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  Cozy Camping

  A Lexie Starr Mystery

  Book Six

  by

  Jeanne Glidewell

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-635-0

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2014 by Jeanne Glidewell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Dedication

  I’d like to dedicate Cozy Camping to RVers everywhere. Writing this novel brought back many fond memories of the twelve years my husband, Bob, and I owned and operated a large campground in Cheyenne, Wyoming. We found 99.9 percent of our customers to be the nicest, friendliest, and most fun-loving people you could ever want to meet. The tiny fraction of our customers who didn’t fit into this category were just freaks of nature who had probably spent too many hours on the road that day. Marc and Jane, the current owners of A.B. Camping, Inc., have added their special touch to the RV Park and made it an even better place to stay. They are now making fond memories of their own.

  I’d also like to dedicate this novel to my beautiful niece, Kylie Rae (Goodman) Moore, who stepped in to run the office of A.B. Camping for me one summer when I became gravely ill. She took over a week before Cheyenne Frontier Days, when the job always became very intense, and handled it with exceptional grace and professionalism for an eighteen-year-old. I like to pretend Kylie inherited her amazing creativity from me. She didn’t, but I still like to pretend she did.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my dear editors, Judy Beatty, of Madison, Alabama, and Alice Duncan, of Roswell, New Mexico, who help keep me from butchering the English language with words I make up when I feel the situation calls for it and punctuation that has no rhyme or reason to it.

  I’d also like to thank Nina and Brian Paules, of eBook Prep and ePublishing Works, for all the long hours and hard work they put in to make my books available to readers. They save me a lot of frustration and anxiety from trying to do it on my own.

  Chapter 1

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Not at all, Lexie. The clean air and scenery in Wyoming is incredible. And camping there will be a lot of fun. You know how much you enjoy new adventures,” Stone Van Patten, my husband of one year, replied.

  “Adventures, yes! Sleeping on the ground with spiders and other creepy crawlers is definitely not my idea of a fun adventure. And I cringe at the idea of a snake slithering in next to me to curl up in the bottom of my sleeping bag! Sitting next to poison ivy while eating gritty hotdogs turned into burnt leather over a blazing fire, does not sound all that appealing to me either.”

  At age fifty-one, I had no desire to hone my survival skills in the deep, dark woods, where danger might lurk around every corner. With the snap of every limb, I’d fear I was about to be mauled by a bear or a mountain lion. I’d run out of pepper spray before we reached our camping site, just reacting to phantom assailants. I had my own little pink-handled gun now, too, but randomly firing bullets at figments of my imagination might make my fellow campers uneasy.

  Stone would probably insist I catch my own supper in a rippling stream, too, and he should have learned from his first attempt to teach me to fish that was a recipe for disaster. He would spend his entire vacation untangling my fishing line and digging hooks out of somebody’s flesh, most likely his own.

  Stone and I own and operate a bed and breakfast lodging facility in Rockdale, Missouri, called the Alexandria Inn. Alexandria is my given name although everyone calls me Lexie. We’d both lost our first spouses years ago, and then met and fell in love when I was in Schenectady, New York, investigating a murder case that involved the welfare of my only child, twenty-nine-year-old Wendy.

  Now we were celebrating our first anniversary, and Stone thought we needed to get away for a couple of weeks to rest and relax and enjoy ourselves. Ever since he told me he was planning a secret vacation to celebrate the end of our newlywed status, I’d been hoping he had booked a Caribbean cruise during which we could ingest entirely too many calories at a midnight chocolate bar and stuff ourselves like throw pillows at the endless buffets. The onboard entertainment and nightly shows would no doubt be fascinating, and the ports of call would offer endless possibilities.

  I could visualize myself snorkeling at the second largest barrier reef in the world in Belize, and riding a zip line through the forest in Roatan, Honduras. I hoped to swim with the dolphins in Cancun as well. For some odd reason, being eaten alive by sharks or plummeting to earth from a high cable did not scare me as much as the thought of a boll weevil finding its way into my sleeping bag. A walking stick, no matter how harmless Stone assures me it is, can creep me out like nobody’s business. To me the camouflaged critters harbor evil intentions and mean to harm unsuspecting people in some fashion or another.

  You see, I really do enjoy new adventures, but roughing it in a tent and having to squat behind bushes to relieve myself were not my cup of tea. My idea of roughing it is when room service is late. I was mentally preparing my rebuttal when Stone’s next words made me stop in my tracks.

  “Not tent-camping, honey. I’ve rented three class-C motorhomes, and reserved sites at an RV park in Cheyenne, Wyoming, during the largest outdoor rodeo in the world, called Cheyenne Frontier Days. I’ve even purchased tickets to a couple of nightly concerts, including a concert featuring one of your favorite country music artists.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different then. I can picture us driving down the interstate while I fix lunch at the same time,” I said, my spirits instantly lifted.

  “Yes, and these rigs have all the comforts of home, just in slightly smaller proportions. And not only that, I won’t have to pull over at every single rest stop between here and Cheyenne, since you always have a cup of coffee in your hand. You can use the john in the RV at seventy miles an hour,” he said with a laugh.

  “It’s not just me who needs to visit the rest stops on a regular basis. You tend to need to stop frequently too,” I said, a little insulted by Stone’s comment.

  “I can’t help that I have an enlarged prostate, my dear. Besides, I was only teasing you. Getting out and walking around intermittently helps prevent blood clots from forming in our legs. We probably need to do that even when traveling in a motorhome. The exercise will be good for us. Adequate circulation becomes more of an issue at our ages.”

  “Isn’t getting older a barrel of fun? I can remember the days when we never gave issues like t
hose a second thought,” I said. “Now, just forgetting where I laid my keys makes me panic. I’m sure a rapid-onset case of Alzheimer’s is kicking in. It does run in both of our families, you know.”

  As Stone was responding, it suddenly occurred to me that I had led us far away from the initial topic of conversation, and also that we must not be going on the trip alone. “Why did you rent three motorhomes, by the way?”

  “I’ve talked Wendy and Andy and Wyatt and Veronica into joining us on our adventure. I knew you’d be delighted to have them all along on the trip. They were sworn to secrecy, because I wanted to surprise you for our first anniversary.”

  Wendy was living with Stone’s nephew, Andy, who, like his Uncle Stone, had also relocated from South Carolina. I was certain it was only a matter of time before they tied the knot and began producing some grandchildren for me. So far, the closest they’d come to giving me grandkids to spoil, was adopting two baby alpacas, which they’d named after a ’70s sitcom. I could just see us inviting Mork and Mindy to sit in on our next family portrait.

  Wyatt was a dear friend of ours whom we’d met when a guest was murdered in our inn on its opening night. Detective Wyatt Johnston had served on the Rockport police force for sixteen years, and he dropped by nearly every morning to devour enough pastries to provide any normal person with his entire daily recommended caloric intake. His girlfriend, Veronica, was the only daughter of the murder victim from that inaugural evening at the Alexandria Inn. She had moved back home to Rockdale from Salt Lake City after inheriting her father’s historic Italianate mansion here. Like us, she had turned it into a bed and breakfast, which she called Little Italy Inn.

  I knew Detective Johnston thought very highly of Veronica, but I wasn’t totally convinced she’d be that delightful to travel with. Although I hadn’t had a lot of interaction with her, she came off, to me anyway, as being a little self-absorbed, and not awfully personable. But I adored Wyatt, and would make an effort to get to know his girlfriend better on Stone’s proposed trip to Wyoming. If nothing else, I was curious to find out what it was about her that Wyatt found so irresistible.

  I was afraid that all the lotions and potions Veronica couldn’t live without would more than fill the small bathroom in a motorhome, and probably the storage space under the bed, as well. High-maintenance was an understatement when it came to Wyatt’s girlfriend. And the young lady couldn’t ever manage to get anywhere on time, which drove me crazy. We couldn’t join her and Wyatt on a run to Dairy Queen for ice cream without waiting an hour for her to get ready. How incredible does one have to look to drive up to a window and have a chocolate sundae passed out to her by a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced boy on summer vacation?

  “How nice to have company on our trip,” I told Stone. “Traveling with two younger couples will only enhance our vacation and keep us entertained and amused, I’m sure. Besides, I’ve been wanting to get better acquainted with Veronica. And now that I know I won’t have to share my bedding with a rattlesnake and my meals with a swarm of ants, I’m getting excited. After all the murder cases I’ve unwittingly gotten myself involved in during the last couple of years, I could use a vacation.”

  “Unwittingly?” Stone asked. “I’d describe it more as continuously throwing yourself in front of moving trains.”

  “Well, whatever,” I replied. Then I quickly changed the subject back to our upcoming trip before Stone began reprimanding me for my habit of needing to be rescued while investigating murder cases I wasn’t supposed to be involved with in the first place.

  “I got the idea from Stanley and Emily Harrington—you know—that couple who stayed in our inn last fall and own the campground in Cheyenne.1 By the time I called for reservations they were already completely booked for Frontier Days, but they managed to work us in with the first three cancellations they had. Emily said our sites are not side-by-side, but they’re in the same section. Stanley and Emily also helped me procure some tickets to already sold-out concerts. I think the fact that you took them on the historical home tour of Rockdale and fixed them a huge bowl of cheesy potatoes to take to their family reunion while they stayed with us, scored us enough brownie points that they felt obliged to accommodate us as best they could.”

  “Gee, I guess I was sucking up without even knowing it would benefit me. It will be nice to see the Harringtons again. I really liked them. I’d guess they are about Wyatt and Veronica’s ages, late thirties or early forties,” I said. “So tell me about the motorhomes you’ve rented.”

  “They are Coachman Concords and thirty feet long with two slide-outs that make them even roomier. I’d say they’re similar to the one Sheila and her husband bought last year.”

  “Theirs is very nice,” I replied. Sheila was my best friend and I knew she and Randy enjoyed traveling in their RV.

  “I could have rented a larger motorhome that slept six, but I thought everyone would be more comfortable with their own unit.”

  “I agree. That way it won’t feel crowded and we won’t have to deal with six adults sharing one small bathroom,” I said.

  With a guffaw, Stone said, “Don’t think I didn’t take that into consideration. With three women on board, each of us men would have been allotted about two minutes of restroom time per day.”

  “You’re probably right. Wendy and I aren’t particularly high-maintenance, but I’ll bet anything Veronica spends more than an hour every morning just putting her face on.”

  “Putting her face on? Is it removable?” Stone asked.

  “Applying her makeup, silly. Just out of curiosity, do you know how to hook up to the electricity, water, and sewer connections at the camping site?” I asked.

  Stone gave me a so-so hand gesture, and said, “They gave me a briefing and short demonstration, so I don’t think I’ll have much trouble. But Stanley assured me he shows novice RVers how to connect their cords and hoses all the time. I’ll show Andy and Wyatt the basics so they can handle hooking up their own rigs, because I doubt you ladies have any desire to mess with water and sewer hoses.”

  “A truer statement has never been uttered. I’d actually rather share my sleeping bag with a snake while sleeping in a bear’s den, than deal with anything sewer related.”

  * * *

  A week later, the six of us stood out in front of the inn admiring three identical motorhomes, lined up like an Army convoy in the circular driveway. Stone pulled Andy and Wyatt aside to show them the basics of setting up one of the Coachman Concords once we were at our sites at Cozy Camping RV Park in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

  Puffing his chest out like General Custer leading his troops into battle, he turned to Veronica, Wendy, and me and said, “You gals can start loading up the rigs with our clothes, food and all, while I explain the intricate details of setting up a motorhome to Andy and Wyatt. You three don’t need to be concerned with all this technical jargon.”

  As the three of us turned to walk away, I heard Stone say, “Now first you want to take that thingybobber in the storage compartment, and hook it up to this doohickey over here.”

  “Come on, ladies,” I said. “This so-called ‘technical jargon’ is way over our heads. We just need to concern ourselves with all the heavy lifting, loading, and other strenuous work involved with getting ready to head out for the week. Is it just me, or do you two get the feeling we are being played like banjos in a hillbilly hoedown?”

  * * *

  Several hours later, we exited off I-80 West and pulled into a cafe in Kearney, Nebraska. The men decided it was a good opportunity to stretch their legs and get a bite to eat. We all enjoyed a hand-battered tenderloin sandwich and steak fries, except Veronica, who ate roughly a third of her dressing-free garden salad. I suppose it took great diligence and self-restraint to maintain a size zero body.

  I admired Veronica’s figure only to a point, because I considered her severe slimness to be more skeletal than the modelesque look I’m sure Veronica was shooting for. If someone who already wore a size ze
ro dress lost weight, convinced they were still too fat, what size dress would they shop for then? I’ve never seen a negative-zero sized dress hanging on a rack anywhere, but I’m sure they’d make better use of their time at that point by shopping for a burial plot. A body could only sustain itself without adequate nourishment for so long, after all. And that’s just what I reminded myself of every time I reached for my favorite treat, a dark chocolate candy bar, which for the benefit of my health, I was always able to suffer through.

  To be honest, I could stand to lose ten pounds or so, but I wasn’t obsessed with it since Stone had assured me he’d love me no matter how much I weighed. Anyhow, he could stand to lose even more than ten pounds. Misery may love company, but chubbiness absolutely adores it. Even though I was truly fond of his Teddy-bear quality, standing next to Stone, with his slightly protruding paunch, I felt I looked rather trim. But standing between Veronica and my daughter, Wendy, I’m pretty sure I looked like the cream part of a double-stuffed Oreo.

  My daughter, Wendy, was several inches shorter than Veronica and managed to sustain a slender, yet not quite anorexic, physique, while frequently eating like a grizzly bear that’s just come out of hibernation after a long cold winter. Having the metabolism of a hummingbird certainly wasn’t a trait Wendy inherited from me. I could lick a celery stick and gain two pounds.

  After finishing our lunch, we all decided to utilize the restaurant’s restrooms before continuing on our journey. While we waited in line to use one of the two available stalls, I asked Wendy and Veronica if they had packed their swimsuits. I’d read that the campground had just recently added an in-ground pool on the premises. Wendy assured me she’d brought her suit along, and Veronica informed me that she didn’t know how to swim and was terrified of water.