostly dark, though, except for some light under the kitchen door, so I went on back to our cabin. I'm surprised I didn't run into you two ladies somewhere along the line. You sure he was dead? You couldn't be mistaken, could you?”

  Jane shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I'm sure. Is Eileen with Marge?”

  He nodded. "They aren't much alike, but they do get on pretty well. Poor ol' Marge. I don't know what she'll do without Sam. It's going to be tough on all of us.”

  Jane mumbled her regrets and, not knowing what else she could say to a grieving brother, went to join Shelley, who was picking over the doughnuts. "You might be interested to know that John Claypool was out roaming around in the rain this evening after we left the campsite," Jane said in a low voice. She repeated what John had said.

  “So was Al Flowers. Maybe," Shelley whispered back.

  “What do you mean by 'maybe'?"

  “He was telling me he went out to their car to get something he'd forgotten to bring in. Said he'd bought an audiotape, some kind of music Liz hates and wouldn't let him play on the drive up. So he sat out in the car and listened to it by himself. Had the engine running and the heater on and said it was warmer and drier than the cabin."

  “Did he see anyone suspicious?"

  “He says he was listening with his eyes closed and fell asleep."

  “It's probably true," Jane said. "But it is an odd thing to do on a cold, rainy night, isn't it?" She thought for a minute. "I wouldn't want to think badly of him. I like him a lot."

  “Me, too. Jane, should we be telling the sheriff these things about John and Al?"

  “I don't know. They'll probably tell him themselves. John didn't indicate that it was a secret anyway.”

  Shelley nodded. "No, neither did Al. Jane, why would anybody move a body? Especially a body that had already been seen by others."

  “Maybe he didn't know we'd seen it," Jane said, choosing a doughnut with chocolate icing. She wasn't really hungry, just needed the comfort of chocolate.

  They took their coffee cups and plates into the dining room, which was darkened. Nobody could overhear them there.

  “He?" Shelley asked.

  “Well, I suppose it could have been a woman. Sam Claypool wasn't a very big man, and I guess a strong woman could have moved him."

  “But what I can't get my mind around is why anybody would move him," Shelley said. "Look at it from the killer's point of view. Sam stays back after the rest have gone. The killer creeps up on him, smacks him with the frying pan—"

  “No, wait. He probably wasn't still sitting by the fire," Jane said. "If he had been, we'd have found him there. Or John Claypool would have when he went back."

  “Right. Okay," Shelley said. "So the killer picks up the frying pan— No, that won't work either. If I were sitting out in the woods alone and somebody came along and picked up a heavy frying pan, I wouldn't stick around to see what they had in mind."

  “Maybe the frying pan came later," Jane suggested. "We don't know what other injuries Sam might have had. We didn't turn him over or anything. How about this? The killer lures Sam away from the campfire and into the complete darkness beyond it. Maybe stabs him or knocks him out. Then, for good measure, to make certain he's dead, gets the frying pan and smacks him."

  “Okay, but now comes the problem," Shelley said. "If the killer wants to conceal the murder, why not take the body away right then?"

  “He — or she — heard us coming? We weren't trying to be quiet."

  “Possibly, but if he'd slipped back into the woods and watched us, why bother to hide the body afterward? We'd already seen it."

  “But did we?" Jane asked. "Nobody seemed to believe us until they discovered that Sam was missing. Remember all that stuff the sheriff said about shadows and leaves and stuff?"

  “That's the point, though. Even if they thought we were highly imaginative nutcases, Sam Claypool is missing. And if the murderer saw us discover the body, he wouldn't know that people weren't going to believe us. Unless the body disappeared, which it did.”

  Jane ate a bite of her doughnut, washing it down with some coffee. "And with all the rain, I'd guess any evidence of the murder and the removal of the body has been washed away."

  “I hadn't thought of that. Yes, you're probably right."

  “I did hear voices," Bob Rycraft said from the doorway. "I thought I was imagining it. What are you two doing in
here?"

  “Just talking," Shelley said. "Join us if you'd like."

  “Thanks. I will. It's kind of a madhouse in the lobby. This is awful, isn't it? Do you think it was that weird guy who did it?"

  “Lucky Smith? Maybe," Shelley said. "I hope so.”

  Rycraft looked at her oddly. "Why is that?”

  “Because if it wasn't him, it was likely one of us," Shelley replied bluntly.

  Bob Rycraft put his hand over his mouth for a second, a strangely childish gesture. "No! I see what you mean, but it couldn't be one of us! It had to be him — or one of his followers."

  “You're probably right," Shelley said, sounding tired.

  Jane saw some light from the dining room windows. She got up to look. Several figures were in the wooded area behind the lodge. They were apparently examining the ground with flashlights, moving slowly toward the path that led down to the lake. Looking for the body of Sam Claypool. A strange place to be looking, she thought. She and Shelley had seen the body at the other end of the property. Perhaps another group was searching that area, or maybe they'd already finished searching and were widening their area in desperation.

  Poor Marge, she thought. To get word that her husband had not only died, but was missing besides. There was something doubly gruesome about someone hauling around a dead body.

  She rejoined Shelley and Bob at the table.

  “Bob said he went jogging after dinner," Shelley told her.

  “In the rain?" Jane asked. "How miserable!”

  “That's what your friend Mrs. Nowack said," he replied. "But if you're a serious jogger, you have to get your miles in whether it's convenient or not. I've gotten so dependent on it that I can't get to sleep at night unless I've done a couple miles first."

  “Did you see anyone?" Jane asked.

  “Nope. Not really. The Flowerses' car was running, though. No lights on, but the engine was running. I wondered why, but it was none of my business. Mr. Flowers told me he was listening to a tape."

  “Have you told the sheriff's people that?"

  “No, nobody's talked to me. They're all busy trying to find the — Mr. Claypool.”

  Jane felt a sudden and irrational flash of irritation. What was all this Mr. This and Mrs. That with him? Was he trying to make them feel old and frumpy or did he really think of everybody that way? Get a grip, she told herself harshly. He is young and very polite. That's all.

  “I wonder how long they'll keep us all here," she asked.

  “I overheard some talk between Mr. Titus and one of the sheriff's men about possibly setting up cots for us here in the lodge," Bob said. He said this cheerfully, as if he really thought an adult sleep-over would be great fun. Jane wanted to smack him silly.

  Shelley put her head down on the table melodramatically and said, "Oh, no! I want to go to bed in a real bed! I'm so tired!”

  Jane patted her friend's outstretched arm. "Well, if we have to sleep here, we're bagging spots next to the fireplace. Come on. Let's stake out our territory before someone else thinks of it."

  “Good thought," Bob said.

  They went back out into the lobby, which seemed like Grand Central Station after the quiet of the deserted dining room. John Claypool was pacing. Benson was messing about with the coffee urn. Allison had joined the group, and Edna was fussing at her to go back to bed, that there was nothing Allison could do to help and needed her rest. Liz Flowers was compulsively tidying the magazines set out around the room, putting all the National Geographics in one pile and wildlife magazines in another. Al Flowers was reading an old newspaper Liz had apparently unearthed. Jane had grown so irritable that the rustling of it made her want to snatch it away, wad it up, and throw it in the fire.

  “I'm losing it," she muttered to herself.

  She and Shelley fought their way through the barricade of drying ponchos John had constructed and discovered the two ambulance attendants hogging the fire.

  “Do you mind?" Shelley said in her haughtiest voice. They fled like frightened children.

  They sunk into the sofas. A moment later, they heard the front door open and Eileen's loud, excited voice exclaiming, "They've found him!”

  Jane and Shelley got to their feet and were peering over the curtain of ponchos as Eileen, grinning, flung the door wide open, and made a gesture like an emcee introducing a guest. Marge and one of the sheriff's men came in the door with Sam Claypool between them. He was soaking wet and covered with mud, but standing upright, and smiling tentatively, as if confused by all the hubbub.

  He showed no signs of any injury whatsoever.

  Ten

  Jane and Shelley walked back to their cabin in stunned silence. It was raining bucket-sized drops and they didn't even notice. Nobody accompanied them. Everyone had pretended to ignore them when they left the lodge. Jane unlocked the cabin door and they poured themselves inside, dripping rivers. Still in silence, they undressed and got into their beds.

  Shelley flipped the light off, made a huffing noise, and thrashed around in her covers. Finally Jane said, "Shelley?"

  “I can't talk about this, Jane. I can't even think about it. We're both very tired. It's all a figment of our imaginations because of sleep deprivation. Or maybe we are asleep and this is all a dream."

  “Yours or mine," Jane said wryly.

  “Both, Jane. It could happen. It is happening.”

  “He was dead," Jane said.

  “Of course he was dead," Shelley said angrily. "Absolutely, positively dead. Then a few hours later he was absolutely, positively alive. And in a rational world, which I still steadfastly believe this is, that's impossible. Therefore, we are dreaming. I'm going to sleep now. More asleep than I already am. And in the morning, this won't have really happened."

  “But, Shelley—”

  Shelley faked a loud, vulgar snore.

  “Did you notice how nobody would look at us?" Shelley snored again. Jane gave up.

  Jane woke to the sound of the shower running and the smell of coffee. At first she didn't remember the evening before, then it all hit her. Shelley came out of the bathroom, scowling. She was still mad, but not hysterically mad. When Jane had showered and dressed, Shelley was almost calm.

  “I've decided it was a trick," Shelley said. "A trick? On us?"

  “No, we were just the patsies who went along with it and helped it work."

  “So who was being tricked?" Jane asked.

  “I don't know. Somebody in the Claypool family, probably. Maybe Sam wanted to see what Marge would do or say if she thought he were dead. Or maybe it was aimed at his brother. Possibly they were in it together. I don't know. But I'm sure as hell going to find out. I don't like being made a fool of."

  “Then maybe you better keep this theory to yourself," Jane said, smiling in an attempt to keep the sting out of the remark.

  “Why?"

  “Because it's got more holes than a drawerful of my panty hose. For one thing, if it were a trick, it absolutely depended on someone seeing the body lying in the rain. That happened to be us, but only because I lost my watch. Nobody stole it, Shelley. It just has a clasp that comes undone every once in a while, and not even you knew that. Sam Claypool couldn't have known I'd come back to look for it. Nobody could have known that."

  “You said John Claypool admitted going back."

  “Yes, but he didn't see the body, he says. He was looking for his brother to be upright, alive, and sitting by the fire. He wasn't scouring every inch of the ground with a flashlight like we were. And nobody could have been expected to do that. Besides—"

  “Besides what?" Shelley snapped, working up a temper again.

  “He was dead, that's what.”

  Shelley made a whooshing sound like a balloon deflating. "I know."

  “He really was, wasn't he? Is there any way in the world we could have been wrong about that? We — didn't take his pulse or anything."

  “Jane, you know the answer to that. He was dead. His lips were blue. His ey
es were wide open. Nobody could fake that with rain falling in their face."

  “Maybe he was unconscious. Can you have your eyes stay open then?"

  “I don't think so. Anyway, his head was caved in at the temple. And there was blood everywhere. Although it's all washed away by now."

  “There might still be traces of blood in the ground. Or underneath leaves," Jane said. "Forensic people can tell stuff like that."

  “But why would they bother?" Shelley asked.