Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping Read online

  “Bravo,” I said, as I approached the counter. “You could not have handled that self-absorbed witch any better than you just did, my friend. Obviously you’ve dealt with customers like her before.”

  “Not too often, fortunately,” Emily replied with a smile. “But when this place fills to overflowing during Frontier Days, occasionally some of the nastiest creatures come out of the woodwork. I particularly dislike those with no room to complain because they failed to make a reservation in advance and I’m forced to turn them away. But the vast majority of them are as polite and understanding as they could possibly be.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” I said, as I handed Emily my reservation slip.

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Lexie. I spoke to Stone a few weeks ago, and I’m so happy we were able to accommodate you all. After he told me of his desire to surprise you for your anniversary, I was praying for cancellations. When a woman called to cancel four sites her family had reserved due to an unexpected death in their family, I tried very hard not to sound pleased with her family’s misfortune.”

  “Emily! That’s just awful!” I chuckled, as I signed my credit card slip and told her I didn’t want to hold up the line. Ms. Fanny Finch already had people backed out the door because of her long-winded tirade.

  “I’m just pulling your leg about the last-minute cancellation. Actually, the entire group decided to bypass the festivities this year to be present for the imminent birth of a new family member. So it was a joyous reason, not a death, and I was happy for them. But I was happier still that I could call Stone and tell him we could accommodate your three rigs. Oh, by the way, Lexie,” Emily said, as Wendy, Veronica and I turned to leave. “I apologize in advance, but unfortunately her royal highness is parked right next to one of your three sites. I made the mistake of giving her the fourth site that opened up due to the last-minute cancellation.”

  “No worries,” I responded. “Even though I may not be able to display the patience you did, I’m sure I can hold my own with the esteemed Ms. Finch. I’m afraid I would have sent her packing the second after she walked in and slammed her reservation form down on the counter in front of me.”

  As we walked back to the rigs, two men in golf carts prepared to lead us to our assigned sites. I told the one parked in front of our motorhome to put us right next to the last camper he had parked, which would have been the Finches. I didn’t want to saddle either of the younger couples with an unpleasant neighbor.

  As we pulled into our site, I spotted Fanny Finch yelling and gesturing wildly at a man I assumed was her husband as they stood outside their Fifth Wheel. He was attaching his cord to the electrical pedestal, ignoring his spouse as if she were nothing more than a fruit fly buzzing around a rotting cantaloupe on the picnic table. I was sure he’d learned to tune her out many moons ago—to maintain his sanity, if nothing else.

  It was at that moment I had a fleeting feeling of uneasiness. That niggling premonition in the back of my mind when we pulled into the campground had come back in full force, and I feared I hadn’t seen or heard the last of the disagreeable author. To my chagrin, in most cases, I had found that my premonitions were almost always spot on.

  Chapter 3

  As I had expected, Stanley Harrington had to be called upon to give the men a refresher course in connecting all the utilities to the motorhomes. Somewhere between the thingybobber and the doohickey was a whatchamacallit that Stone didn’t know what to do with. Stanley explained that it was a regulator, designed to keep the water pressure at an optimal level.

  It was a Friday night in late July, and the opening night of the rodeo festivities. We didn’t have tickets to the concert that evening, so the six of us sat in lawn chairs on the patio next to our site. The campground was a beehive of activity, and it was fun just watching the other campers coming and going. We saw a bus pull up in front of the office and a swarm of excited people rush to board it for a ride to the fairgrounds where Toby Keith would be entertaining the crowd in concert that evening.

  At an elevation of over six thousand feet, it was remarkably cool for a mid-summer evening. I was wearing my Kansas Jayhawks sweatshirt, and relishing the fact that all my friends back home in Kansas and Missouri were probably sweating like an ice-cold glass of lemonade on a hot Midwestern night.

  For a late supper, the six of us had purchased barbecued pork sandwiches and fries from the little restaurant on the premises. I had remembered Emily and Stanley talking about it being a new addition to their campground one evening as we gathered in the parlor of the Alexandria Inn for an after-supper cup of coffee.

  The food was delicious and we devoured it as we visited and relaxed in our lawn chairs. I had my ever-present cup of coffee in my hand as I listened to a lively debate between Andy and Wyatt about which political party was most apt to put us in a deep depression and ruin our country the fastest. In the end, it was a six-of-one and half-a-dozen of the other consensus. We all agreed, no matter which party was in power, our country was destined to go down the toilet faster than we could holler, “Impeach him!”

  To veer the conversation toward a less depressing subject, I said, “I wonder if our owl was rescued and how it’s doing tonight.”

  “I’m betting he’s being well taken care of,” Stone replied. “The gentleman on the phone assured me that if the owl’s injuries were limited to a broken wing, or something of that nature, it would be rehabilitated and allowed to recover at the wildlife center. It would then be set free once it was completely healed. If the owl’s injuries were too severe for it to ever be able to return to the wild, then the bird would make its permanent home at the center, where children often take field trips to learn more about wildlife indigenous to their area.”

  “That would be kind of like being condemned to the Shady Acres Nursing Home for birds of prey,” I said. “I sure hope the owl can be set free eventually so it can live out its life in its natural environment.”

  “I’m sure they do all they can to make their habitat as close to what they’re accustomed to as possible,” Wyatt said. “Occasionally, while we’re on patrol, we find an injured animal and transport it to a rehab center outside of St. Joseph. Just a couple of weeks ago, I took a red fox there that had gotten tangled up in a metal snare and was attempting to gnaw off its leg to get free.”

  “Oh, my goodness! How disturbing. Those traps should be illegal,” Wendy said, taking the words right out of my mouth, and probably the others in our group.

  Veronica turned to Wyatt and asked, “Isn’t that the one you went to check on at the rehab center last week?”

  “Yes, I was worried about the little critter and wanted to see how he was faring. I’m happy to say the vet told me that other than that injured leg, it looked pretty healthy. He felt confident he’d be able to return to the wild after he’d had some time to heal.”

  “What wonderful news,” I said. I wasn’t surprised at all that Wyatt would make a special trip to check on the animal’s welfare. He was a kind, compassionate man with a heart of gold. “Sounds like a great rehab facility.”

  “It is, Lexie, as most of them tend to be. The center I took the injured fox to is a protected wildlife sanctuary that appears to be a really well-kept—”

  Before the detective could finish his comment, a piercing scream filled the air and startled us all. I spilled coffee all over my sweatshirt when I jumped in reaction to the sound, which was immediately followed by the sound of something hitting the inside wall of the Jayco Fifth Wheel just a matter of feet from where we were sitting. We heard the shattering of glass and a male voice shouting out a very graphic obscenity. There was a loud commotion inside of the RV where very descriptive name-calling was being exchanged and a scuffle appeared to be taking place.

  Since I knew Fanny Finch was in the site next to us, it was apparent she was in a lively tussle with her husband and it was his voice we’d heard cussing in anger. Detective Johnston was often called out to investigate domestic dis
putes, and had told me they were often the most dangerous calls to respond to. I looked at him and raised my eyebrows in question. I felt we needed to do something to prevent the quarrel from escalating, but didn’t know what the best course of action would be.

  “Wyatt, what should we do?” I asked, always willing to butt in to other people’s business, particularly when their business appeared to me to be in dire need of butting into.

  “By we, I assume you mean me. I can’t just push my way into their RV and arrest anyone, Lexie. I am out of my jurisdiction, obviously, and am nothing more than a regular citizen here. However, if it sounds like their squabble is getting to the point someone could get seriously injured, I’ll call 9-1-1 and go knock on the door to try to intervene until the officers arrive.”

  Just then, we heard the door of the Fifth Wheel open and immediately slam shut. We watched silently as Fanny Finch, carrying a bathing suit and beach towel, headed up the road toward the pool area. She walked quite briskly and it was clear she was livid. When Fanny got to the gate leading into the pool area, she slipped inside it and disappeared from our sight.

  Wendy broke the stunned silence by asking, “Do you reckon she’s going to go for a swim while she waits for her husband to calm down?”

  “Probably,” Wyatt replied. “That is usually the best course of action. It gives both parties a chance to cool down until they can discuss whatever provoked the argument in a civil manner.”

  Witnessing the spirited spat effectively squelched the light-hearted camaraderie we’d been engaging in. Everyone stood and folded up their lawn chairs, wished each other a good night, and retired to their own motorhome. I couldn’t help wondering what had started the Finch’s dispute. I couldn’t understand how anyone could get along with someone as full of herself as Fanny Finch. I didn’t care if she’d written Gone With the Wind. As far as I was concerned, she was still no better than any other person in the campground. If she were Margaret Mitchell, the actual author of that famous classic, I might have been tempted to modify my statement a touch − but she wasn’t!

  I just prayed that being parked next to Fanny Finch and her husband didn’t take the joy out of our vacation in some unforeseeable way. But I’d also prayed I’d be celebrating our anniversary on a Caribbean cruise, and here I was in a Wyoming campground instead and enjoying almost every minute of it. Sometimes there was a good reason for not having your prayers answered the way you want them answered. Could this vacation turn out to be one of those times? I wondered.

  * * *

  After a good night’s sleep, I fixed French toast for breakfast and then called Wendy to see if she wanted to go for a swim with me. She did, and she met me at the pool gate about five minutes later looking very attractive in a two-piece blue and white bikini that had less material than the last hot pad I’d purchased.

  In comparison, I felt like a ninety-year-old lady in my matronly one-piece suit with the hip-camouflaging skirt and high-cut front that completely covered any hint of cleavage—not that I had an over-abundance of cleavage to cover. In Kohl’s dimly lit dressing room, I thought the yellow with black trim swimming suit had looked decent enough on me. But in the presence of my daughter and other swimmers in the unforgiving light of day, it looked frumpy and outdated. If I gained ten more pounds, I’d probably resemble a school bus and require a back-up alarm stitched into the suit.

  I was reluctant to unwrap the beach towel from around my body and put my swimsuit-clad body on display. I was relieved when Wendy remarked on how cute the suit was, and how nice it looked on me, as I slowly revealed myself. I complimented her on her suit, as well.

  There were four other women and one man in the pool. The man’s flabby abdomen lapped over the rim of a red, white, and blue Speedo that was twenty years too young and forty pounds too small for him. I was afraid the waistband would snap like a banjo string strung too tightly past its limit. It was the most unpatriotic display of our flag’s colors I’d ever seen.

  The chubby man stepped onto the diving board and executed a painful-looking belly flop. He then glanced around to see if the other swimmers had watched and admired what I’m sure he thought was an Olympic-quality swan dive. He might even be delusional enough to think he looked like Greg Louganis in his skimpy swim trunks. The two middle-aged women standing in the shallow end doing water aerobics looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and quickly went back to the routine they were performing. The third woman, a very attractive redhead, had on a bone-dry bikini, and her long red hair was blowing slightly in the breeze. She had no beach towel with her and I was pretty sure she’d only come to rest and relax with the book she was reading, not to partake in any swimming. As I walked past her, she glanced up, nodded at me, and returned to the book she held out in front of her to shade the sun from her eyes. She almost appeared to be hiding behind the book whose cover bore the image of a handsome, dark-haired man strumming a guitar.

  The last of the four women was donning a black swimming cap and paying no attention to the man, who crossed her path on his way to the ladder as she swam toward the deep end with a well-executed butterfly stroke. She looked like she was involved in an intensive training routine to compete in some form of swim meet.

  Wendy jumped right in, but I stuck a toe in to test the temperature of the water, which was as chilly as I had expected it to be, with the cool Wyoming evenings. Inch by inch I worked my way down the steps into the pool, wondering if Wendy’s method of entering the water would have been preferable to prolonging the agony of taking so long to submerge. Granted, it was a heated pool, but anything more than five degrees cooler than what you’d find in the average hot tub was too cold for me. I was a cold-blooded person—sometimes in more ways than one, I’m ashamed to admit.

  When the woman doing laps swam toward me looked up, I was surprised to see it was Fanny Finch. She stopped swimming long enough to stand up in the pool and shout at the man who had just leapt off the diving board a second time, looking like a bloated bullfrog jumping into a pond.

  “Please quit embarrassing yourself, Avery! I swear, if I didn’t need you to be my driver, I’d leave your hideous hide at home.” The man dried himself off and strode purposely toward the gate. He left the pool area without a word to Fanny. I wondered if Avery was just her driver, or had the misfortune to be married to her as well.

  I didn’t have to wonder long, though. The two women in the shallow end had stopped exercising and were standing with their mouths open in obvious disbelief. Wendy, who was warming up with some water aerobics near them, glared at the verbally abusive author. Fanny turned to the three of them, and asked, “Would any of you like a worthless, overweight husband who looks like the American flag was painted on his fat bum? I happen to have one I’m willing to let go—cheap.”

  Wendy continued to frown at Fanny, and the other two women, mouths still agape, shook their heads woodenly and didn’t speak. The redhead in the chaise lounge appeared oblivious to the entire exchange even though I’d noticed Fanny turn her way as she spoke, as if the comment was made specifically on the stunning sunbather’s behalf.

  I turned away as nonchalantly as I could and begin to swim toward the deep end of the pool. Within seconds, Fanny passed me as if I were parked at a red light. She was doing the American crawl, but I was the one who looked like I was crawling. As fit as Fanny was, it shouldn’t have surprised me that she swam like Esther Williams, albeit in a snooty writer’s body.

  I was winded after swimming two laps, and it shocked me how quickly I had run out of gas. As I dragged my weary body up the ladder, I made a vow to try to get myself into better shape. Working on my endurance by swimming laps while staying at the campground would be a good way to start on my new resolution. I decided that I’d try to get in as much pool time as I could before we headed home.

  When Wendy and I left the pool about fifteen minutes later, the two women exercising in the shallow end had already departed and Fanny was in the middle of what seemed like her hundre
dth lap. The sunbather was hastily packing her book, bottle of water, and sunglasses into a beach bag, as if preparing to head back to her campsite. It seemed almost as if she didn’t want to be left alone with Fanny Finch in the pool area. Having witnessed Fanny’s rude and mean-spirited remarks to her husband, I couldn’t blame the red-headed beauty. I wouldn’t trust the venomous author either.

  I was anxious to get back to the motorhome and tell Stone what we’d witnessed. Wendy and I parted ways with plans to meet at her motorhome after we’d had a chance to put on dry clothes. The men were going to the rodeo after lunch, and we gals were left to amuse ourselves until they returned. We’d been invited to go along with the guys, but had unanimously agreed that watching the daily rodeo’s highlights on the Cheyenne TV station each evening was all the bull-riding and calf-roping we needed to see. As far as I was concerned, if you’d seen one guy fly off a bucking horse, you’d seen them all. Besides, I had a tendency to cheer for the animals, and that didn’t always sit well with the folks in the stands around me.

  After we all gathered outside Wendy and Andy’s rig, Wyatt winked at Wendy before turning toward Veronica, and saying, “I’ve got good news and bad news for you, sweetheart. A little birdie told me that Vex Vaughn is your favorite country singer and I was able to snag six tickets to his concert on Thursday night.”

  Veronica squealed and turned into Wyatt’s embrace in pure bliss. “You are the best, honey! I am super excited to go see him perform! Did you get good seats?”

  “Well, that’s the bad news, I’m afraid. The only tickets I could find are in the standing-room-only section.” Wyatt sounded apologetic with his response.

  “Awesome!” Veronica said, with a fist pump as an exclamation point. “That’s even better. I want to get as close to the stage as I can, just in case he throws a guitar pick or something into the crowd.”