by JoAnna Carl
T-shirt. I closed my eyes and pictured Jeremy Mattox. His T-shirt had been a reddish orange, a rather odd color. And it had words across the front.
What did the T-shirt say?
Suddenly I remembered.
“Camp Sail-Along.”
Chapter 7
It was the distinctive red-orange color that tickled my memory and made me recall the words on the shirt.
Warner Pier is in summer camp country, of course. All around us are church camps, sports camps, math or science camps—like the one where Ken McNutt was teaching—and those camps where rich parents park their kids for the entire summer. Some of the camps are old, some new. But Camp Sail-Along’s shirt was recognizable because it wasn’t a standard red, blue, green, or yellow. It was that color sometimes called “bittersweet” or maybe “brick,” a bright rust that might be hard to find in an ordinary T-shirt catalog. On the shirt’s left front was a triangular logo that seemed to represent a sail. The name was centered under the logo.
Apparently Camp Sail-Along was a sailing camp. But it could be either a day camp or a residential camp.
What connection could Jeremy Mattox have had with Camp Sail-Along? Maybe none. The camp might have sold some leftover shirts at a garage sale, and he picked one up for a couple of bucks. Or he could have been a counselor there sometime. Or he could have had a girlfriend who was a counselor there. Or he could have been a camper there, once upon a time.
I decided to find out more about the camp. I called the secretary of the Warner Pier Chamber of Commerce, Zelda Gruppen. I had to begin by apologizing for bothering her on her afternoon off.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m just doing laundry. Any interruption is welcome. What can I do for you?”
“Do you know anything about Camp Sail-Along?”
“I know they got new ownership and dropped their chamber membership.”
“Dirty deal! Why’d they do that?”
“I only talked to one guy, and he was quite friendly, but he wasn’t very informative. I think his name was Jack. I’d have to look at the files to tell you any more.”
“Was Jack the new owner?”
“I couldn’t figure out if he was the owner or the manager or maybe the handyman. All I know is that I sent a statement for their annual dues, and I didn’t get a reply. So I phoned the old number. This Jack answered and said they weren’t going to join this year. He said it was going to be a ‘restructuring’ year.”
“Hmm. So they left the door open for future membership.” I mulled the situation over.
“Yeah,” Zelda said, “but I didn’t feel hopeful when I hung up. Why do you need to know?”
“It’s kind of complicated.” I made up my mind. “Do you have any membership material handy? I don’t want to send you back to the office, but I could make a membership call on them this afternoon.”
“Why? I mean, what’s the attraction?”
“I got curious about the camp. A membership call will give me an excuse to take a look at it. And maybe they’ll rejoin.”
“Good luck with that! And I think you’ll need it. I’ve got some brochures in my car, and you can have them. I’m not going to turn down an offer of a volunteer membership call.”
Thirty minutes later I had put on sandals, sage green slacks, and an ivory cotton sweater—dress-up business attire for Warner Pier—had picked up a dozen membership brochures from Zelda, and was headed for Camp Sail-Along.
I’d had to look up the address. It wasn’t inside the Warner Pier city limits, of course. It was a mile inland on a small body of water called Lake o’ the Winds. The entrance to the camp was off McIntosh Road and was marked by a dilapidated sign. I got a sinking feeling when I saw it. I had speculated that Jeremy Mattox might have picked up a shirt at a garage sale, and now I saw a notice attached to the main Camp Sail-Along sign. That notice said YARD SALE.
Oh, gee! My speculation had come true, and my trip was looking like a washout. But I didn’t turn back. I laughed at my lucky guess and drove on.
The driveway curved through a band of trees and came out on a sunny lawn. Eight or ten cabins were grouped around a larger building, a building with a broad porch. It was the classic summer camp layout: cabins used as bunkhouses and a central building for meals.
Only two other vehicles were in the parking lot—a rattletrap pickup and a subcompact. This yard sale was following the typical pattern of such events—the serious shoppers had come early. By late afternoon, the sale was dragging to a close.
The yard sale was set up on the porch of the main building. A guy in white was standing behind the table, apparently running the sale, and I could see that he was in trouble. The woman across from him was Lovie Dykstra.
Lovie was a well-known Warner Pier character. She had a special liking for me because—long ago—my mother was engaged to her younger son. When the son died, my mom left town and wound up in Dallas, where she married a long, tall Texan who became my dad. But Lovie says I was almost her granddaughter, and no matter how far-fetched her idea is, she treats me like a relative.
Her personal troubles drove Lovie out of her original career—teaching—and today Lovie is a secondhand dealer. She still has unruly gray hair, but a year and a half ago Lovie’s life took a turn for the better, and today she’s known as a town character, rather than the town crazy woman.
Lovie will buy or sell anything. And she drives a hard bargain.
I took pity on the camp representative and walked toward the porch. I surmised that he’d had a long, lonely day. He had a radio to keep him company. It was tuned to a fifties station.
As I approached, I heard Lovie’s raspy voice. “I’ll take everything that’s left, take it right off your hands.”
I looked at the items left on the table. If I’d been the short guy, I’d have snapped up twenty-five dollars. The things left looked like junk to me. Towels were stacked neatly, but the top one was stained, and they all had frayed edges. A box of silverware was beside them, and all the forks seemed to have bent tines. Ragged blankets, some rusty skillets, a box of leather scraps, odd lengths of rope, and, yes, a dozen or so T-shirts in a bright rust color were also on the table. A cardboard card propped against the tees read, “$1.”
Thin, worn mattresses were piled at the end of the porch, and pillows were heaped on a second table.
Lovie was facing the table with hands on hips. The man in white laughed. He was on the short side, but he had unusually broad shoulders, medium brown hair, and a flirty mustache. “I couldn’t possibly sell you all this stuff for twenty-five,” he said. “It’s worth several hundred at least.”
“To the right person, maybe,” Lovie said. “But you don’t want to stand around here until the right person comes along. You want to move it, right? Think of the time my offer will save you! Time’s money.”
“My time’s not worth much. Give me two hundred and fifty, and I’ll think about it.”
Lovie rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly! What are you going to get for those mattresses? Nothing. They’ll go for scrap, but nobody will show up at a yard sale to take them.”
Lovie had a point. I smiled at the man, and he smiled back. In fact, I got the whole treatment—every tooth in his head. Then I spoke. “Hi, Lovie.”
She turned toward me and beamed. “Lee! Honey!” We hugged each other. “Now, Lee,” she said, “you tell this fellow that I know my business.”
“That’s for darn tootin’, Lovie. But I’m staying out of this. I’ll just see what size these T-shirts are.”
I dug through the stack of bittersweet-colored tees, looking for one the size of somebody I knew. Lovie and the camp man haggled. She raised her bid to fifty dollars, but they hadn’t reached a deal when Lovie walked off and got into her beat-up truck.
She leaned out the window and hollered at me before she drove away. “Come see me, Lee! You and Joe!”
I waved at her, then grinned at the Camp Sail-Along man. “You accomplished something today.
You met one of Warner Pier’s real characters.”
“Oh, I met her yesterday. She checked us out early. Offered me one fifty for everything on sale before we opened. I probably would have been smart to accept.”
“She drives a hard bargain.” I held out a child-sized shirt. It ought to fit some kid I knew. “I’ll take this. And I’ll introduce myself. I’m Lee Woodyard, and I’m here representing the Warner Pier Chamber of Commerce.”
The man looked me up and down, deadpan. He seemed to be considering just how to react to me. Finally he smiled. “Didn’t you call earlier?”
“I think our manager did. That’s Zelda Gruppen. Zelda is a staff member. I’m on the board.” I stuck out my hand in shaking position.
The man touched my hand with his fingers in one of those obnoxious, halfhearted gestures that mimic shaking hands. “I’m Jack McGrath. I’m the manager of Camp Sail-Along.”
“Zelda said you called this a ‘restructuring’ year, Jack.”
“We’re not going to offer any camp sessions this year.” His mustache took on a rakish tilt as he smiled, and he wiggled his eyebrows. He looked as if he were doing a Groucho Marx impression. “I can’t even offer you a boat ride. But I could show you around.”
“I’d love a tour, but I don’t want to take you away from your sale.”
Jack McGrath shrugged. “I don’t expect much more business.”
At first look, Camp Sail-Along appeared deserted and neglected. Dead leaves had blown into piles on the porches. The windows of the small cabins—the bunkhouses—still wore their winter shutters, and their doors were padlocked. The shutters from the main building had been taken off, but they hadn’t been stored. They leaned against the side of the building in drunken heaps.
All the buildings needed paint, and the grass hadn’t been mowed, but there were lovely trees, and I could see a long dock extending out into the lake. Camp Sail-Along had the potential to be a very nice spot.
“There’s a lot of potential here,” I said. “You have a lovely view. And the cabins look as if they’d be comfortable.”
“They could be.”
“What activities do you plan to offer?”
“We’re not quite sure yet. And I’m afraid we’re not ready to join the local chamber.”
“We’ll be here when you are ready. Let me give you one of our brochures.”
I gave him a brochure and a membership application, talking all the time about the wonderfulness of Warner Pier and the chamber of commerce. I really am on the board, so that was easy.
Jack McGrath took the brochure and continued to look at me with an expression that was becoming a leer. When he offered to continue our tour, I accepted with pleasure, since I wanted a chance to ask him about Jeremy Mattox, but his insinuating smile was making me feel as if I should take my tire iron with me in case I needed to discourage him emphatically.
McGrath kept smiling excessively as he showed me around. The central building, as I’d guessed, had a kitchen designed to serve up sloppy joes and hot dogs. It was shabby and out of date. TenHuis Chocolade has to deal with the health department, so I’m familiar with their requirements, and I spotted four things they wouldn’t approve. The dining room was filled with ramshackle chairs and tables. The building had been swept—sometime that summer—but it wasn’t clean.
Only one room, one that might have been designed as an office, was in use. McGrath opened the door and leered at me. “My humble abode,” he said.
I could see a couple of cots inside, both with sleeping bags on them. One bag was neatly rolled; the other was scrambled as if Jack McGrath had just gotten out of it. The only storage was two footlockers. One was closed, and the other was open, with its contents spewing out.
I didn’t go inside the room. “If you’re having trouble finding contractors, Mr. McGrath, the chamber of commerce might be able to help you.”
“Oh?” His answer was noncommittal.
“We have a list of members with an explanation of the services they offer.”
Still no response. I headed for the porch, and McGrath followed me outside. He pointed out the badminton court—no net—and the swimming beach—no nothing. The big storage building, he said, held a dozen small boats.
“What kind of boats do you have?”
McGrath gave an expansive wave, taking in all of Lake o’ the Winds. “For the advanced sailors, we have access to the Warner River,” he said. “And, of course, that leads to the big lake.”
He hadn’t answered my question about the small boats. Hmm.
McGrath unlocked the padlock on one of the small cabins and showed me the inside. It was a shambles of rusty springs and mouse-nibbled bedding. The only light came from the door he had opened. If the cabins had electricity, it wasn’t turned on. The sides were screened, so the cabins could be opened to the outside air when they were in use, but at that moment shutters completely covered the screens. The cabin was dark and musty. I looked in the door and backed away.
McGrath offered to continue the tour, but I declined. I certainly didn’t want to see eight more dirty, ramshackle cabins, and I even passed up a peek at the shower house. There was only one. Apparently the camp had been planned for single-sex sessions.
So as McGrath relocked the cabin’s padlock, I turned and strolled toward the van. “I certainly appreciate your taking the time to show me around.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Lee.” He twisted his lip once more, making his mustache wriggle.
It was time for the question I’d come to ask. I tried to sound innocent. “Was this the camp where Jeremy Mattox worked?”
McGrath frowned. “Jeremy who?”
“Mattox.”
He paused for at least thirty seconds before he went on. “I don’t know. I haven’t had any other employees this summer, and I wasn’t here last year.”
McGrath folded his arms and leaned against the van. His shoulders drooped. He was the picture of discouragement.
“In fact, as you may have guessed, this whole project has turned into a flop.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jack.”
“I’m sorry to say it. Actually, my uncle is a retired coach, and he bought the place, then hired me to run it. But he’s undercapitalized.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m a coach myself. I thought this would be a great summer job—maybe turn into a full-time deal. But the place is far too run-down to open without a major renovation, and my uncle just doesn’t have the money to update. And he can’t get a loan, on top of the mortgage on the property.”
“Oh, gee! Jack, I sympathize completely. When I came to Warner Pier four years ago to work for my aunt at TenHuis Chocolade, I faced the same situation, in a way.”
He grinned. “You look prosperous now.”
“We’re doing better. But for the first two years I lived with my aunt, taking room and board as part of my pay—”
“Same deal with me.”
“And my aunt and I both took big salary cuts. Luckily, her plant didn’t need an upgrade, but she’d let her deliveries get unreliable, so her business was going downhill fast. It took a lot of work to get the business back on track.”
I smiled. “And now I’ll make another pitch for the chamber of commerce. We can refer you or your uncle to people who can help. No, we can’t give you a loan, but we can put you in touch with groups who help with operations, or with accounting practices. This could make a difference.”
Jack nodded glumly. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. I think my uncle is just going to put the property on the market.”
“Everything on the water is valuable around here.”
“Probably not valuable enough to pay off his mortgage.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Thanks for showing me around. I appreciate your sharing your time.”
“Time’s all I’ve got.” McGrath yawned. “I think the sale’s over. I may take a nap. Bed sounds good.”
“Yes, it does. It�
��s such a lazy afternoon, I could join you.”
It wasn’t until McGrath’s eyes widened that I realized what I had said.
“I mean . . . a nip sounds good. I mean a nap! I mean, it’s a lazy afternoon but I’d better go back to work.”
I yanked the van’s door open and leaped inside.
McGrath was right beside the van’s window, grinning. “All I can offer you is a beer,” he said. “But it’s cold.”
“No, I’ve got to get out of here. I mean, I need to get home.”
McGrath extended his hand in a way that made it hard to refuse. I shook it. He didn’t let go. None of that namby-pamby touch of the fingers he’d offered the first time we shook hands. This time I got the full-fledged, strong-guy, macho handshake.
It was almost painful. His palm had rough calluses, for one thing. I pulled my hand away, but it wasn’t easy.
“My husband repairs and restores wooden boats,” I said. “He’ll be interested if you decide to sell your equipment.”
“Your husband? I was hoping you were single.”
“No. I’m married.”
I was still getting the eye contact and the frisky mustache. I kept smiling as I started the motor and backed up. Jack McGrath stepped out of the way so I wouldn’t run over his foot. We gave each other friendly waves as I drove off.
I’m used to saying the wrong thing, but I’d really done it that time. I could only hope that I never saw Jack McGrath again as long as I lived.
“Stupid,” I said aloud. How could I have made one mistake after another?
All I’d done that afternoon was embarrass myself. I had learned nothing about Jeremy Mattox. He remained a mystery man, and not just because he failed to come up from a surface dive. I still wanted to know whether Jill had deliberately sought Joe and me out when Jeremy disappeared.
But Jill had made it clear she didn’t want to talk to me.
Maybe Maggie could help me quiz her. Or maybe Maggie knew some other friends of Jeremy’s. I needed to find out.
Chapter 8
I tried Maggie’s cell phone, but it was turned off. So I headed for her house, all excited about a new line of questioning. It was something of a letdown when I found out she wasn’t home.