The Busybody Needed Killing, page 12
The gas station I chose was next to one of the clubs. As I pumped gas, I wondered why there was a cluster of them here—after wondering why we still called it pumping gas—another language relic like dialing the phone. At The Festival this year Bobby had explained to me that antique shops and secondhand stores like to be close to each other—customers at one store are likely to go to others—increases traffic—car dealers too. I looked around at the cars parked in the nearby lot—noticed a couple of tractor-trailer rigs parked off to one side—then realized that the bulk of the cars all sported Alabama license plates.
In Alabama we still have dry counties where it is illegal to buy alcoholic beverages—liquor, beer, wine, or any combination thereof. As you’re driving the back two-lane roads of rural Alabama it’s easy to spot when you cross the county line—if you’re going from a wet county to a dry one or vice versa. There’s always a store at the county line—either the first chance to buy what can’t be bought in the adjoining county or, on the other side of the road, your last chance.
Now I had two reasons to explain why the gentlemen’s clubs were clustered here. I decided they weren’t mutually exclusive. I had no idea what the difference in laws was between Tennessee and Alabama, but the club owners were clearly taking advantage of it.
I had turned on my phone when I got out of the car. I turn it off while I’m on the interstate. I have no intention of talking on it while I am going over seventy miles per hour with idiot drivers who are talking on the phone—or texting.
I checked for messages. There was one from Jack. He sounded fine. The police had returned Bex to the school where she worked after having her sit by herself in what sounded like an interrogation room for several hours. She’d been told that there had been a miscommunication, that they had asked her to come in prematurely—before they were ready to take her statement—then she’d been driven back to school. As the school had already found a substitute teacher, she’d wisely decided to take the rest of the day off and was back at home.
Idly, I wondered if there was still a roof on the police station, if she’d blistered the ears off of the officer who was unlucky enough to have drawn the short straw and driven her back to school, and how Jack was coping with a woman who was probably storming around the house throwing f-bombs left and right. He sounded calm enough. Maybe Bex had gone outside to let off steam.
The internal pressure to get there eased and I realized that I was going to be really hungry if I didn’t stop somewhere between here and Cranbury. While I’d been willing to eat a fast-food burger and fries with one hand while driving with the other, circumstances had changed. Did I have time to sit down and eat? I looked around and decided that food wasn’t the top priority at these establishments and wondered if a place closer to Nashville might not be better.
I pulled out my wallet and found Deputy Howard’s and the dispatcher’s cards. I’d saved Tyson’s phone number and had it in my phone but figured I’d rather talk to Nan than to Tyson. Based on what happened to Bex and my conversation with Tyson, I had some serious reservations regarding the competency of whoever was running the show up there. Nan, on the other hand, had been impressive.
Like a lot of good ideas I have, I kicked myself for not thinking of it earlier. Nan answered my call, knew who I was, had a good idea why I was calling, and an even better idea what I needed to do next.
“Mr. Crawford, so nice to talk to you. You’re on your way back here?”
“I’ve just crossed the state line, filled up with gas, checked in with Jack Harlon, and now I’m calling for instructions. When do I need to be at Camp Serenity? Have I got time to stop for lunch?”
“You’re driving up Interstate 65, aren’t you?”
I allowed that I was.
“And you just crossed the state line? Would you like to,” she paused picking her words carefully, “linger at that exit?”
She clearly knew which exit I’d stopped at and what was there—anybody who’d driven up and back on Interstate 65 who’d paid attention to billboards would have known.
“No, I was actually interested in food—not a floor show. Is there someplace between here and there that you’d recommend? If there’s time.”
It turned out there was plenty of time since the investigative teams were all out at the old Harrison place. Shooting a deputy brings a laserlike focus from law enforcement.
Nan suggested Egbert’s and I explained that they’d served Egbert’s BBQ at the after rehearsal dinner. There was a pause on her end of the line while she clearly wondered why having it Friday night would make me less interested in it on Monday morning.
“I’d eat too much and be liable to fall asleep at the wheel—and I’d want a beer and that would make it worse. Please don’t tell me that I don’t have to eat everything they put on my plate. What about a place I can get a cup of soup and half a sandwich?”
“The Coffee Well,” Nan answered immediately. “Same exit as Egbert’s so it will be busy, but you turn right after you exit instead of left. Try the special—whatever it is.”
“If they’ve got anything on the menu with their name on it, I usually try that.”
“Really? I never thought of that—makes some sense. Let me know how that works out for you at the Coffee Well.”
She sounded like she was getting ready to hang up. “Uh, Nan, what time am I supposed to meet somebody at Camp Serenity? Is it on your schedule? I told Tyson I’d be there today.”
“Tyson? Is that who you talked to? Great, that will make it easier to find out if anybody knows anything about your coming up and if they’ve made any arrangements to get deputies out to Camp Serenity.” She paused and then spoke again reflectively. “Tyson, huh?”
“So what’s with him? Is he just young or what?” I decided Nan didn’t need to hear the other reasons I had come up with for explaining his behavior.
“Why don’t you just eat your lunch and then drive on out to Camp Serenity. I’ll get in touch with Ms. Hardy about when you can expect a team of deputies. As for Tyson,” Nan’s voice hardened, “I guess you could blame it on his being young.”
I had the feeling that young Master Tyson was going to experience a brief period of rapid aging when Nan got in touch with him.
“How about Deputy Howard? Any news on his condition? Tyson told me he was in ICU.” I realized after I’d said it that I might be getting Tyson into more trouble. “I made him tell me. He tried not to. Something about respecting privacy.” I knew that if she wasn’t supposed to give out that information, I wasn’t going to get it.
“Oh.”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “If you can’t ‘give out that information’ I understand.”
“I haven’t heard anything officially. The men laugh and tell me he’s too tough and mean to die from being shot in the back, but they don’t really mean it. There’s worry in their eyes. That’s all I know.”
I followed Nan’s advice and stopped at the Coffee Well. The bread might have come from the specialty bakery next door—or they could have baked it there—I didn’t ask. Everything else had clearly been made on the premises.
I didn’t see any dish with Coffee Well in its name but today’s special—a smoked turkey and pesto panini with home-made chips turned out to be very special and they were graciousness personified when I asked if I could have half a sandwich and a cup of the stuffed-baked-potato soup. Special orders didn’t upset them at all. On top of that, they knew the mixture of iced tea and lemonade called an Arnold Palmer—said they needed to add it to the menu, in fact.
I’d had to drive through a snarl of local traffic to get there—and to get back to the interstate—but the food had been well worth the traffic hassle.
It is a universal truth that the second time you drive to some god-forsaken place way out in the country, you get there much faster than you did the first time. At least it’s true in my universe. The third time can go either way but—generally—it takes an amount of time somewhere between the first and second trip. Upon reflection, Camp Serenity couldn’t really be god-forsaken—I suppose—but it was still true that the second trip took less time.
The entrance to the camp looked the same when I pulled up and stopped. On an impulse I got out of my car, crossed over the border from the county road to the camp road, turned around, looked back down the dirt road, and compared what I saw to my memory. No change except the tire marks I remembered from that morning had been blurred by time and traffic. It must not have rained or the tracks would be gone. Good, that meant the ditch wasn’t any wetter than it had been.
The crime scene tape still outlined the area that Deputy Howard and I had cordoned off. Our work might have kept humans out, but I was sure nature had paid no attention. The tape fluttered in the wind and might be coming loose in spots but it should be fine until the deputies showed up.
I walked over to the shed where children had waited for the school bus and glanced at the bench inside. Today there was some general forest debris scattered across it—leaves and other unidentifiable vegetation, and it looked like a spider was building a web.
For whatever reason, I felt a sense of satisfaction. I got back in my car, drove onto camp property, and headed for the main lodge.
When I pulled into the parking lot I realized that Camp Serenity must be almost deserted. The lot in front of the lodge was empty—employees must have their own lot behind the lodge. There were no signs of the golf carts that I’d seen ferrying people and supplies back and forth. They must be stored in some kind of garage—hidden from the customers’ sight.
I pulled up in front of the office and wondered who’d be there to greet me. Sonya Hardy, certainly—then I remembered that her mother was under hospice care—and dropped that likelihood down from certain to possible. I wondered who her second-in-command was. The only other staff member I’d met was Connie. Upon reflection, all I could be sure of was that I wouldn’t meet Theodore Drake this time.
The bell on the door chimed as I closed it behind me. For how long had that simple device alerted those within shops, stores, and offices that somebody had entered the premises? It was a perfect use of simple technology to solve a problem. A simple, inexpensive solution that was pretty much fail-safe. I looked up at the bell—still rocking slightly from side to side—and imagined a connection that leapt across the centuries and continents. Who, I wondered, was the genius whose creation was still being used?
“Mr. Crawford?”
I turned back to the previously empty counter and saw Sonya Hardy standing behind it. I’d forgotten how tall she was. I pointed at the bell on the door, “Do you ever wonder what genius invented that and when?”
She smiled. “Yes, and wondered how many times it’s been invented by other geniuses.”
“Maybe once it was invented it became part of our collective memory?”
She laughed. “If you want to get philosophical you should talk to Dr. Godwin. It’s beyond me.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Me too, usually. I’m trying to remember the first time I ever saw one. Must have been one of those little neighborhood stores we used to have when I was growing up.” I grinned. “They were dying out back then and were gone before you were born, for sure.”
I went on. “What news of the deputies? Nan said she’d call you with the plans.”
“And she asked me to call her when you got here so she could remind the sheriff to send somebody out.” She picked up the phone that was on the counter, checked a pad of paper that was sitting next to it, dialed a number, and ended up leaving a message.
“I’m sure she’ll call as soon as she’s off the phone. Is there anything I could get you? We’ve got a pot of coffee that’s not that old.”
I had no desire for fresh coffee much less any that wasn’t “that old.” “No thanks. Have you heard why somebody might have killed the deacon or who might have done it?”
I had been in the private detecting business long enough to have learned that sometimes you just have to jump right in and bring up the topic.
Sonya had shaken her head “no” so quickly that I wondered if it meant she hadn’t heard anything or that she’d no intention of repeating what she’d heard.
“Deputy Howard mentioned something about a hermit living in the woods out here?”
This time she paused. “Eric of the Woods? That’s what the campers call him. There’s some campfire story the senior counselors like to tell to the new campers—all about the mysterious man who wanders the forests around Camp Serenity.” She considered the idea for a little, then shook her head. “No, no, I wouldn’t think he’d be dangerous—despite the gory ghost stories the camp counselors tell. Last year we had a camper who got lost and Eric led him back. He never said anything to the boy or even got that close to him. The boy said he just followed Eric—and Eric would wait for him if he was lagging behind—until he struck one of our paths and then Eric pointed in the direction of the camp and disappeared.”
I nodded. “The deacon had called in a complaint about somebody trespassing on his property that morning—right after the rain stopped. That’s why Deputy Howard was out here—responding to the complaint. He wondered if the deacon might have tried to confront this Eric of the Woods.”
Sonya stood still looking off into the distance for a moment giving my question some thought. “You know I had driven into Cranbury that night—well, early morning—went to visit my mother—came back after the rain. I didn’t see anybody out there.” I remembered what Dr. Summers had said during the wedding reception about hospice and Sonya’s mother.
She turned and faced me. “I can’t see it, Mr. Crawford. Theodore Drake confronting a man who lives in the woods—surviving off the land as he does. It would be like a little yappy lap dog barking at a wolf. Eric would just have ignored him and gone on about his business.”
A different picture popped into my mind—a dangerous animal taking care of a small annoyance with a quick snap of its jaws and toss of its head. Time to change the subject.
“Speaking of campers, do you have much trouble with drugs out here? Bunch of kids out in the middle of nowhere—no Internet, poor phone service, no video games.” My voice trailed off.
“Oh no,” Sonya laughed and shook her head. “When I was running some of those exclusive resorts in Florida and California—that’s where there was a drug problem—staff and guests. I don’t know what was worse.” She caught herself. “Yes, I do. The staff was my responsibility—so that was worse—but some of the guests. Oh, my.”
She laughed again. “There may be some marijuana smoked down in the woods—occasionally—but nothing up here that I’d have to address. The counselors are self-policing— children grow up wanting to be counselors at Camp Serenity and they don’t like it when their peers mess things up.”
The phone rang. “That’s probably the sheriff’s office.” She raised her hand, slipped her hair behind her ear, and lifted the receiver.
So those muddy tire tracks had been from her car—just as I'd suspected. And campers wouldn’t have used the gate as a place to smoke dope. It had been a stupid question. Not only were there no campers here then, but they’d have to have been more than foolish to go to the camp entrance to smoke.
I was having trouble making the joint I’d found make any sense as part of a murder—had a big drug deal gone bad at the entrance to Camp Serenity and Theodore Drake had to die because of what he saw? Now that I thought about it, I was having trouble making sense out of any part of the murder.
Sonya hung up the phone. “The dispatcher promised to call once the deputies were on their way so there’s no need for you to wait by the gate. Why don’t you sit down,” she pointed at some overstuffed armchairs, “and make yourself comfortable.”
“Answer me one thing and then I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Go ahead. I don’t have that much to do—getting ready for year end. There’s not much happening here during this time of the year. Not many parishes come on retreats during the Christmas season or people who want to get married—at camp anyway.” She crossed her hands on the counter and looked at me inquiringly.
“I was just wondering. How did the camp end up with the name Serenity? I’d have thought it would be named after a saint—serenity is such a general term—almost secular.”
“Now that’s a good question. I’ve never asked anybody about it so I don’t know the answer.”
“I’ve never heard anybody mention it.” Connie Green appeared behind Sonya, dressed in the burgundy and khaki camp uniform as usual. “Excuse me, Sonya, I heard you talking and decided we must have a visitor. Welcome back to Camp Serenity, Mr. Crawford.”
“Call me Crawford.”
Sonya glanced at both of us. “I see you two have met.”
“I missed the brunch the day of the wedding and Connie was nice enough to fix me a plate of biscuits, cheese, and some excellent fried chicken. She threw in a glass of milk to top it off.”
“It was the Christian thing to do. All the poor man had had to eat was that cup of coffee you took out there to them—Crawford and Deputy Howard that is. How is he? Has anybody heard? Poor man. I heard Mr. Harrison has been arrested even though he’s still in the hospital too—something about a policeman at the door to his room. I’m sure he’s torn between hoping he hasn’t committed murder and being frightened of what the deputy would do to him if he recovers.”
The concept of someone guilty of attempted murder being conflicted over whether his victim survived struck me as novel.
“As far as where the name Serenity came from is concerned I’d ask Dr. Godwin. Joseph is as likely to know as anybody else now that Deacon Drake has passed. Of course, Theodore might not have known either. In fact it sounds like something that if he’d known he’d have told the story every chance he got. You know how tiresome he could be.”
