The Blue Coyote (The Frannie Shoemaker Campground Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen Musser Nortman

  Sure enough, a minute later the little girl rattled by on her training wheels. Exactly thirty seconds after that, Larry poked his head out the door.

  “Was that what I think?” His voice was hoarse with sleep, his eyes barely open. They nodded. He shut the door. The child on the bike came back up the road, went back to the corner, and returned again before the door opened a second time and Larry came down the steps in old gray sweatpants and a “Perfection Falls Police Department” sweatshirt. He had retired five years earlier from the small town force. He filled his coffee mug and firmly placed a lawn chair in the circle near the fire just as the training wheels went by again.

  “That kid is too old to be using those things! What’s the matter with her parents?” he grumbled.

  “I sympathize, Larry, really I do,” Jane Ann said. “But not much we can do about it.”

  “Wanna bet?” He lurched out of his chair and headed to the road, as the sound of the offending cyclist on her return trip reached their ears.

  “Larry!” Frannie said, shocked. This was so out of character. She got up and followed him but stopped when he halted at the edge of the road.

  As the little girl rode by, he called out, all anger gone from his voice, “Want me to take those training wheels off for you?”

  She did not look at him but put her head down, shook it, and kept peddling.

  Larry and Frannie returned to their chairs, Larry looking quite pleased with himself. Mickey regarded him in some disbelief. “Larry, has it occurred to you that there might be some reason—physical, mental, psychological—whatever, that she still has those training wheels?”

  Larry looked less smug. “I suppose. But I bet you anything it’s a case of lazy parents.”

  Frannie shook her head. This was so unlike Larry. But she also knew he found that kind of noise in a campground really offensive, especially if it was unnecessary. Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the camper door, and Joe half stumbled down the steps, wrapped in a blanket and barefooted. He hip-hopped over to her chair, doing a “Ooh-Ah-Ooh” kind of accompaniment to his little dance.

  “Joe, honey, where are your shoes?” she said as she opened her arms. He climbed up on her lap. At seven years old, early morning was the only time he would consent to a little cuddling.

  He looked at her seriously. “Inside.” She wondered how dumb he thought most adults must be, with the questions they asked.

  “What I meant was, why don’t you have them on?”

  He just shrugged and stared at the fire.

  “Sabet still asleep?”

  He nodded. “Should I wake her up?”

  “No, no—let her sleep.”

  Nancy appeared from the other side of Shoemakers’ trailer, coffee mug in hand. “Good morning! How’s everyone doing this gorgeous morning?” Nancy sported green and brown flannel pajama pants with camping paraphernalia printed all over and a hooded brown sweatshirt—much more coordinated than Mickey’s outfit.

  Mickey said, “Larry’s already been bashing the little girl with the training wheels.” He leaned over to stir the fire.

  “C’mon, Mick,” Larry said. “She hasn’t been back, has she? It was a service to society.”

  Nancy considered Larry. “What did you do?”

  “I just offered to take the stupid things off for her.”

  Nancy just shook her head. “Well, she woke Ben up, too. He should be over in a minute. I would be glad to go talk to the parents—“

  Larry waved her suggestion aside. “Thanks, but if anyone goes, it should be me.”

  Nancy turned to Frannie. “Frannie, you’re doing an omelet this morning, right? Do you have a time in mind?”

  “Sabet’s still asleep but it won’t take long to throw it together. Say eating about 8:00?” Frannie knew from experience that Nancy wouldn’t rest until she got a time pinned down.

  “Sounds great. I brought some pumpkin muffins to contribute.”

  “And I have juice and fruit to throw into the mix,” Jane Ann added.

  “Can we just have them separate?” Mickey asked. Jane Ann just looked at him.

  “I mean instead of a mix—you know, I mean, it sounded like...”

  “Go back to bed, Mickey.” Larry said. “The bike trail goes both directions from here, right? Which way are we going?”

  Mickey pulled map out of the pocket on the arm of his chair and opened it up. “To the west looks pretty hilly. Maybe for us old folks, east would be best.”

  “And if we go east, I think there’s a flea market today in Limestone City. So take your cash, girls,” Nancy said.

  “Excellent!” said Frannie.

  Sabet emerged from the trailer, also wrapped in her blanket but with at least a pair of flip-flops on her feet. She plodded out and sunk into an available lawn chair. Her long blonde hair snarled around her face and hung in her eyes.

  “Nice hair,” Larry said.

  Peering out from under her hair, she gave him a little ‘whatever’ smile and sat swinging her feet, scuffing the dirt and gravel.

  Frannie nudged Joe, who had been apparently held in a trance by the fire. “You’re going to have to move, Bud, so I can start our breakfast.”

  He nodded and stood up gingerly. As soon as Frannie vacated the chair, he plopped into it.

  Inside, Frannie mixed up eggs and seasonings. She gave Larry the electric skillet and frozen hash browns to take outside to the utility table. Carrying the bowl of eggs, a package of bacon, and a spatula, she negotiated the trailer steps and set it all on the table. After moving the coffee pot and getting the bacon going, she looked down at her side to see Joe eyeing the proceedings. “My mom says I’m really good at cooking bacon, Gran,” he said.

  “Well, you are just the guy I’m looking for then. You can cook the bacon while I get other stuff ready. You’ll have to lose the blanket, though.”

  “Okay. I think maybe I’ll go get my shoes first.” Like no one else had ever thought of it. He tiptoed over to the steps and soon reemerged with tennies untied and no blanket. Frannie went in and got him a plate with a paper towel to drain the bacon on as it finished and brought out enough plates and silverware for the group. Ben had appeared and Nancy and Jane Ann had added their contributions to the table.

  Frannie added the hash browns to the bacon grease, flipped them when they were brown and poured the egg mixture over them. Sabet, who didn’t want to be left out, crumbled the bacon and added some cheese on top. Frannie put the lid on the skillet and refilled her coffee while she waited for the omelet.

  They were all sitting around the fire quizzing Joe on his soccer season when a couple walked by accompanied by the training wheels girl without her bike. The woman was stout, a round grim face framed by long, very mousey brown hair and wore skin-tight jeans, high-heeled boots, and a bulging tank top partially covered by a satiny baseball jacket. Her companion had a similar build, thinning hair, and wore jeans and a faded t-shirt. The girl tugged on the woman’s jacket and pointed at Larry. She whispered something and the woman looked at Larry and glared. Larry started to get up, but Frannie put her hand on his arm.

  “If they come over, we’ll talk to them, but there’s no sense in stirring things up.”

  He nodded and sat back, but the little group continued on down the road.

  Before long, they were all at the table, digging into the breakfast. Conversation continued about the ride—how far to go, where that meant turning around, and where to start and leave the trucks. Afterwards, Mickey and Nancy volunteered to do all the dishes while Larry and Frannie helped the kids get ready.

  Getting the snarls out of Sabet’s hair was always a challenge. Frannie favored short hair but that was obviously not the preferred style in fourth grade these days. So with some effort, Sabet’s blonde mane was tamed and shining. Sabet produced a purple scrunchy to pull the hair back from her round scrubbed face, which she pronounced the perfect accessory for her orange softball t-shirt.

  Bikes loade
d, water bottles filled, they headed out to their starting point about 9:30. Ben and Nancy’s truck, with Jane Ann and Mickey in the crew seat, led and Larry followed. They soon arrived at a small parking lot in a county park that adjoined the trail where they could leave the trucks. Frannie checked the kids’ helmets, strapped on her own, and instructed Sabet and Joe to follow Mickey. She and Larry would stay behind them where she could keep an eye on them, thinking at the same time that with her own kids, she would have just told them to follow and pay attention to what they were doing. Had times changed that much or had she?

  The first section of trail wound down through a shady ravine and back up a gentle slope, emerging along a corn field. The corn had not been harvested in this field but was turning brown and it wouldn’t be long. The morning sun felt welcome on their backs as they pedaled along at an easy pace.

  “Look, Grannie Fran!” Joe called back, pointing at a pasture they were passing. Three horses, all brown, grazed contentedly, glancing up only briefly and with little interest at the odd creatures on wheels passing by. They soon reached another tree-lined stretch, rode over a small bridge spanning a creek, and could see a clearing ahead with a bench.

  “Break?” Mickey called back and several yeses chorused in return. They parked their bikes along the trail, pulled off helmets and opened water bottles. Frannie got a bag of animal crackers out and offered them to the kids.

  “What a perfect day!” Nancy said and received vigorous agreement. A young family biked by, nodding and waving, followed by a lone rider, thin wispy hair flying from under his helmet.

  “Gran!” Sabet whispered, even though the rider was already on down the path, “It’s the story-telling guy!” She was right; Frannie had noticed he even had his ukelele strapped to the back of his seat.

  “Ready to ride?” Mickey asked, wheezing a little. He thought of himself as wagon-master, but he was looking a little pale. A long-time smoker who was trying to quit with only intermittent success, he suffered from the beginning stages of COPD.

  “Are you ready is the question,” Jane Ann said, looking at him with concern. “You and I can go back, Mickey, if you’re not up to it.”

  “If you decide to go back, you could take my truck back to the campground,” Larry said. “I can call Jane Ann for a ride when we get back.”

  “No, no, no!” Mickey insisted. “I’m fine. Somebody else lead and I’ll just ride a little slower.”

  “I’ll ride with you,” Jane Ann said and her tone was clear that she would brook no argument.

  “It’s only about two or two and a half miles to Limestone City,” Nancy said perusing the map.

  Out of Mickey’s hearing, Larry asked Ben to lead and slow the pace down a little, even though they had been going a very moderate speed. They mounted their bikes and with only a little confusion and wobbling, they got going again. Most of the rest of the trail to Limestone City was shaded, which Frannie was glad of for Mickey’s sake, even though heat was not the issue. As they came to the edge of town, some hand-lettered cardboard signs, precariously mounted on one-by-twos, directed them to the “flee” market at the county fairgrounds. Mickey took some ribbing on that, being a retired English teacher, as if he was personally responsible for the spelling skills hundreds of miles from where he had taught.

  A few gaily striped canopies and long tables piled with everything under the sun gave a feeling of a cross between a medieval tournament and a giant yard sale. Frannie loved flea markets—it boggled the mind the stuff people could put together to sell. How did one accumulate hundreds of bottle openers? Or dozens of pairs of well-used tennis shoes? Was there really a market for bows and arrows or old magazines? There always was at least one table of original, well-done crafts or beautiful woodworking and at least one table of Elvis paintings on black velvet or gaudy macrame. She never bought much—the fun was in the looking.

  This time, her attention was split a little between keeping an eye on the kids and checking out the wares. Fortunately, they were as intent on examining every item as she was. Joe spotted a table of wooden toys including a Rube Goldberg-type contraption operated by rolling marbles. Nancy motioned them over to an area where the ground seemed to sprout solar garden lamps made out of old dishes. Sabet was taken with a collection of small, knitted purses with flaps that looked like animal faces. They ambled along, nudging one another at spectacular or ridiculous finds. Jane Ann bought a jar of homemade peach butter and Frannie snatched up a beaded bracelet in shades of coral and yellow.

  At the end of one row of tables, a three-sided tent appeared to be under attack by a horde of kids. As they neared, they caught the sound of a familiar voice. Bernie Reid, the storyteller, held his audience spellbound with the help of a hand-puppet resembling an English bobby, who frequently bonked Reid on the head with a small rubber nightstick and elicited howls of laughter from the kids. Circling the kids were a number of adults, a few of whom Frannie recognized from the campground. Sabet and Joe ducked through the crowd to kneel in the front row for a better vantage point.

  Frannie’s instinct was to follow on their heels, but she thought better of it. The crowd was not that big, and although she couldn’t actually see them, she could tell if they left the area or if anyone else was talking to them. She forced herself to relax, until she noticed that three men at one end of the group were the road workers, including the one who had had been talking to Sabet. Seeing them at an event aimed at children put her back on edge, although she told herself she had no reason to feel that way. She blamed Sam with all his warnings for making her uneasy.

  The story ended, and after enthusiastic applause, the children began to drift away with their parents. Frannie craned her neck peering through the crowd and with relief saw Sabet and Joe headed back to them. Mickey and Jane Ann came up behind.

  “We’re thinking about some lunch over at the food tent before we head back,” Mickey said.

  “There’s a surprise,” Larry answered. “You thinking about lunch, I mean.”

  “Someone has to make sure we don’t all starve to death,” Mickey replied.

  Frannie knew this argument could go on for hours. “Ben and Nancy are over watching that woodworker. Why don’t you get them and we’ll herd the kids over to the food?”

  The sign indicated that the food tent was the effort of the local Presbyterian Church and offered a limited but tempting menu. They seated themselves in a row on benches at a makeshift paper-covered counter and agonized over their choices. Frannie ordered a grilled pork chop sandwich and skipped the fries in favor of a piece of homemade banana cream pie. All of those calories would disappear on the ride back to the trucks, right? It didn’t matter; the rich, creamy, made-from-scratch pie was worth every calorie. The kids opted for hot dogs and fries while Larry ordered the “Largest Tenderloin in Iowa.”

  Ben scoffed. “Every diner and roadside joint in the state claims the same thing.”

  “And it’s my mission to find out the truth,” Larry told him.

  After polishing off every crumb and discarding their trash in nearby barrels, they decided to head back to the bikes. Along the way, Joe begged his grandfather for and got a marshmallow gun made out of white plastic pipe contorted in an elaborate configuration. Sabet got one too, strictly for self defense, no doubt. Since the purchases would be awkward to carry on their bikes, they made arrangements to return with the truck to pick them up and then headed back to the bike racks.

  They discussed continuing on the trail, but it was decided that the prudent thing to do would be to return to the campground, allowing for afternoon naps for some. Frannie thought she might take the kids hiking on one of the nice trails along the bluffs.

  They met a few other bikers on the path and returned to the parking lot without incident. After loading the bikes and kids, Frannie and Larry drove back to Limestone City with the kids to pick up the new weapons.

  “Wow,” said Joe. “It’s a lot faster in a truck than a bike!” Larry smiled at Joe’s obvi
ous surprise at this realization.

  Larry parked near the ‘flee’ market, and Frannie elected to stay with the truck while he took the kids to pick up their new purchases. After a filling lunch and strenuous exercise (for her), she almost dozed off in the warmth of the cab. Sounds of an argument drifted in through the open window, and she sat up as she realized it was the three road crew guys from the campground, threading their way through the parked vehicles to their own truck.

  “What the hell, Don? You’re going to get us all in trouble!” said one.

  “What? I wasn’t gonna do anything.” Don was the guy who had talked to Sabet the night before.

  “Right!” replied the first guy sarcastically. “Just like the last place. Why can’t you keep yourself under control?”

  Don mumbled a reply but they had passed too far away for Frannie to make it out. Maybe her suspicions about the trio weren’t so far-fetched, although it certainly wasn’t clear from the conversation what ‘trouble’ Don was about to get them into.

  Larry arrived back with the kids, each bearing a twisted contrivance with great pride. They maneuvered their prizes into the small back seat and climbed in behind them. Frannie cautioned, “Now if you shoot all of our marshmallows, we won’t be able to have s’mores.”

  “It doesn’t shoot reg’lar marshmallows, Gran. We have to get some tiny ones,” Joe assured her.

  “Mini-marshmallows? I have a whole bag of those,” Frannie replied.

  “But what if we run out?”

  “Then you will have to pick up the ones you already shot.”

  “Oh.”

  The rest of the way back to the campground, they were busy plotting possible uses for the guns, and optimum sites for ambushing their grandparents, the dogs, and other kids. They also decided that Uncle Mickey would make a good target.

  ***********************

  Happy Camper Tip #4

  Marshmallow guns can be built out of PVC pipe and reconfigured in dozens of ways. Instructions pepper the Internet. Of course, there are now commercial variations, but the homemade versions are simple and allow for more creativity. At the 2012 White House Science Fair, President Obama delighted in firing an “Extreme Marshmallow Cannon” in the State Dining Room. The cannon was invented by 14-year-old Joey Hudy of Phoenix, Arizona and is operated by a bicycle pump. One caveat: we encourage shooters to pick up and reuse the ammunition, and not to leave the marshmallows (especially on a hot day) anywhere that they might stick to shoes and be tracked into the camper.