Ripped To Shreds Read online

  "Kids? What kids?" It was late April and school was still in session. I hadn't seen any children in the park in days who were old enough to wield a knife, and I couldn't quite picture the few toddlers I'd seen in the campground out slashing tires just to amuse themselves between diaper changes.

  Boonie then asked if I'd like to file a police report, but I thought it best to let Rip make that decision. Jan lent me her cell phone to call my husband and I explained the problem to Rip. He cursed, as I'd expected, and told me Ranger Rick had stopped by to shoot the crap and was just leaving. He told me he'd have the ranger drop him off at our disabled vehicle on his way out.

  Rip didn't end up filing a police report, after all. He knew from his law-enforcement experience it was just a formality and rarely resulted in the apprehension of the responsible party. He agreed with Boonie that it was probably the work of rowdy teenagers. I wasn't so certain.

  I was surprised Boonie was anxious to be of help, offering to call AAA for us. I got the impression that for some reason he felt somewhat responsible: because the crime occurred in his campground, he was concerned about protecting the reputation of his business, or he'd had a hand in the tire-slashing episode himself or knew who did. And I suppose I should add, he could have just offered to help because he was a kind, stand-up sort of guy. Whichever was the case, his assistance was appreciated. Rip always carried a spare tire for both the truck and the trailer, but had never felt the need to haul around two spares for either one.

  Boonie took one of the park's golf carts to a nearby maintenance shed and brought back a heavy-duty floor jack. Rather than waiting for the auto service to do it, he and Rip removed the ruined tires and waited for a representative of the auto club to arrive with two new replacements. My plans for the afternoon thwarted, I carried my bag of souvenirs back to the trailer and put some potatoes on the stove to boil. I decided I might as well make use of the time and prepare a bowl of German potato salad to go along with a couple of grilled fish filets for supper.

  Then I filled a quart-sized canning jar with equal parts of orange juice and tequila, and topped it off with a dash of grenadine syrup. It was quite a bit stronger than I usually mixed it. Nonetheless, it went down smoothly and I looked forward to an equally strong refill after Rip returned with the truck and was more than ready for his afternoon highball.

  * * *

  The next morning I was up and around early, eager to put my plan into action. Now I'll bet you thought my plan was to go to the Sweet Sixteen RV Park pretending to be a souvenir salesman in hopes of getting to meet with one of the owners, didn't you? And, truthfully, I had considered that option. But knowing my luck, they'd have wanted to place an order for fifty of each item, and I'd find myself in a real fix when I had no forms to fill out or any way to fill the order even if I'd had the forms.

  As it turned out, I did find myself in a fix, but it had little to do with the souvenirs I'd purchased.

  Chapter 14

  I walked into the Sweet Sixteen's campground store twenty seconds after the "open" light was illuminated. I'd arrived a half hour too early and had to wait impatiently in the truck until the store opened at nine. Much like the store at Rest 'n Peace, it had separate shelves for the different types of products available—for example: toiletries, RV supplies, snack items, and souvenirs.

  "Good morning, ma'am," I was greeted by a young wisp of a girl, no older than twenty in my estimation, wearing a name badge telling everyone her name was Gretchen. Despite her age, she was polite, friendly, and professional. After a few minutes of small-talk about the unseasonably warm weather that day, I got down to the business at hand.

  "I'm searching for a specific item this morning, Gretchen. Let me look around for a bit and see if you carry it here."

  "If you tell me what the item is, I may be able to save you the trouble."

  "Thanks, but I might find something else I'm interested in too. You probably know how it is. Like me, you might be one of those shop 'til you drop kind of gals." We exchanged smiles, and she told me to let her know if I needed any help. In reality, I hated to shop. I was too financially conservative—okay, cheap—to buy anything we didn't absolutely need. And buying necessities was as dull as watching two slugs race down a sidewalk. I was one of the few women who could walk into a store with a list of five things to buy, and walk back out with less than seventy-eight items, distributed among fifteen plastic shopping bags.

  I was mentally marking off the souvenirs I'd bought the day before in my head and was down to one final chance at finding what I needed. After I'd completed a second and third search and failed to locate a stuffed buffalo with the "Buffalo" patch affixed to its side, I had to refrain from clapping in delight.

  "Darn it!" I said loud enough for Gretchen to hear.

  "Couldn't find what you were looking for?" She asked.

  "No. But I have a notion I might be able to order what I need from one of the souvenir vendors you guys use. Is the person in charge of stocking the store available by any chance?"

  "That'd be the owner, Charly. I'm not positive, but I think she's collecting quarters from the pay phone."

  "Pay phone? They actually still have pay phones in Wyoming? Wow, Gretchen! You Wyoming folks need to see what's going on in the rest of the world. Pay phones have disappeared like dinosaurs during the Ice Age."

  The young lady laughed and assured me that, like the rest of the world, nearly every person over four in Wyoming had a cell phone. Give or take a couple of years, she'd said the same thing, almost word for word, that Jan had said to me in the laundry room. Gretchen went on to say, "Speaking of dinosaurs, there are still a lot of elderly folks, like in their sixties or so, who couldn't figure out how to make a call on an iPhone if their lives depended on it. A few are still reliant on public phones, which is why the Browns still offer one. Let me call Charly on the radio."

  Yes, please do, young lady, I thought, before I feel compelled to clock you with my handbag. Considering her cheeky comment, I had to wonder if Gretchen saw a prehistoric mammal when she looked at me. I considered myself a young sixty-eight. I could not only make phone calls, I could actually take a photo with our iPhone. As a matter of fact, on occasion I could even locate where the photo went after I took it if given enough time to push all the buttons or, of course, ask a four-year-old for assistance.

  Gretchen picked up a two-way radio and paged Charly, who assured the clerk she'd be over momentarily. Rip and I had worked as work campers on numerous occasions during our nearly seven years of living a nomadic life on wheels. We'd put in quite a few hours of work here and there in various campgrounds in lieu of paying rent. In some cases, we were paid a little cash, as well. As you know, if there's a little extra cash involved, I'm all over it!

  From my experience, I knew the vast majority of campgrounds normally employed only a handful of people, and it was usually the responsibility of the owner to deal with the vendors. I had taken this into consideration when devising my scheme.

  I introduced myself to Charly Brown when she entered the store. I recognized her immediately from the news release on television. Charly, who looked to be in her mid-fifties, was nearly a foot shorter than me, standing at about four-foot nine, and she probably weighed no more than ninety pounds after polishing off an entire Thanksgiving feast. I actually did feel a bit dinosaurish as I towered over the petite lady. I reminded myself to be careful I didn't wipe out any of the store's display racks with an inadvertent swish of my tail.

  Despite her diminutive size, I could tell she was an enterprising ball of fire. I had gone out to the truck and retrieved the stuffed buffalo I'd purchased the previous day while I waited for Charly to arrive. I was relieved there was at least one item I'd purchased that was not duplicated in her souvenir selection.

  I showed her the toy and explained I wanted to purchase another twelve of them so I could give one to each of my thirteen grandkids. Actually, my only two grandkids, Dusty and Tiffany, were well beyond the stuffed
animal stage, but Charly had no way of knowing that. Thirteen had always been my lucky number, even though I couldn't really recall it ever bringing me good luck. On the other hand, I couldn't remember it bringing me any bad luck either. For the record, I'd soon discover the number thirteen wouldn't turn out to be overly auspicious for me on that particular day.

  "I might be able to help you out, then," she said. "In fact, I have a number of similar stuffed animals. We're out of buffalo, but there's several other stuffed animals: moose, cougar, elk, big horn sheep, and several more. That way the kids wouldn't all have identical toys, which might prevent a lot of squabbling amongst them."

  "Hmm, yeah. You obviously don't know my grandkids," I said. Thank God! Or you'd wonder why two people in their twenties would squabble over stuffed animals.

  "Trust me, ma'am, I understand. My young grandchildren fight over everything, including which one of them is my favorite. I always tell them that none of them are. I say that my favorite grandchild is a well-behaved, well-mannered boy who never, ever, sasses his grandmother. Of course they just laugh, knowing they're my only three grandkids."

  I chuckled at her humorous story, and then said, "I did see the other stuffed animals while I was looking around. But, unfortunately, they just won't work."

  "Why not?"

  Why not, you ask? Good question, Charly, I thought. Could you give me a few seconds to concoct a reasonable, rational reason that you might readily believe? Finally, speaking matter-of-factly with a disappointed tinge to my voice, I replied, "You see, our last name is Bison, and—"

  "Bison? Seriously? What an unusual name," Charly replied. She appeared hesitant, as if waiting for me to tell her I was only joking and explain the real reason I couldn't possibly give a stuffed elk to one of my grandkids. So much for a reasonable, rational reason she'd readily believe. However, it was the best I could come up with under pressure. And at the moment, it was the only story I had at my disposal, so I was obligated to stick to it.

  "Yes, isn't it bizarre? Rapella Ann Bison's my full name. My husband's Native American, you see. Bison wouldn't have been my first choice for a surname, of course, but you can't pick who you fall in love with, can you? I guess you learned that first hand, Charly, when you married a man with the last name of Brown." That last remark was probably uncalled for, but it drove home my point.

  "So, you see, there's a specific reason why I want all thirteen toys to match. Several weeks ago, when we still had a camper on the bed of our truck, we stayed at the Rest 'n Peace campground down the road. According to the billboard just before the park's entrance gate, we thought it was the last campground we were likely to find for another hundred miles or so."

  "Yes, I know," Charly said. "That billboard still chaps my hide."

  "And with good reason," I agreed. "So, anyway, I bought this stuffed buffalo there and once I knew we were planning to come back here for a family reunion, I decided I wanted to get one for each of my thirteen grandchildren who all share the same last name of Bison. I had all boys, you see."

  "You were so lucky to have only sons. We only have two daughters. Girls are so dramatic. So did you all pick this town for your family reunion because of its name?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "You know, because bison is another term for buffalo, which is the name of our town."

  It took me a second to make the connection. "Oh, yes. Exactly! Seemed appropriate, as you astutely picked up on. We're staying in a motel this time, by the way, or we'd be staying here. So, as I was saying, before coming to your campground, I stopped at Rest 'n Peace, and the lady in the store told me they don't carry this item any longer. Oh, and I have to tell you, I was shocked to hear her say the owner, that Bea lady we'd met when we stayed there in March, was found dead not long ago. The gal working the counter—I think she told me her name was Jan—said initially the authorities had concluded Bea had been attacked and killed by a wild animal. Is that true?"

  "Yes, sadly it is. Isn't that just awful? Wait, a minute. What did this lady mean by 'initially'?"

  "Well, Jan told me she'd just heard that some new clue had surfaced indicating Bea's death might have been caused by a human perpetrator instead of a wild animal. According to her, the homicide detectives involved in the case are getting ready to begin an all-out search for potential suspects. In fact, Jan thought they may already have a likely perpetrator in their sights."

  Charly's expression never changed, I noticed. Not even the hint of a flinch. "It wouldn't surprise me one iota if someone killed her. Beata Whetstone was a vicious and vindictive person. Hateful broad, to be perfectly honest. I don't know how much interaction you had with her when you stayed there, but—"

  "Enough to know she wasn't the friendliest person in the world," I cut in. "Trust me, I couldn't agree with you more. And, besides that, her stuffed animals like this one were four dollars higher. But then, I felt like I got gouged every single time I had to buy something in their store."

  "No surprise there. Did the lady named Jan who waited on you today happen to tell you her full name?"

  "No. Jan's all I know. Why do you ask?"

  "I was just curious if it was Janelle Tyson-Simms, who also goes by the nickname, Jan."

  I had assumed Jan was short for either Janice or Janet, but it made sense to be a nickname for Janelle, as well. I asked Charly, "Tall, uppity brunette who just lost her husband?"

  "That's the one! Although 'lost' is a rather odd way to say 'divorced', don't you think? And then she took him to the cleaners, I might add." Charly didn't appear any fonder of Jan than she was of Bea.

  "She told me she was a widow." I was confused as to why nothing about Janelle, or Jan for short, seemed to be adding up to match the gal I'd spoken to on several occasions. "Are you saying Jan's husband, Mr. Simms, is alive and well?"

  "Paul lives in one of the fanciest homes in Buffalo. As far as I know he's doing well. The mix-up was probably just a misunderstanding on your part. As we get older, it's harder to remember everything correctly. Jan's first two husbands did die, and both of their deaths involved mysterious circumstances. But she divorced Paul Simms, who owns a number of hotels in Wyoming, after just two years of marriage. She received a huge settlement and now gets a hefty alimony check every month."

  I might seem like a prehistoric mammal to people in Gretchen's age range, and apparently Charly's, as well, but I was certain I didn't misunderstand Jan explicitly telling me she was a widow. I asked Charly, "Were all three of Janelle's husbands local dudes?"

  "Yes. She was a year behind me in high school. Her first marriage occurred three months after she graduated."

  "So much for this being her first time in Wyoming."

  "What?" Charly was obviously confused by my remark, but I didn't care to go into that aspect of it. My time talking to this friendly lady was limited, after all.

  "Never mind. Am I correct to assume all three of her husbands were well-to-do?"

  "Very. Husband number one was the CEO of an investment firm. He accidently fell off a cliff during a trip they took to the Grand Tetons to celebrate their seventh anniversary. There was no way to prove otherwise, so his death was never subjected to an intensive investigation."

  "Hmmm. That's an interesting way to scratch a seven-year itch. What happened to husband number two? Accidently fall chest first onto a sharp icicle?"

  Charly laughed. "Something like that, only more grotesque! He accidentally fell into a vat of boiling oil in a potato chip manufacturing plant he owned. Not surprisingly, Janelle had stopped by the plant to speak to him that day and was the only witness to the tragic mishap."

  "Her late husbands seemed to have had the same bad habit of losing their balance. I'm surprised Paul Simms didn't fall off the balcony of one of his hotels' penthouse suites. Accidentally, of course. Even if the couple's divorce was not his decision, Paul Simms was fortunate to get out of the marriage before he became the victim of a tragic accident."

  "My sentiments exactly!" Charly
agreed. "So, come with me. Let's see if I can help you out."

  "Thanks! I really appreciate it!" I hadn't gotten as much insight from the kind lady as I was hoping to get, but I'd gotten enough to propel Janelle Tyson-Simms higher up on my suspect list.

  If I'd been on top of my game that morning, I would have claimed a sudden migraine and promised to return the following day. And, of course, broken that vow before I found myself in a fix, as I so often do. So instead of leaving while the leaving was good, I followed Charly to her office as if she were the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

  The dark-haired woman waved me back to a small enclosed office in the corner of the store which was currently void of customers. Charly was bubbly and very personal, truly a ray of sunshine compared to Bea. As I took a seat next to the desk, I felt a twinge of guilt that I was playing her like a five-string banjo at a hillbilly hoe-down.

  After taking a reservation over the phone, Charly said, "I think I might be able to figure out which vendor I got these from. If so, I could order a dozen of them for you at my cost, which is about half the retail cost. And, of course, I'll just have you pay the wholesale price. And, better yet, they are cheaper by the dozen."

  I had no intention of ordering anything, but I gave her an appreciative smile. She couldn't have been more friendly, generous, or accommodating. I felt sure no one this kind could savagely slash anyone to shreds, even if she was a fierce rival with a competitive nature. However, I had to remind myself I couldn't judge a campground owner by her demeanor any more than I could judge a cozy mystery book by its cover.

  Letting her search for the item would give me a little time to question her and feel her out on her opponent's death, even though it turned out I'd have been better off to have left well enough alone. While she dragged out a number of catalogs, I asked, "You seem to have known Mrs. Whetstone well. As a fellow RV park owner, that's totally expected. So, just between the two of us, who do you think might have done the dirty deed if it turns out she really was killed by someone?"