Survive or Die

by Catherine Dilts

  Aubrey’s mind raced, trying to catch up with Sotheara’s revelation.

  “I’m not the one embezelling money,” Shirley said. “Not from that account. I don’t know anything about toxic waste. If you know who’s taking that money, let me know so I can get that muscle-bound twerp Doug Bender off my back.”

  “Maybe you’re telling the truth about the money,” Sotheara said. “But Shirley, you have Stewart’s bag. Explain that.”

  “When Althea drove Nel home,” Shirley said, “and everyone cleared out, I saw the bag on their bed. In all the confusion, it was easy to grab. Those cameras are worth a lot of money.”

  “You don’t even realize the trouble you’re in.” Aubrey shook her head.

  “I’ll give it to Nel,” Shirley said. “No one has to know. Unless you four want to be hard asses about it.”

  “We have reason to believe Stewart was murdered.” Aubrey pointed at the bag in Sotheara’s hand. “That camera bag is the key to finding the killer.”

  Shirley’s face went white. Aubrey anticipated a sidewalk confession, but Shirley pressed her lips tight, keeping any secrets inside.

  “Everyone knew Stewart kept his epinephrine injector in the bag,” Aubrey continued.

  Shirley shook her head vigorously. “There was no injector in that bag.”

  “Then who removed it? The same person who planted the jar of bees in the room.”

  “Bees?” Shirley frowned.

  “What about the accidents?” Madison asked. “Harv’s ATV wreck. Bender falling in a pit. Jessie’s concussion.”

  Aubrey shook a finger at Shirley. “You and Shawn threw rocks at us during the scavenger hunt!”

  “Wait a minute.” Shirley held her hands out like a traffic cop. “I knew Rowdy and his wranglers would laugh at our wild salad. We were just trying to get you ladies to drop Berdie’s fish since we didn’t catch one. We weren’t trying to hurt anyone.”

  “I’ve got the bruises that say otherwise,” Madison said. “You sent Jessie to the hospital.”

  “She wasn’t anywhere near. I don’t know who beaned Jessie, but it wasn’t us. All that other stuff either.” Shirley placed her hands on her hips and leaned toward Aubrey. “If somebody killed Stewart, I’d be looking at the people with the guns, like Squirrel Boy and Rankin.”

  Grant had been quiet, but when Shirley paused to inhale, he muttered, “What kind of people do I work with?”

  “They call you the Boy Scout behind your back,” Shirley told him. “Nobody lets you in on the dirty secrets at Bender Clips. You’re as dangerous as an honest politician.”

  “Back to the point, Shirley,” Aubrey said. “Stewart wasn’t shot. He died of a bee sting. He kept his epinephrine injector in his camera bag. And you have the bag.”

  “I’ll admit to being a thief, but I’m not a murderer.”

  Sotheara might have been safer staying out of things, remaining invisible, but what if it was all connected? Stewart’s death, Operation Clean Sweep, the bats and the accidents? She pulled on a pair of water sampling gloves, and tugged the camera bag zipper.

  “Sotheara,” Grant said, “you’re tampering with evidence.”

  “I told you,” Shirley said. “Boy Scout.”

  “I just want to see what’s inside before Shirley gives this to the police,” Sotheara said. “Her fingerprints are already on everything. Mine won’t be.”

  “Police?” Shirley squeaked.

  “Stewart took photos with both the digital and film camera,” Aubrey said. “I heard him call it planned redundancy. What’s on one will be on the other.”

  Shirley snorted. “Too bad he didn’t apply that philosophy to his epinephrine pen.” She cringed at the judgemental glares the Sommers and Madison shot her way. “What?”

  Grant shook his head, looking disappointed.

  The ease with which Sotheara developed a scheme was not her usual style, but the cameras might contain evidence of environmental depredation. She had to act fast. “If we take the photos off one camera, the police will still have what they need on the other.”

  Grant opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Aubrey spoke before he could get a word out.

  “Is there film in the Nikon?” Aubrey asked. “It’ll look more suspicious if the digital camera is missing its memory card than if a film camera is unloaded.”

  “I’ve never used an old-fashioned camera.” Sotheara began to press a button. “How do you tell?”

  “Ahh!” Aubrey grabbed Sothera’s wrist. “You’ll expose the film!”

  Aubrey instructed her on the proper removal of the film, while Grant stood to one side, looking terribly uncomfortable. When they entered the police station, the four women and Grant drew the attention of every person in the building. All three of them. No big city crime in Lodgepole, apparently.

  “May I help you?” The young woman at the front desk wore a volunteer nametag.

  “Is it always this quiet?” Shirley scanned the room, no doubt scoping out an escape route.

  “Most everyone is at the bat rally.”

  “We’d like to speak to an officer about the man who died at Survive or Die camp,” Grant said.

  “We think he was murdered,” Aubrey added.

  The young woman ushered the group past the desk and into a room decorated with a mule deer head. It figured. More dead animals. Sotheara shuddered. Wooden shelves displayed skeet shooting trophies and law enforcement books.

  They didn’t have to wait long. Police Chief Darryl Boyd entered. He looked the right age to have seen action in the first Iraq war, his salt and pepper hair standing at attention in a military buzz cut. The first two buttons on his uniform shirt were unfastened, probably because the police station wasn’t air-conditioned. Sotheara had already begun to sweat, and the intimidating Chief Boyd hadn’t even gotten past introductions to actual questioning. He mentioned remembering Aubrey and Grant from his return trip to Survive or Die camp to investigate Aubrey’s crazy death by bee theory.

  “What brings you here today?” he asked.

  They had agreed to leave out Shirley’s litany of crimes. She spun a yarn about not realizing her plan to return Stewart’s camera bag to Nel had disturbed potential evidence. She sincerely hoped that hadn’t put her in any trouble with the authorities.

  “This is the bag that Stewart always carried around,” Aubrey explained. “He kept an epinephrine injector in it. Someone removed the injector, and left the jar of bees—”

  “Even if Mr. Neamly was murdered,” Chief Boyd said, shaking his head, “this camera bag is useless as evidence now. If the killer was stupid enough to leave fingerprints on the bag, it’s been handled now by Ms. Shirley, and who knows who else. There’s no provenance. It’s been dragged all over Survive or Die camp and Lodgepole. And how do I know one of you hasn’t tampered with it? Maybe planted your own evidence to point guilt at someone else?”

  Chief Boyd did express enough interest to take names and phone numbers. He kept the bag, too. Which made Sotheara both nervous and glad she had taken the film.

  “Before you go,” Chief Boyd said, “I don’t suppose in all this ‘investigating’ you’ve discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Dudley?”

  “Who?” Aubrey, Grant and Madison asked simultaneously.

  “The fella that works with you.” Chief Boyd focused on Sotheara. “We ran the plates. That’s his car in the parking lot.”

  “That’s strange.” Sotheara thought of the lone shoe. “What happened to him?”

  “His ex-wife would like to know. The guy’s late making his alimony payment.”

  “Maybe he decided to cut out,” Grant said. “He saw an opportunity to disappear.”

  “Grant, people don’t do that in real life.” Aubrey frowned at her husband, then turned to Chief Boyd. “Do they?”

  “It’s been kn
own to happen. Let me know if you hear anything about Mr. Dudley.” Chief Boyd pointed at Aubrey. “But don’t think this is an excuse for more snooping.”

  Sotheara couldn’t relax until they were back outside. Drizzling rain pooled on the sidewalk.

  “Okay, I turned it in,” Shirley said. “You agreed to keep quiet about this.”

  Grant nodded. “And you’re going to forget about the roll of film.”

  Shirley brushed her palms together. “I wash my hands of the whole deal.”

  As Shirley strolled away, Grant glanced at his watch.

  “I wish we hadn’t checked out—oof!”

  Aubrey elbowed him in the ribs. “Look! We’re not too late for the museum tour.”

  Sotheara wondered what that was about. Everyone in camp had some sort of secret. Even the Boy Scout.

  “We should drop off the film to be developed first.” Madison glanced from Aubrey to Grant, then Sotheara. “That was the plan, right? Stealing evidence from Stewart’s bag will be pointless if we don’t do something with it.”

  “Quiet,” Sotheara whispered. “Here comes Bender.”

  Playing pool with Benders Defenders had earned Jeremiah a spot in their entourage. He followed Jack through Lodgepole, like he was following the alpha male in a wolf pack. Some alpha. Liquor had made Jack Bender wobbly and loud.

  They passed a cluster of employees huddled on the sidewalk. Jeremiah tipped his hat at Madison, but her attention was on her teammates. He caught a few words before Sotheara hushed them up. Candace glanced their way, then grabbed Jack as he veered toward the gutter.

  When they neared the museum, Bender stopped in front of Olde Tyme Photography. He studied the window display of tourists dressed as saloon girls and stagecoach robbers.

  “I want a picture.”

  Soon, they were all trying on costumes. Jeremiah didn’t need to play dress-up. His gear was more authentic than the stuff in the studio. Besides, he didn’t want to spend his money on a photograph. Every activity with Jack Bender was Dutch treat, pay your own way. Jeremiah was saving every penny to pay off his property in the mountains.

  Doug Bender held toy six-shooters. A bandana bunched around his neck. Jack pinned a sheriff’s star to a vest and pulled on a cowboy hat. Nigel dressed as a gold assayer, while his wife wore a dress made of crinkly black fabric, with a full skirt, high collar and long sleeves.

  When Candace stepped out of a changing room, every male eye was on her. The costume was most likely underwear in its day, the black and red satin trimmed with ribbons and lace. She would have earned top dollar in a mining town brothel. The floozie costume pinched in her already tiny waist, emphasizing assets both north and south.

  “I’m ready.”

  She tried to hook her arm through Bender’s. He shied away.

  “I can’t have my picture taken with you,” Jack said. “You’re dressed like a hooker.”

  Irena played peacemaker while Candace’s face flushed bright red with anger or embarrassment, or maybe both.

  “I want a photo of everyone,” Irena said. “Including Candace. Don’t worry, Mr. Bender. I’m paying for this one.”

  Jeremiah avoided the group shot by fading away to the front of the studio. He debated whether to go to the museum, or hitch a ride back to camp, when Madison’s group approached.

  Aubrey walked up to the clerk behind the counter. Madison and Sotheara stood behind her, while Grant wandered around the waiting area, studying photos. He noticed Jeremiah.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Jeremiah answered with an equally perfunctory greeting. Grant seemed annoyed. Maybe he didn’t want an Old West portrait.

  “We have a roll of film we need developed.” Aubrey held up the film canister.

  “There’s a Walgreen’s in Taylor Junction.”

  Sotheara stepped closer to the counter. “You don’t develop film here?”

  “Yes, we offer service to Lodgepole folks. But most tourists want one-hour service. We don’t have the capability.”

  “We leave camp Saturday,” Sotheara said. “Could you develop it before then?”

  “Is tomorrow afternoon soon enough?” the clerk asked. “A rush job costs extra.”

  “That’s fine,” Aubrey said.

  They made arrangements, then exited the studio. The three women, escorted by Grant, made their destination known in loud conversation. They were headed for the museum.

  Candace leaned over, nearly exposing every acre of her oversized bosoms to the light of day as she tugged up a lace stocking. Jeremiah needed a change of scene.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Now we’re late,” Aubrey said.

  “If we’re lucky, we missed the entire Mad Stockton lecture,” Grant said.

  “I don’t see cannibalism being that different than eating other mammals,” Sotheara said. “If you’ll murder and eat a cow—”

  “Shh!” Aubrey threw her arms out to stop Sotheara and Madison.

  More intrigue with Grant’s coworkers. Aubrey was almost tired of snooping and spying. Almost. Outside the museum, Damon spoke with animation, waving one arm around. He was not talking to his wife. An earpiece perched on his ear. When Damon spotted his coworkers, he touched Habika’s arm. They stepped off the sidewalk and crossed to the other side of the street.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen Damon smile all week,” Madison said.

  “I heard them the second night in camp,” Sotheara whispered. “They were talking about killing Bender and escaping. Or maybe just hurting him. I couldn’t tell for sure.”

  “Maybe that’s why Damon is smiling,” Aubrey said. “He’s talking to a hit man.”

  “Damon and Habika?” Grant laughed.

  “One of us should follow them.” Aubrey watched the direction the couple went, in case she was voted to tail them.

  “No,” Grant said. “We are going to the museum. No more playing detective. If something happens to Jack Bender, the police can handle it without your help.”

  Rather than protest his outbreak of male chauvenism, Aubrey grasped Grant’s hand.

  “You’re right. The company lawyer stands the best chance of getting away with murder.”

  “Aubrey!” Sotheara looked outraged, but her stern expression melted into laughter.

  After the many interruptions, it was a relief to walk into the museum. The atmosphere was just what Aubrey expected. Dim lighting, a slight musty smell, and clutter. Bender Clips employees followed a museum docent like ducklings waddling after their mother.

  “This case displays Matthew Stockton’s hat.” The docent aimed a laser pointer at the glass case. The red dot danced against a battered wool hat. “As you can see, it is the same hat worn by Mr. Stockton at his trial.” She aimed the pointer at a newspaper front page with a precision that matched her trim, no-nonsense appearance. “The publicity from the case put our town on the map. During the gold and silver mining days, Lodgepole had three times the population of today.”

  Grant moved away from the tour group, studying the buckboard wagon and farm implements taking up a third of the room. Two fiberglass horses that looked like refugees from a Western clothing store formed a mismatched team, their harness cracked with age.

  Aubrey stayed with the tour, listening as the docent told the story of Matthew Stockton. A party of six hopeful miners and one lady of the evening had headed for Lodgepole too late in the season. A wagon wheel broke while crossing a mountain pass. Then the snow started. Weeks later, Penelope Entwistle stumbled into Lodgepole, her toes frostbitten, but otherwise in good health. The working girl claimed the group had hunkered down in a makeshift lean-to, eating first the horses, then a dog, and finally resorting to cannibalism to survive. The story became more elaborate and horrifying with each retelling, until the woman claimed Matthew Stockton had gone crazy, killing and e
ating the other men. She had barely escaped.

  Aubrey studied Grant’s coworkers, wondering which of them would take the first bite.

  The docent rattled on. When the law caught up to Stockton, the townsfolk nearly strung him up without benefit of a trial, so horrified were they by his crime. Mad Stockton evaded the justice that was rightfully his victims’ because he had eaten a good deal of the evidence and destroyed the rest. She pointed at bits of bone in the glass case.

  “As far as the locals knew, those charred bones, many with evidence of butchering, could have belonged to one of the horses the desperate travelers had been forced to eat. Recent DNA testing by the University of Colorado proved these bone fragments are human. Miss Entwistle’s story was proved true.”

  Berdie raised her hand. “Excuse me, miss.”

  “Yes?” The docent looked down her narrow nose at Berdie. She obviously wasn’t accustomed to having her narration interrupted, especially by a prim-looking old lady.

  “The case against Matthew Stockton relied on the testimony of Penelope Entwistle.”

  “She was the only survivor,” the docent said. “Besides Stockton, of course.”

  “Of course,” Berdie agreed, “but then it was just her word against his.”

  “That was ultimately why Stockton was acquitted, despite the evidence that five men did not make it out of that camp alive.”

  “And one woman walked away.” Berdie stepped closer to the museum docent, looking up at the much taller woman. “I have it on good authority Entwistle goaded the men into fights that ended in fatalities. She was the first to suggest eating the flesh of the dead miners.”

  The docent quirked up one eyebrow. “That’s not in any of the documentation I’ve studied, and I wrote my Master’s thesis on the Cannibal of Carver Pass.”

  “Matthew Stockton fought for his life, only to be falsely accused of murder. A museum curator should have the sense to look into the facts before perpetuating a pack of lies.”