Autumns, Awnings, & Arson, page 1
AUTUMNS, AWNINGS, & ARSON
A CAMPER AND CRIMINALS COZY MYSTERY SERIES
BOOK THIRTY-EIGHT
TONYA KAPPES
CONTENTS
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Recipes and camping hacks from Mae West and the Laundry Club Ladies
Cast Iron Skillet Pumpkin Pie
Duct Tape Hack
Campfire Breakfast Burritos
Tension Rod Hack
A NOTE FROM TONYA
Books By Tonya
About Tonya
TONYA KAPPES
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CHAPTER ONE
There weren’t many things I was completely sure of.
Take this year’s Daniel Boone Festival.
Was the fun of the festival or the history behind the event what got me most excited?
Hmm… I wondered, weighing my two options.
The one thing I was completely sure of was how gorgeous the Daniel Boone National Forest was this time of the year. The forest presented itself not only to me but the thousands of tourists who would descend upon our small woodland town of Normal, Kentucky, to take in the seventy-fifth jubilee year of the Daniel Boone Festival with a painted autumnal backdrop that no camera could ever capture.
“History,” I said loudly enough for Dottie Swaggert to hear my conclusion, which I meant only for myself. “Definitely history.”
“Whut are you talkin’ about?” Dottie shifted on one leg, jutted her hip out, and eyeballed me like I had lost my marbles.
“Just think.” I turned and looked at Dottie, hugged the clipboard to my chest, and twisted, glancing around Pioneer Village. “Seventy-five years ago, this festival started. And we still get to see how Daniel Boone lived.”
I let out a long sigh. The sheer thought of how long this festival had been going on, paying tribute to the man who walked these very mountains we called home, brought me such delight and pride.
“Can you imagine living in one of those cabins or stone houses?” I asked and pointed at the one beside the wooden sign that read Blacksmith.
Dottie, seemingly unimpressed, took a long drag off her cigarette. The end burned bright red with the long inhalation and dimmed as she pulled the cigarette from her lips and blew a steady stream of smoke with one eye closed. Her other eye was fixed on someone talking much louder than necessary.
“I wouldn’t’ve wanted to live here, no way, no how,” Dottie drawled, flicking her ashes into the wind. “Shoot, if I’d been born back then, I’d have lasted about as long as a snowball in a skillet.” She harumphed. “It would’ve been too much work to even make a cup of coffee, much less figure out how to curl my hair.”
“I bet you wouldn’t last back then.” I chuckled, eyeing Dottie’s black long-sleeved shirt. “I’m sure they didn’t have a Bedazzler back then for sure.”
She’d gone all out with orange, yellow, and green rhinestones, trying to make them look like autumn leaves drifting down from a tree.
“You want one, don’t ya?” Her Southern drawl was as thick as sweet tea. "I see you eyeballing my shirt."
She winked and used her cigarette-holding finger to flick something off one of the bedazzled leaves before pointing at the shirt.
“I’ve got a few made up just for this here festival and one with your name on it.” Dottie nodded slowly, her tight red curls bouncing slightly. I could tell she’d slept in those hot pink sponge curlers, and they’d start to droop as the day wore on. “Whattaya say?” she asked, her words running together.
“Put me down for one in a small,” I told her, but my voice trailed off as the loud voices we’d heard earlier grew even louder.
Suddenly, the cabin door swung open with a bang. Out stormed Lila Parker, clutching the powder horn she’d been crafting painstakingly.
Her usually neat blond hair was falling out of its pins, and her eyes blazed with a mix of anger and frustration.
The delicate powder horn, which was supposed to be a perfect replica of Daniel Boone’s and which the National Park Board had commissioned her to make, trembled in her grip as she turned back toward the cabin, her voice shaking but loud enough to carry across the entire Pioneer Village.
“I don’t care if you’re the world’s leading expert, Dr. Hamilton!” Lila shouted, her voice echoing off the log walls. “You can’t rush perfection! If you don’t like how I work, then find someone else to finish this horn, but don’t you dare question my craftsmanship!”
She spun on her heel, her face flushed, and marched past Dottie and me, muttering under her breath as she disappeared down the path toward her own cabin.
The tension in the air was thicker than molasses in January. I couldn’t help but exchange a concerned glance with Dottie.
“Lila,” I called to her. “Are you okay?”
She came over and looked at me a little confused, like she couldn’t place where she’d seen me before.
“I’m Mae from the National Park Committee, here to check on the schedule of events one last time until tomorrow,” I said, nodding toward the cabin where Dr. Hamilton was setting up for his presentation. “And I couldn’t help but overhear there seems to be a problem.”
“Problem? Not with me.” She pointed at herself. “I’ll tell you the problem.” She slid her finger and pointed it directly at Dr. Hamilton’s cabin. “He’s the problem. He only thinks he’s an expert, and if I’m correct, your committee is the one who hired me to make the powder horn replica.”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“I thought it would be nice to show it during his presentation.” She let go of a big exhausted sigh as if trying to regain her composure. With a much calmer, steadier, and more even tone, she said, “I’m sorry, but I have studied the powder horn for years. I have made and presented all about the horn, but when someone of Dr. Hamilton’s stature tells you that your horn was not up to par, I guess I just took a hit to the ego.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, wanting to make her feel better. “It was kind of you to offer, but just stick with the events we have already planned.”
“It’s just on this,” Lila commented, holding up the horn. “I have found something that could change his research—” Then her phone rang, and she looked at the screen. “I’m sorry. I need to take this.” She darted off.
“She’s stomping so hard she’s gonna cause the ground to shake and knock off the pretty leaves around here,” Dottie joked. But I was a member of the National Park Committee and the one in charge of making sure the activities were planned and run smoothly, so those words gave me pause.
“I sure hope not,” I said, glancing around at the vibrant landscape surrounding us. “Those leaves are one of the main reasons tourists flock here,” I teased, making light of a very tense situation that wouldn’t be good for the festival.
All around us, the trees were dressed in their finest fall colors, rich shades of amber, gold, and red. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of pine and earth, which mingled with the sweet fragrance of fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. It was the kind of beauty that could only be found in the Daniel Boone National Forest this time of year, where every turn of the trail offered a breathtaking view of nature’s handiwork. The sunlight filtered through the canopy of the over-one-hundred-year-old oak trees that stood all over the Pioneer Village, making the place look like something out of a postcard.
The festival had drawn folks from all over who were eager to soak in the sights and sounds of autumn in one of Kentucky’s most picturesque spots. Since this was the Diamond Year of the festival, expectations were higher than ever.
Not only were we celebrating this milestone here in the Pioneer Village, but the festivities stretched into downtown Normal and even the Happy Trails Campground.
As a committee member, I cared about ensuring every part of the festival went off without a hitch in the village and downtown area, but my heart and soul were tied to the campground. Happy Trails was my bread and butter, and Dottie Swaggert, my campground manager, felt the same. We both knew how hard winter could be, with its snow, ice, and biting cold, so we did everything we could during peak tourist season to prepare.
Although Dottie didn’t admit it outright, I suspected her Bedazzled shirt sales would go toward keeping us afloat if our financial situation got tight.
“Why don’t you go smooth things over with her while I check on Martha?” Dottie suggested, her tone a mix of concern and practicality.
She didn’t need to spell it out. We both knew how crucial it was to keep peace among the various Daniel Boone experts Judge Gab Hemmer had invited to speak or demonstrate during
Like I said, this year was the festival’s seventy-fifth, and this time the guests were pulling out all the stops.
“Okay, I’ll meet you back at the car in about twenty minutes,” I agreed, knowing we still needed to check on the downtown activities before heading back to Happy Trails to welcome our Sunday check-ins.
I watched as Dottie, her steps purposeful despite the playful aura that always surrounded her, proceeded over to Martha Jean Calloway. I hadn’t had much cause to deal with Martha Jean myself, but I sure had heard plenty about her, especially from Queenie French.
When Queenie was teaching Jazzercise down in the undercroft of the Normal Baptist Church, she’d also volunteered her time at the Historical Society. There, she’d crossed paths with Martha Jean, which was how her name had come up more than once during our book club meetings. We’d usually start out talking about whatever book we’d agreed to read, but that never lasted more than five minutes before we started “blessing” everyone in town. And by “blessing,” I mean gossiping about, though it sounded a whole lot better when we called it “blessing.”
Based on what I gathered from Queenie’s “blessings,” Martha Jean had always been a prominent figure in Normal, Kentucky. She came from a long line of locals who prided themselves on their deep ties to the town’s history. Martha Jean had taken on the role of the self-appointed guardian of Normal’s legacy, curating the town’s small museum and leading historical tours.
When the committee decided she should lead the tours for the Pioneer Village, I hadn’t had the heart to tell Queenie directly. I figured it was better for her to find out through the Normal Gazette’s publication of the National Park Committee’s meeting notes. That didn’t stop her from grumbling about it, though.
And to be fair, Martha Jean did take a lot of pride in her heritage, and she certainly dressed the part.
As Dottie approached, I took a moment to really observe Martha Jean. She was a woman in her late fifties, with a warm, approachable Southern demeanor. Her soft, graying hair was neatly pulled back into a bun, giving her a tidy, somewhat old-fashioned appearance. Her facial features were gentle, and she had a kind expression, though her eyes held a seriousness that suggested the importance of her role to her and that she carried the weight of how important her family’s history was to her.
Today, she wore a simple, old-fashioned dress with a modest neckline and long sleeves, exactly the sort of thing you’d expect from someone leading a historical tour. The dress had a subtle floral pattern that added a touch of femininity to her otherwise practical outfit. Draped over her shoulders was a shawl that completed her quaint, traditional look.
Dottie reached her, and I could see the two women exchanging pleasantries. Dottie’s bright personality made a stark contrast to Martha Jean’s more reserved nature, but they seemed to get along fine. Dottie’s Bedazzled shirt sparkled in the morning light as she spoke animatedly, while Martha Jean listened with a polite smile. Martha Jean’s stance, with perfect posture and a slight tilt of her head, made it clear she took her role in the festival and in the town’s history very seriously.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but judging by the way Dottie’s hands started moving around as she talked, she was probably giving Martha Jean some helpful advice or maybe even a little playful teasing. Martha Jean just nodded along, her smile never faltering, though I could tell she wouldn’t be easily swayed from her own ways.
I kept an eye on Dottie and Martha Jean, their conversation continuing smoothly, but my attention was pulled away by the sound of an agitated voice coming from the direction of Dr. Hamilton’s cabin.
“Dr. Hamilton!” Thomas Sutherland’s voice rang out, sharp and unmistakably irritated, cutting through the peaceful hum of the village.
I turned to see Thomas standing just outside the cabin where Dr. Hamilton was preparing for his keynote speech and from which Lila had emerged. He was pacing back and forth, his expression twisted in frustration, as he waved a rolled-up piece of paper in one hand.
“Dr. Hamilton, I need a word with you, now!” Thomas called again, his voice echoing off the logs of the nearby cabins and stone houses.
After pulling my clipboard in front of me, I ran a finger down my list of the participants’ names to remind myself exactly what Thomas’s role was supposed to be during the jubilee. Thomas Sutherland, local antiques dealer and occasional auctioneer, was set to display a collection of Daniel Boone-era artifacts he’d acquired over the years. Some of them were genuine, while others might’ve been a bit embellished, but Thomas had a way of making folks believe every word of his tales.
He was a tall, thin man with a wiry frame that matched his wiry temperament. His dark hair, slicked back with a little too much pomade, gleamed in the morning sun, and his narrow face was set in a permanent expression of sharp calculation.
There was something about his eyes, which contained a mix of ambition and impatience, that made you think twice before trusting him completely. Dressed in a brown tweed jacket and pressed slacks, Thomas looked every bit the part of a man trying to cling to a bygone era, but the rumpled state of his clothes suggested he’d had a rough start to his day.
Again, Thomas bellowed, “Dr. Hamilton, I need a word now!” Once more, his voice echoed off the logs of the nearby cabins. He didn’t seem to care who was listening.
I watched as the cabin door opened slightly, and Dr. Hamilton’s stern face appeared. Clearly, he was not pleased with the interruption.
Dr. Everett Hamilton was a man in his early sixties with a presence that commanded respect. His silver-gray hair was neatly combed back, contrasting sharply with his tanned, weathered skin, evidence of a life spent outdoors, digging through historical sites and studying artifacts in the field. His strong jawline and high cheekbones gave him a distinguished look, though the deep lines etched into his face hinted at a temperament that was serious more often than not.
He wore a tweed vest over a crisp white shirt, the kind that suggested he was more at home in a library than in the rugged surroundings of a pioneer village. But his passion for history was undeniable, apparent in the intense, almost obsessive gleam in his steel-blue eyes.
Those eyes, now narrowed with irritation, fixed on Thomas with a gaze that could make anyone feel two feet shorter. Dr. Hamilton’s hands, large and calloused from years of meticulous work, gripped the edge of the door as though he was holding himself back from slamming it in Thomas’s face.
Dr. Hamilton was a man who wanted to be treated with respect. I’d seen it firsthand during one of the meetings.
“Thomas,” Dr. Hamilton replied curtly, “this is neither the time nor the place.”
But Thomas wasn’t backing down. He stepped closer to the cabin and pointed the rolled-up paper at Dr. Hamilton like it was an accusation.
“You promised me a fair share of the artifact exhibit, and now you’re trying to cut me out? I won’t stand for it!” Thomas screamed.
The tension between them was thick enough to slice through, and I could feel a knot forming in my stomach. This jubilee was supposed to be a celebration, but between Lila’s outburst earlier and Thomas’s confrontation now, it seemed that not everyone was in a festive spirit.
CHAPTER TWO
“Itell you what,” Dottie snickered from the passenger side of my little Ford Focus, which had its windows rolled down. “Martha sure did have some good tales to tell today.”
“Like Mary Elizabeth says, if it isn’t your tale, then don’t tell the tale,” I reminded her.
I was not in the mood to hear complaints, especially since I was part of the approving committee of presenters, which included Dr. Hamilton, Lila, and Thomas. But I did wonder what Thomas meant about Dr. Hamilton telling him he was out of the events. Dr. Hamilton didn’t have that authority. Only the committee did.
“Fine,” Dottie harrumphed. She opened the snap on her pleather cigarette case and batted out a smoke. “I am not gonna tell you that you just might have some diva presenters on your hands.”
“Diva presenters?” I asked, gripping the wheel, knowing good and well she was pulling me into her gossip.
