I’d hardly gotten a wink of sleep last night. There had been a few nightmares—a dark forest, a man lying on the floor, and when I turned him over, it wasn’t Ronald who’d been shot, but Daniel of all people.
It was ridiculous. I hadn’t thought about my fiancé in a protective sense in ages.
He was the one who left you, remember?
“Ready to go?” Bee spoke next to me.
I jolted out of my snoozed, nearly sending my Kindle to the grass in front of our tent. “Are you trying to scare the wits out of me?”
“Sorry.” Bee’s hair was toweled dry and she was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, as well as a pair of sneakers. Apparently, she’d been serious about us going on walks today. How she expected me to walk anywhere in this state… anyway, that didn’t matter. She was here, and that meant food.
“Are you ready to head up to the restaurant? My stomach’s trying to eat itself.”
“Absolutely.” I locked my Kindle in the truck’s glovebox compartment—the food truck was parked in the shade of the trees flanking our tent—and we headed up the road, past Ronald’s glimmering black camper. I held back a grimace. He’d seemed like a friendly dude. Who on earth would’ve wanted him dead?
See, those are exactly the type of questions you shouldn’t be asking. It’s a slippery slope.
The restaurant was situated down the road and was another log cabin-style building. Much like the offices, it had seen better days, but it did have a view of the lake from its balcony, and it was there we settled under an umbrella.
“Good morning,” our server said, in a bored drawl. “Welcome to the Tomahawk Trail Restaurant. My name is Dillon and I will be your server today.” He was in his teens, probably here on a forced summer job.
“Thanks, Dillon,” I said, accepting a plastic menu from him. I flipped through it. “I’ll have some lemonade to start.”
“Milkshake for me. Chocolate.”
Dillon gave a noncommittal grunt then wandered off in the direction of the kitchen.
The balcony was relatively busy—there were ten tables out on the deck, and six of them were full of families or couples. Almost everyone had dark rings under their eyes or yawned every couple minutes.
“What a day,” Bee said, as she considered the menu. “It’s barely past 9 am and I’m ready to go back to bed.”
“So, we’re not going to go walking today?”
“Exercise is good for the mind as well as the body, Ruby.”
“As long as we’re not exercising in the direction of the crime scene,” I whispered, leaning over my menu.
“Of course not.” Bee admired the lake. A single boat glided across it, the two people onboard familiar shapes—one with short gray hair, the other long and dark. Was that Lulu and her grandmother?
“Here’s the deal,” Bee said, “we’re both tired, so maybe we skip the walking today and bake some macarons instead. What do you think?”
“That sounds like a great idea. I’m in the mood for something sweet.” I scanned the menu. “Oh, they have a breakfast club sandwich.” My belly groaned approval. “I have to get that. Poached egg with bacon, lettuce, tomato, and—”
The balcony sliding door slapped open and Van marched out onto the deck. He stopped next to our table, his fat fists on his hips. Was he wearing the same vest as yesterday? The gold chain and the forest of chest hair sure hadn’t changed.
“You,” he growled, “interfering weasels.”
“Excuse me?” Bee dropped her menu and levelled him with one of her meanest stares. “Are you talking to us? You can’t be because no man in his right mind would talk to us that way.”
“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Reed?” The diplomatic approach has helped me in the past—it was easier to get people to talk when they were buttered up.
“You’re my problem.”
Ah, so no buttering up this time.
Bee huffed and puffed. A few of the other diners looked over, perking up at the promise of drama.
“You two are the ones who found Ronald’s body,” Van said, wording it like an accusation.
“Yeah,” I said. “We were. It was accidental.”
“Accidental! My hairy behind, it was accidental!”
“That’s really more information than we need, Mr. Reed,” I said.
“Gross.” Bee pulled a face.
“You wanted to cause trouble around here,” Van said. “You’re angry about the fact that I won’t let you sell your cookies, but I’ll tell you this, right now, I’m not going to budge. No selling in my campground. I don’t care how many police officers and dead bodies and dishonor you bring down on the place, I won’t let you sell. D’ya hear me?” Spittle flew from his mouth and landed on my menu.
“We’re not interested in selling,” I said. “We’re on vacation.”
“I’m warning you,” Van continued, “one wrong move and you’re out. One. Wrong. Move.” He charged off before either of us could reply.
Bee and I sat in stunned silence. The chatter on the balcony resumed, but the other diners cast furtive glances our way.
Here we go again.
Nothing cured the ‘confrontation via an inappropriately dressed man’ blues like time spent baking on the truck with my friend. And I had to admit, the macarons had come out way better than I’d been expecting. Then again, Bee was in the kitchen, so of course they were fine.
“I love them,” I said, eying the brightly colored macarons. “They remind me of jewels. Or colored pebbles.”
“Shall we?” Bee lifted a blue macaron from the plate.
I took a pink one and we clicked them together. “Cheers,” I said then took a bite. The macaron was crisp then soft and the filling tasted of strawberries and cream. “Wow. Oh wow. I love them.”
Bee didn’t say a word—she stared out of the food truck’s window at Ronald’s camper. Oh heavens, she wasn’t thinking about investigating, was she? “I wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
“Have you seen Buddy today?” Bee asked.
“The dog?” I shook my head as I took another macaron. “But he’s staying with the Reeds, I think. Charlene took him into the offices last night to give him a snack.”
“And the Reeds are staying where?”
“I think they’re in that cherry red RV next to the firepit. You saw it last night, right?”
“No. I was a little preoccupied with the corpse.”
I choked on my macaron. “That was terribly worded.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. I was distracted.” Bee dusted off her fingers on her pink-and-green striped Bite-sized Bakery apron. “I think we should check on him.”
“Who?”
“Buddy. The dog. I don’t like the thought of him being alone.” Bee wasn’t the best when it came to people, but she adored animals. “He just lost his owner. Imagine that was you.”
“We can check on him. We’ll take Charlene some macarons while we’re there. Maybe that will stop Van from screaming at us about selling things.”
Bee pursed her lips. “He’s probably in the office. If he’s not, I’ll be more than happy to give him more than just a macaron.”
We stacked the macarons into another Tupperware then headed for the road. Our tents were zipped up, our valuables locked away, and our spirits high. Well, as high as they could be after what had happened to Ronald. Passing his camper was a somber reminder of that.
The afternoon had come, and I was privately looking forward to this evening when we’d try barbecuing some ribs in our little fire pit. We had chairs to sit in, and we’d already prepared milkshakes to drink by the fireside. Not exactly what was expected at a barbecue, but perfectly suited to us.
If I kept concentrating on all the vacation aspects of the campground, I could force myself out of thinking about the dead body. Or what would happen to Ronald’s camper now that he was gone. Or how that detective had looked in that dashing uniform.
The door to the offic
e was closed, thankfully, and the events hall was shut up equally tight, but Charlene’s cherry red camper glistened in the lot nearest the front gates. Its windows were thrown wide open, and she was outside, tending to the flowerbeds that bordered the lot.
“Hello,” I called.
Charlene dropped her hand trowel in between the pansies. “O-oh! Hello.” We’d spooked her. Sheesh, that had been easy. Then again, someone had just been murdered.
“How are you today?” I asked.
Bee held out the Tupperware. “We brought macarons. How’s Buddy?” Straight to the point as always.
“Buddy?” Charlene gave us a blank stare.
“Buddy,” Bee repeated. “The Labrador? Ronald’s Labrador?”
“Oh! Right. Yeah, of course.” She got up and removed her soil-sprinkled gloves then wiped sweat from her forehead with shaking fingers. “He’s around here somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” Bee bristled.
“Yes, I fed him and gave him water, and he, uh, he ran off to go exploring. That’s what dogs do, isn’t it?”
A bark sounded from the trees and Buddy bounded out of the forest behind Charlene and Van’s RV. The doggo skidded to a halt in front of us, wagging his tail like crazy.
“There you are,” I said.
Bee patted him on the head, a smile tilting the corners of her lips. “That’s good to know. Where is he sleeping?”
“Uh, in the RV,” Charlene said. “On the sofa bed.”
“That’s good.” I took the Tupperware from Bee so she could better stroke Buddy. I popped off the lid and held it out to Charlene. “Macaron?”
“Well, yeah, thank you. That would be great.” She dusted off her hands then selected one of the blue macarons. She took a bite and let out a moan. “Delicious.” She took another five macarons and juggled them between her hands as she ate. “I haven’t had anything to eat for lunch, these came at the right time.”
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
“I’m… OK, I guess. I’ve been better.”
“Such a terrible thing to happen,” I said.
“It’s the first time in the campgrounds’ history that we’ve had a murder.” Charlene took another bite of a macaron. “A few petty thefts and so on, but nothing like this. And it was Ronald. Ronald.” She said his name with her eyes lowered. “I can’t believe it. Who would do a thing like this?”
I reserved comment. I had a few theories and Bee probably did too. “Well, I’m just shocked that nobody heard anything. A gun was fired, and no one heard the shot. That’s almost unbelievable.”
Charlene stopped chewing. “Yeah,” she said.
“You didn’t hear anything did you?” Bee was crouched next to Buddy, who’d promptly plonked himself down in the grass and rolled onto his back for belly scratches.
Charlene took another bite of macaron and finished it before answering. “I might have.”
“You might have?” I closed the Tupperware. “What do you mean?”
“I heard something, I just don’t know what it was,” Charlene said. “I don’t want to say it was something if it wasn’t. Don’t want to mislead the investigation with false clues and stuff. This is serious.”
“It’s even more serious if you did hear something and you don’t tell the police,” Bee replied.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’m not sure what I heard was related to what happened to Ronald,” she said.
“What was it? What happened?”
Charlene glanced over her shoulder at the truck. She drew closer to me, so close I could smell her perfume and the earthiness of soil. “I heard a bang. I’m not sure if it was a gun, but there was a definite bang.”
“When?” Bee got up, and Buddy whined at her for daring to stop the attention offensive.
“It was earlier in the day. Yesterday afternoon, probably about an hour or so before the bonfire. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but it was loud enough that I dropped my watering can. I was gardening,” Charlene said, gesturing to her pansies. “I think the noise came from that direction.” She pointed toward the trees—the very same spot where we’d entered yesterday and wound up finding Ronald’s body.
That wasn’t good news.
“Did you tell the cops?” I asked.
Charlene shook her head, her lips thin and white. “I didn’t think it meant anything until now. I didn’t… you know… I didn’t have, like, a lightbulb moment. But they did say they’d be back. I can call them and tell them, right?” Gone was the confident woman who had shepherded her husband away from us upon our arrival.
“Right,” I said. “You can do that.”
“Then I will. I’ll do it right now.”
“Take these.” I handed her the container of macarons. “I get the feeling you need them more than we do.”
Charlene snatched the macarons from me and disappeared into the trailer without thanks.
7
The following morning…
“Now, what about some donuts?” Bee asked, her fists on her hips.
We’d opened the window of the food truck and started baking the minute the sun had risen. It was funny, but we’d probably baked just as much since we’d left Muffin as we would on a standard day parked out by its duck pond.
Baking had become an integral part of my day. How strange. I’d gone from questioning people, following up on leads, and writing investigative pieces to checking the timer on the batch of cupcakes in the oven. And I was enjoying it.
It beat worrying about what my fellow journalists had to say about my private life. Or lack thereof.
“Donuts,” I said, after a minute. “But we’ve got so many cupcakes already. How will we eat all of them?” I’d already set aside a certain amount of money for our little break, and that money included what we’d spend on ingredients while baking. Being here wasn’t about making a profit.
“We could share them,” Bee said, nodding toward the road that wound between the lots. “It looks like we’re already gaining a crowd of fans.”
A few of the other holidaymakers, no longer gossiping or overly concerned about the murder, stood gathered along the road. Several others peered out of their campers nearby.
“And if Van comes by and spots us handing out treats?” I asked.
“His immediate assumption will be that we’re selling them.” Bee filled in. “And I couldn’t care less about that. He can throw as many tantrums as he wants.”
“It’s not the tantrums I’m worried about. It’s getting thrown out that bothers me.”
“We won’t get thrown out,” Bee said, sternly. “That man thinks he’s all-powerful, but he’ll soon learn that’s not the case.”
I didn’t like the way Bee had set her jaw. It would only lead to trouble for us, and probably for Van too. It was easier to give Bee her way. “As long as we don’t sell them,” I said. “And as long as you really think you can deal with Van.”
“Deal with him? The man will rue the day he raised his voice at me.” Bee formed a fist and shook it.
“Bee. You’re scaring them.” I nodded to the gathered crowd.
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Probably best not to say you’re going to make someone pay for shouting at you so soon after a man was murdered,” I whispered.
“I didn’t say I’d make him pay. Just that he’d rue the day. And now, I’m a poet, apparently.”
The first few people on the trail, inched toward our truck cautiously—like little mice afraid that the cat would appear before they could get to the cheese.
Bee whistled at them, sharply. “Come on over, folks. We’re giving away what we can’t eat.”
Merry chatter broke out and the campers flocked toward us. It was like a regular day on the truck—a comfort after the strangeness of Ronald’s death. I was caught up in handing out macarons and cupcakes and answering questions about what we’d make next and where we usually parked.
Did that mean some of these folks would be rep
eat customers? I hoped so. The more the merrier.
“Thank you.” A young woman accepted two cupcakes for the kiddies hanging onto her skirt, one on either side. “These two have been bugging me for candies for the past week. You’re a lifesaver.”
“It’s no problem,” I said. “We love baking.”
Before she could reply, the woman was nudged by another customer. “Look out. Here come the cops!”
The crowd cleared out from the front of the trucks, most of them heading only a short way so they could hover around and spy. Two police officers approached the side of the truck, and one of them was the handsome sparkly-eyed detective from the other day.
Detective Handsome. Hanson! What was wrong with me?
“Good morning, ladies,” Detective Hanson said, putting up a smile that should have been illegal in every state. Was I blushing? Of course not.
“Hello, detective,” Bee replied. “Back so soon?”
“We got a call from the owner of the place. New evidence has come to light.”
“New evidence?” Bee didn’t even feign a lack of interest. She opened the back of our glass display and removed two cupcakes, handing the detectives one a piece. “So, there’s a lot of evidence in the case then?”
Detective Hanson nodded. “Seems to me that the murderer had an obvious motivation.”
“What do you mean?” I’d finally overcome my blush, though it threatened to creep back the minute the detective turned those bright, blue eyes on me. His partner was older, with a couple extra rolls here and there and a weak chin. His gaze wasn’t nearly as warm as he took in first Bee and then me.
“It’s police business,” the second detective said, lisping. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about it.”
“My head is hardly little,” I replied. “And pretty hasn’t got any bearing on the matter.”
“Touchy.” The nameless detective put up a hand and feinted backward. “You must be one of those progressive women, eh?”
“If you mean I prefer not to be told I have a pretty, little head, then yes, I guess I am. And just in case you were wondering, I don’t like being told to keep my pretty little mouth shut either.”
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