Minnie Crockwell - Will Travel for Trouble 01 - Trouble at Happy Trails

by Minnie Crockwell

  A figure emerged from the shadows just outside my RV.

  The porch light reflected Sally Richardson staggering past my rig on her way to who knows where. Her pink tunic was wet, appearing dark red. She held her hands up in front of her like Lady MacBeth.

  Ignoring my attire, I jumped down the last step and called out.

  “Sally! Sally! Are you all right?” I ran toward her.

  She turned to me, her mouth working but no sounds came out. She smelled heavily of copper and metal. The smell of blood! She had blood all over her hands and clothes!

  Please take care, Minerva. I fear she may have murdered her husband.

  TROUBLE AT HAPPY TRAILS

  Bess McBride

  Trouble at Happy Trails

  Copyright 2014 Minnie Crockwell

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the publisher and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover Art by Creative Book Covers

  Contact information: minniecrockwell@gmail.com

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to all my fellow travelers, and those who wish they could travel but can’t for whatever reason. I hope to see you on the road soon.

  Happy Trails!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Recreational Vehicles and the Terms We Love

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Hello, readers. It’s so nice to meet you!

  I’m Minnie Crockwell—single woman, traveler and amateur sleuth by accident. Please join me on my adventures as I travel across the United States in my recreational vehicle (RV). If my first adventure is anything to go by, I suspect I’ll be meeting all sorts of folks along the way ranging from the interesting to the weird, to fellow travelers and happy campers, and to liars and murderers.

  And say hello to my constant companion, Peregrine Ebenezer Alvord. I call him Ben. Ben travels with me though we haven’t quite figured out why. That he was born in the eighteenth century only adds to his charm.

  I’ll pen my cozy mysteries as I experience them along my travels, and I’ll keep them short and sweet for those of you who don’t have the time to read long stories. While I will do my best to make the stories stand alone, in order to prevent too much redundancy in back story, you might find it easier to read them in order. You’ll learn more about Ben and me as we travel.

  I hope you enjoy the ride, fellow travelers and friends. I never know where I’ll be on the road, but you can always reach me at minniecrockwell@gmail.com.

  Recreational Vehicles and the Terms We Love to Use

  Camper: Older term for any type of recreational vehicle. Most often refers to a trailer towed by a truck or a camper that is set in the bed of a truck. Can also simply refer to people who enjoy camping whether by tent or recreational vehicle

  Class A: A specific style of recreational vehicle that consists of one unit where the driving “cockpit” is at the front of the vehicle and living quarters behind to the rear.

  Coach: Another term for a Class A vehicle

  Cockpit: The front portion of a recreational vehicle housing the instrumentation where the driver sits while driving the vehicle.

  Motorhome: Can include any recreational vehicle that includes a motor and is driven versus being towed.

  Rig: In the RVing world, term used for recreational vehicle and/or trucks and vehicles used to haul them. Normally used by truck drivers to refer to their trucks.

  Recreational Vehicle: RV. Also can include the terms motorhome, coach, camper, rig, trailer. Also called a caravan by my friends across the ponds.

  Towed: Also known affectionately as a toad for the play on words. A vehicle that is towed behind a motorhome and is used for local, less expensive transportation.

  Trailer: Most often refers to a recreational vehicle that is pulled behind a truck.

  *Note: This list is not inclusive of all recreational vehicle terms and definitions but includes all those used in this book. Additional stories will include other terms.

  Chapter One

  I pulled into the campground slowly, never quite sure what dangers lurked in the form of poles, signs, small children, errant tree limbs and one-way roads.

  I paused for a moment and surveyed what would be my new domain for the next week or so. The office was clearly visible several hundred feet away, and marked helpfully with a sign which read “Office.” Always a good start to a campground stay!

  While no longer a complete novice driver of a 37-foot recreational vehicle, I didn’t allow myself to relax my vigilance either. I drew my eyebrows and surveyed the approach to the office. A hard sharp 30-degree angle turn came between me, my rig and the office.

  I pulled the wheel hard to the right, made the turn and rolled to a stop in front of the small one-story, nondescript beige building. Turning off the engine and setting the brake, I made my way to the door on the passenger side of the RV and clambered down the steps with a groan. Driving for 8 hours straight from the Oregon coast with only two rest stops was not the ideal RV traveling day, but I had been determined to reach my reserved spot at the Happy Trails RV Park in Spokane, Washington, before darkness set in.

  Maneuvering into a site, hauling out hoses and cords, and finding the appropriate hookups (and determining whether they were working or not) was not one of my favorite parts of living on the road in a tin can (albeit an expensive tin can). But one grew used to it, along with the perks of electricity and running water. It was not something I wanted to do in the dark…ever.

  I approached the office and jumped back as a middle-aged man, dressed in a snug T-shirt and form-fitting jeans, burst out of the office.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said. He saw me, muttered a “scuse me” and hurried off in the general direction of the RVs peacefully parked in uniform rows on a diagonal slant.

  “Hmmm,” I muttered under my breath. That wasn’t promising. Would I have trouble at this park?

  I pushed open the door with some hesitation. Was the staff member inside just as angry as the man who had left? What was that all about?

  A short, plump woman stood beh
ind the counter with her back to the door. From the looks of her shaking, hunched shoulders, she appeared to be crying. Apparently, she hadn’t heard me open the door.

  I cleared my throat loudly. In the past three months of traveling full time in my RV I can’t say that I had come across this situation before—a blubbering campground office attendant. Certainly, I had encountered abrupt, hasty, harried, tired, bored, ignorant and withdrawn attendants, but never one in tears. To be fair, the majority of RV park and campground attendants and hosts were helpful, friendly, welcoming and knowledgeable. It remained to be seen whether the short-haired blonde woman in a bright pink flowered tunic would be one of those.

  Who was the man? A disgruntled camper? Those were common. An unhappy husband? Those were just as common. Thank goodness I didn’t have one…or hadn’t had one for years.

  I cleared my throat again, and this time, she looked over her right shoulder and jumped. She wiped at her face and smiled tremulously, her hot pink-lipsticked mouth puckering at the corners.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. What could I do? I couldn’t just ignore the fact that she’d been sobbing only a few seconds ago and probably still would be if I hadn’t walked in.

  “Oh, sure,” she murmured, still dabbing at her face with the back of her hands. She approached the counter and looked up at me with reddened eyes which made her bright blue eyes that much brighter. She appeared to be in her early 60s.

  “You know how it is with husbands,” she said.

  “No, not really,” I said. “I gave the marriage thing a running start when I was in my early 20s, but I couldn’t go the distance.” What a hokey analogy! There was only one man I would have considered marrying now, in fact, wanted to marry, but John didn’t seem willing to give me another chance…at marriage. I pushed thoughts of my ex-husband aside for the moment. I still loved that man!

  “Well, Carl and I have been going the distance for about six years now, but he wants out.”

  Six years? Somehow, I thought they must have been married longer, given their ages. Again, what could I say to such an intimate revelation from a stranger?

  “I’m so sorry!” My immediate impression was that she was better off without him. However, I had learned over the years that my first impressions were almost always wrong. There was some comfort in being old enough to know that about myself. Turning 40 had been eye opening.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. She sniffed and visibly straightened her shoulders. “I’m so sorry you found me like this. Now, do you have a reservation?”

  “Yes, I do. Minerva Crockwell.”

  “Oh, yes, here you are. What a great old-fashioned name!”

  I smiled. I’d heard that before. “I was named after my grandmother, but I go by Minnie.”

  “Like the mouse,” the attendant smiled. When not grieving, she seemed to be a sweet woman.

  “Like Minerva,” I said with a grin. “I had enough teasing about Minnie Mouse when I was a kid.”

  “My name is Sally Richardson,” she said. “That was my husband, Carl. He does the maintenance around here.”

  She busied herself with paperwork, and I handed over my payment card at her request.

  “So, do you and your husband live here all year, or….” I let the words hang, hoping she would fill in the blanks.

  “No. The park is only open from April through the end of October. Winters get cold up here, not like on the west side of Washington State.”

  “I know the west side pretty well,” I said. “I sold my house there about three months ago and hit the road full time in my RV.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Are you working on the road? Or retired? You look too young to be retired.”

  I scrunched my nose. I always hated this question. I had retired young. People wondered if I was independently wealthy. Not a chance!

  “I am retired actually…from federal service. Early retirement doesn’t pay much, but I managed to put some money away over the years. Mostly by not traveling. So, now I’m making up for it.”

  Which explained why I hated the question “Are you retired?” It was a common question asked of most people who live and travel full time in their RVs. I felt some inexplicable need to over share and explain how I could afford to drive an oversized expensive rig around the country at a fairly young age when most other people were still slogging away in 9-5 jobs and dreaming of the life I now had. Plus I didn’t want anyone to think that federal service paid so well that everyone could afford to retire early. Hardly the case.

  Nope! Twenty plus years of savings, an early retirement, the sale of my small house with a modest profit, a good deal on an RV, and a little bit of help from Ben, my hunky ghost companion, was all I needed.

  As if she read my mind, Sally asked “Are you traveling alone?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  Oh, come now, Minerva! Why do you keep denying me? Muster the courage and simply tell the good woman that you are accompanied by the ghost of a fellow traveler, albeit a man of the eighteenth century.

  I ignored the voice of my constant companion. I had picked Ben up within the first month of my travels in the RV. Or rather, he had picked me up. I had gone to the nearby coast of western Washington to practice driving and living in the RV while waiting for my house to sell. One of my stops had been to the Lewis and Clark Interpretative Center at Cape Disappointment State Park, the western terminus for the Corps of Discovery’s mission to explore and map the American West.

  When I returned to my RV at the campground, Ben had somehow joined me. I could describe the fear, terror, anxiety, self-doubt, angst, annoyance, and concern for my sanity that Ben’s disembodied voice elicited, but suffice it to say I felt all the emotions a woman would normally feel when she hears the voice of a man in her house…and knows she is alone behind locked doors. I checked the radio. It was off. I opened the door to try to locate the voice outside. Loud neighbors? A loudspeaker announcing a tsunami warning? Something easier to deal with than an intangible voice? No luck.

  Madam, what is this conveyance and why have you brought me here?

  Those had been Ben’s first words to me.

  Peregrine Ebenezer Alvord.

  In a pained voice, he said I could call him Ben when I tried out “Perry” as a nickname. His slightly British accent was the least peculiar thing about him, but perhaps the one thing that kept me from going over the edge into complete insanity. I do so love a British accent.

  Yes, Miss Crockwell, I am British by birth but American by allegiance. I am an officer in the United States Army assigned to the Corps of Discovery mission under Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark.

  That was then.

  Now, I shrugged my shoulders and ignored Ben.

  “Well, that’s brave of you.” Sally’s face puckered. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if Carl leaves me. I can’t drive our RV. It’s too big for me.”

  I laid my hand on hers. “You’ll be fine. I know it seems scary to drive the big rigs, but if your husband does leave, you have choices. You can learn to drive it or sell it. But I can tell everything seems very hard right now.”

  Sally smiled sadly. “It does. Thank you for the pep talk. I’m so sorry you caught me like this.”

  I gathered up the park map and my receipt and put on my best reassuring smile.

  “You’re welcome, Sally. See you later.”

  Well done, Minerva! I believe your sympathy helped her.

  I stepped outside into the sunshine and dragged in a breath of air.

  “That’s hardly much help, is it, Ben? But there’s nothing I can do for her.”

  No. Sadly, I think not. Her husband seemed quite angry when he left. Perhaps he will calm down.

  “Maybe,” I said skeptically. “Let’s go find my site.”

  From the map, I deduce you must turn to the left, and your site will be located approximately halfway down the road.

  I climbed into the RV, still after all this time leaving the d
oor open as if Ben physically followed me in. Of course, he didn’t, but I just couldn’t slam the door right behind me for fear of hitting him.

  “How did you see the map? I kept it hidden just to tease you.”

  Please, madam. I am a navigator and a cartographer. Of course, I saw a map—the one located on the wall behind the sad woman.

  “Of course,” I said with a smile. I put the RV in gear and made the left turn, allowing Ben to guide me in. Not everyone had their own personal navigator, but I did. It was nice.

  I negotiated the RV into my spot without difficulty and got out to hook up electric and water. Only about 20 feet separated me from my neighbors on either side, one a huge diesel pusher that looked to be about 40 some feet long. They seemed to have been at the park for a while since they had three folding chairs out in front of their RV over an indoor/outdoor carpet and decorative lights hanging from their awning. The other RV on my left was a smaller travel trailer that looked quick and light to pull.

  I hadn’t yet gone so far as to advertise myself with bright twinkling lights though I did admire them from afar.

  Do not forget the flamingos.

  “Of course not,” I answered Ben. I hauled out my two pink plastic flamingos and positioned them prominently by the front door.

  “Where are you from?” came the inevitable question. I turned around. An older man had come from around the front of the diesel pusher to my right. He paused.

  “Oh, here and there. Washington lately. Yourself?” I asked. These sorts of conversations were unavoidable, and as antisocial as I could be at times, not always welcome. Today though I didn’t mind. Ben loved the conversations and often chatted with me about our neighbors. He, however, was able to see behind closed doors, though he didn’t often use that particular skill since eavesdropping and spying on people seemed to offend his sense of right and wrong. I usually had no compunction in asking him if he had seen anything interesting. In fact, I rather thought I might ask him to let me know what was going on behind the closed doors of Sally and Carl’s RV.