Becklaw's Murder Mystery Tour (Jo Anderson Series) (3 page)

Chapter Four

Somehow we all got back to our assorted rooms without a brawl breaking out. No one was thrilled about being awakened in the middle of the night for what might be a figment of my wild imagination. Leslie muttered and threw dark looks at me as we climbed the stairs, and even LJ showed his disapproval by stomping a bit more loudly than usual. Derek, as per usual, reserved comment.

Apparently no one remembered the open front door.

Breakfast was subdued, not much in the way of conversation but with a lot of eye rubbing and yawning. It was safe to surmise that this was the worst night since our arrival in Copper. Even Miss Bea, normally chipper and ready to rock no matter the time of day, seemed a bit under the weather. Her hair, normally just frizzy, was both curly and frizzy this morning. Her head looked like a Brillo pad had landed there and exploded, corkscrew curls fighting for autonomy amidst the requisite pins.

I decided that someone needed to say something, and since I was Miss Jo, leader of the band, I voted on myself. It went a little like this:

‘So, has anyone bothered to check outside for the paper this morning? Or look for footprints of whoever was in our house in the middle of the night?’

The response sounded like this:

… Well, actually there was no sound to accompany the three glares from my fellow actors or the look of pity from Miss Bea. So, having been brought up in a house where you never say “never”, I tried again. This time I roused the troops and got an earful.

Leslie went first, apparently since she was the one who shared the bathroom with me and therefore felt entitled to first dibs in telling me off.

‘Jo, I have no idea what you heard, or thought that you heard, only …’ – here a glance at the clock on the sideboard – ‘… five and one-half hours ago, but I can tell you that I heard nothing, saw nothing, and regret not having a full night’s sleep.’ Her glowering face told me that I might come to regret this as well.

Next in line was Derek, his normally calm features rearranged into a look akin to disdain.

‘I’m positive the door was open when we went to sleep last night, Jo. I can’t imagine anyone actually coming here and breaking in. And even if it wasn’t already open, no one ever comes around here anyway.’

He looked so smug that I felt compelled to point out that the paper person managed to come around every morning. This earned me a derisive snort from Leslie.

LJ, bless his reticent heart, took a ‘pass’ in the game of “Kick Jo When She’s Down”. I gave him the benefit of my sunniest smile, which sent a ripple of color across his face. This earned me another glare from Leslie.

Finally, it was Miss Bea’s turn.

To my surprise, and also to my delight, Miss Bea took my side. If I hadn’t already begun to admire the woman, this would have been the start.

‘I happen to find your tale quite believable, my dear.’ I smiled in triumph at the others, relishing their looks of incredulity.

She continued in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘I think that you might have encountered a local scourge known as raccoons.’ This sounded so ridiculous that I burst out laughing, causing Leslie to give me the ‘stare of death’ with eyes narrowed to virtual slits in her face.

That girl needed to be careful; her face could freeze like that one day and then where would her acting career be?

The idea that forest creatures could actually manipulate doors and find their way into a house without the aid of a human repelled me. Never one to glory in animated movies featuring sweet fawns bounding playfully through trees or birds chirping merrily as they did housework, I felt a smidgeon of fear tiptoe from the recess of my mind and go tripping down my spine. Visions of mice and raccoons in cahoots, planning feverishly to run me out of town, gave me a sudden headache.

This called for serious strategizing. This was war.

Despite Miss Bea’s many assurances that raccoons could not purposely hunt me down and hurt me, especially if I locked my bedroom door, I could not shake the image of a stealthily creeping animal, moving up the stairs and straight to my bedroom door in the dead of night. Leslie must have had similar thoughts. I saw her shiver and move closer to LJ, who, in turn, edged his huge body nearer to her. As upset as I was, I had to grin at the sight. Just who was comforting whom?

The troupe was feeling a bit awkward with me since Miss Bea had exonerated me of my sin. I, on the other hand, was feeling quite magnanimous, and proved it by offering to do the dishes alone.

I had hardly begun to run the water when Leslie joined me, standing off to the side as if we had never met before. I tossed her a towel, keeping up a stream of chatter about this and that. We were soon joined by LJ, then Derek, each of the boys looking a little sheepish.

I let them all suffer for a few minutes more, then turned and gave them all a brilliant smile. ‘I hope,’ I said, ‘that this ends the issue.’

Talking over one another, they each assured me that yes, indeed, this proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was both sane and sage, and did I have any plan in mind to prevent this from happening again?

Miss Jo was back in the saddle again.

I rallied the troops once again (pardon the mixing of analogies) and laid out the plans for the day. Tomorrow morning we would be picking up camp and moving to Manchester, a mountain town not too far from Copper, north-east up Highway 25 and the site for the county fair. We were booked to perform nightly at the barbecue tent, and Miss Bea wanted to meet up with the local talent a little earlier than we had for the Moose Lodge performance.

Leslie was put in charge of gathering and packing the costumes and accessories we would use. To Derek, I assigned the task of checking on our accommodation, which would be in a KOA – Kampgrounds of America – campground just outside of Manchester. I told him to make sure – doubly sure –that there would be electrical outlets. I needed my blow dryer. LJ was set to washing the faithful station wagon, shining up the tires, and vacuuming out the interior, which I felt had not been done for at least ten years. Or more.

Miss Bea kept herself occupied bustling around the house, checking that the paper delivery would be stopped for the six days we would be gone, and that someone would be coming out to fix the rather large tear in the verandah’s screen door. I had to smile whenever I saw the hole left behind by the fleeing raccoon. I felt vindicated and a lot less worried about turning into a version of Crazy Great-Aunt Opal.

Just a bit of background on my family: we tend to assign names to one another, such as Crazy Great-Aunt Opal or Sleepy Uncle Pete. While there are times these names are a good indication of the type of person they are, more often than not it’s a misnomer. For instance, Sleepy Uncle Pete wasn’t.

That wasn’t the case of Crazy Great-Aunt Opal, though. She really was a one hundred per cent,
bona fide
nutter. Some said it was because of a broken heart, others pointed to the time that she fell out of the persimmon tree and did a number on the back of her head. I personally think it’s genetic, since her mother was also a bit gaga, shall we say. Which is why I was worried about myself and the “Raccoon Incident”. Having Miss Bea explain what had happened gave me hope that my marbles were still together.

But I digress. As I was saying before I felt the need to explain my family’s foibles, I kicked it into high gear and got the four of us moving. While LJ tended to get more water on himself than the car, he still did a passable job. At least the road salt from the winter had been removed, and the scuff marks on the tires, from where Miss Bea would often scrape the sidewalk, were gone, replaced by a high glossy shine thanks to some elbow grease and tire cleaner.

When we regrouped for a quick lunch of grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and a heaped platter of Miss Bea’s garlic home fries, Derek was able to report that our reservations for two large trailers had been confirmed, and that yes, indeed, there were both hot showers and electrical outlets in the campground’s facilities.

And indoor toilets.

Leslie brought up the fact that we needed more sizes available for the dancer and ‘lady of the night’ costumes because, as she delicately phrased it, some would be able to ‘hold up the front’ and some wouldn’t. Derek understood and smiled, but I could tell from the look on LJ’s face that this was a concept that he didn’t quite get. He was really very sweet, I had discovered, and probably needed Leslie more than she needed him. Oh, well. To each his own, I sighed inwardly.

I had spent the morning going over our roles and the plot of the performance. We had discovered several gaps in logic at the Moose Lodge dinner which, thankfully, the audience either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared about. I was determined, though, to put together a top-of-the-line murder mystery that would challenge our viewers for more than ten minutes.

By the late afternoon we had done all we could do to get ready for our first real tour. The costumes had been sorted and packed, and the boys loaded the various boxes and bags into the back of the station wagon to save time in the morning. We had each packed a suitcase of personal items, as well as a few ‘modern clothes’ for whenever we might have a few hours to ourselves. I didn’t know about the rest of the bunch but I thoroughly intended to avail myself of the fun – and food – the county fair might have to offer.

Derek took his turn cooking that night. I suppose I expected the typical bachelor fare: pizza, hot dogs topped with canned chili beans, and the like. Much to my surprise, he served up a meal that was on par with some of the best restaurants around.

Dinner began with bowls of creamy tomato bisque, topped with a dollop of sour cream and home-made croutons. Luscious! Baskets of rolls that oozed cheddar cheese sat on the table, and I could have happily made a meal of that and the soup. The main course, though, almost blew my gastronomical expectations clear out of the water.

From the covered baking dish that Derek carried from the kitchen emanated the most tantalizing odors, and I discovered that I still had quite the appetite. Carefully placing the dish on the pizza stone that served as a table protector, Derek lifted the lid, stepping back a bit to let us savor the rosemary-scented steam.

‘It’s my version of raspberry-glazed chicken breasts,’ he announced. I could see that he was struggling to keep the pride off of his face. Heck, if I could cook like that, I wouldn’t care if I looked a bit full of myself!

‘Derek, that looks absolutely divine. May I ask what’s in it?’ Miss Bea held out her plate for the first portion, and we all waited to hear what he had to say.

‘Well, it’s simply chicken breasts, boneless and skinless, of course, rubbed with rosemary, oregano, and sage then baked with a honey, mustard, and raspberry glaze. Not too difficult. Do you like it, Miss Bea?’ We watched her take the first bite, then close her eyes in rapture.

‘Mmmm,’ was all we could hear, and Derek finally allowed himself a big grin. We feasted that night. Unbelievably, there was still a side dish of rice pilaf, delicately flavored with something citrus – lemon zest, I think – and a dessert that almost brought me to tears. A large pizza pan filled with chocolate chip cookie dough, baked just until the edges were set and the middle still gooey, was placed on the table. Derek had topped this with many scoops of vanilla ice cream, then drizzled the entire concoction with fudge sauce and slivered almonds. We all ate out of that one pan, doing battle for chunks of cookie dough with our spoons.

It was a light-hearted conclusion to a very busy day.

Chapter Five

The morning came extremely early, or at least it seemed that way to me. I had stayed up later than usual, writing a long-overdue letter home to my mother and a few notes to various brothers and cousins. To Neva, I sent a postcard with an old cowboy on the front with a balloon thing coming out of his mouth that said, ‘You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet!’ It made absolutely no sense to me, and I knew that was precisely the type of card that would tickle Neva pink. She did have a very wacky sense of humor at times.

Since we had packed the station wagon the night before, there was nothing to do but shower, eat a hasty breakfast, and hit the road. Miss Bea climbed into her customary position as driver, and Derek, who seemed to have an innate compass in his head, took over as Chief Navigator and Map Reader. I sat behind Miss Bea, with LJ crammed in between me and Leslie. For some reason, LJ didn’t like sitting near a car door, and since Leslie didn’t care for the middle, they were a perfectly matched set.

It really
did
take all kinds to make the world go ’round.

We left our woodsy neighborhood and began the trek to Manchester, Colorado, whose population was 9,035 and growing. A quick check of the Weather Channel had shown today’s temperature would be 38 degrees with an overcast sky, which still seemed a bit odd to me. I guess I still measured most places against Piney Woods, Louisiana. Here, I had on a pair of jeans, an LSU sweatshirt over a long-sleeved T, and a heavy jacket. Back home, I’d have tossed on a pair of shorts and a tank top.

We headed up Highway 25 at a north-eastern angle, according to the map. The aspens that populated the Copper area gave way to spruces and firs, open meadows of golden rod and asters, and a variety of local wildlife. With wild animal experiences not at the top of my list, I wasn’t too keen on looking, but the others ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ over brief glimpses of deer and squirrels, coyotes, and even a fox or two. I kept my eyes averted, not wanting to add these creatures to my mice and raccoon nightmares.

Around ten o’clock, we pulled into a small town with the name of Big Bertha. For a few minutes I assumed it was some type of a local joke, but the owner of the gas station where we filled up assured me that, yes, this really
was
Big Bertha, Colorado, and it was named for the wife of the mine owner who settled the parts in the mid-1800s.

I knew right then that I needed to replenish my growing collection of postcards to send to Neva, so I purchased a handful. I chuckled to myself as I flipped through them. Neva was going to think that I had gone right over the edge and landed in a Western version of ‘Lala Land’.

After a round of bathroom breaks and stocking up on our traveling snacks and drinks, we took off once more. The gas station owner had guaranteed that we would be close to Manchester before three that afternoon. That was fine by me; the skies were looking lower and darker, and I didn’t relish the idea of precipitation of any kind at that elevation.

Miss Bea’s choice of traveling music was, surprisingly enough, classic rock. I had a brief flashback to when Neva and I were much younger and used to hide in my brothers’ rooms listening to their collection of Lynyrd Skynyrd, CCR, and the Rolling Stones. I was impressed by her knowledge of the lyrics as well, and even Derek looked suitably in awe. Leslie had leaned into LJ’s massive arm and had begun snoring almost as soon as we were back on the road. LJ was asleep, too, his head bobbing in time to the gentle swerving of Miss Bea’s driving.

Surprisingly enough, I was not carsick. Instead, my mind was preoccupied with the performance tomorrow night and with wondering exactly what our accommodation would be like. I had never stayed in a KOA campground before. I had never left home before, at least not this far. And I had never, ever, been away from my mother.

There were a lot of ‘nevers’ in my life right now, I noticed.

There’s a lot to be said for a KOA site. Clean, organized, usually family-friendly, with enough modern amenities to keep even someone like me happy. The place we found ourselves was set just to the south of town, far enough off the main highway to appear isolated, but close enough when a quick ice cream run was called for.

The manager’s office resembled a log cabin but, as I approached it, I could see that the ‘logs’ were actually preformed resin siding, which was a pretty good idea out here in the cold wilderness of northern Colorado. I shivered just thinking about the drafty buildings that people once lived in; definitely not my style, I can assure you.

Percy and Oleta McLaughlin, he tall and slender, she short and plump and a twin for Miss Bea (minus the hair), greeted us with the fervor of long-lost relatives. Before we knew what had hit us, the five of us were settled down into furniture that looked to have been made from random pieces of wood, but was really very comfortable. Mugs of steaming hot chocolate, complete with a snowy dollop of whipped cream, were handed out by Mrs McLaughlin, and Mr McLaughlin followed behind her with a platter of home-made cookies. Apparently Coloradans are as bad – or as good, I should say – as Southerners when it comes to plying guests with food.

I was not going to complain. Neither, I noticed, did anyone else.

I soon discovered the reason for this display of
bonhomie
: our trailers had been let to two other families (‘Purely by accident,’ said Mr McLaughlin) and could we wait until tomorrow to check in?

No, we most certainly could not, I retorted silently, waiting to hear what Miss Bea would say. To my surprise, she smiled pleasantly, agreeing that it would be no problem at all.

That Miss Bea – always one to pull the proverbial rabbit out. ‘I’m sure that you wouldn’t mind if we stayed with you overnight,’ she suggested, a tad too sweetly. I stifled a laugh. Derek did the same, Leslie stared, and LJ watched Leslie for his cue.

Oleta McLaughlin, perhaps a bit fierier than I had given her credit for, fairly snapped out her answer. They were not, she bristled, the local YMCA. In fact, she noted, that might be the best place for us. ‘I’ll make a phone call right now,’ she offered, turning and walking through the door at the back of the office. I assumed that it led to their private living quarters, the ones Miss Bea wanted to make use of.

Fifteen minutes and much negotiating later (Miss Bea having agreed to bring us back on the morrow in return for one free night and no complaints to the KOA powers that be) we were once again in the wagon and headed out on to the freeway. Thankfully, Derek had thought to ask Mr McLaughlin for the directions, as the two women were still being a bit snippy with one another, so we made it to the Manchester YMCA without a hitch.

It was your typical small town gym and hostel: one large block and stucco building, subdivided inside into the workout areas and the rooms. At least the plumbing was good, and the thought of a long hot shower appealed to me. Hopefully, it appealed to LJ as well; after five hours crammed in next to him, I deduced the boy had forgotten his personal hygiene that morning. Maybe Leslie’s olfactory senses were on the fritz, I concluded.

Leslie and I were assigned to slot in with Miss Bea. The room, although strictly utilitarian, was clean, and the bunk bed was a triple-stack, the first one I had ever seen. The boys were just down the hall at the men’s end of things – they kept the sexes separate here – although I could still hear them quite clearly. Those two had more bodily noises than my seven brothers put together!

It’s safe to say that my rest that night was slightly less restful than I was used to. Miss Bea, I discovered, snored. It was, to be sure, more of a delicate, ladylike snuffle, but I still heard it quite clearly from my perch atop the third bunk. Leslie snored as well, a whistling sort of noise, leaving me the odd woman out in their nocturnal duet. Somehow I managed to get in a few hours of sleep. I was not looking forward to being roommates with my two companions for six more nights.

Breakfast was taken in our rooms. We had stopped at a local grocery the night before, purchasing items that would not require any refrigeration or heating. Hence, I found myself munching on a shiny Gala apple, supplemented with a handful of Swiss cheese-flavored snack crackers. Good enough; I would get something more substantial later. Miss Bea nibbled on a few pieces of Melba toast, no doubt concerned with her girlish figure, and Leslie snapped open a diet cola from the YMCA’s vending machine to wash down her own apple and crackers. Certainly not the level of eating to which we had become accustomed, but “it’s an ill wind”.

I really had no idea what that particular adage meant, but I remember my Crazy Great-Aunt Opal mumbling those very words whenever anything did not go as planned, which was definitely the case here.

Following our sparse breakfast, we took turns going to the shower. I put on my favorite jeans, another sweatshirt advertising my beloved LSU Tigers, and a pair of high tops. A denim jacket completed my outfit. The local weatherman had promised a sunny day with a high of 50, so I figured if I got too warm during the day, I could just tie my jacket around my waist. Finally, all five of us were ready to rock and roll, and we trooped back out to the faithful station wagon, tossing our overnight bags into the area that would have been the trunk in a smaller vehicle. Miss Bea turned the key, the motor roared into life, and we were off.

Posters announcing the Silverton County Fair were plastered on every available space throughout the town of Manchester. The fairgrounds, we were told, lay to the west of the town itself, replete with a track for racing pigs, a huge barn enclosure for the Future Farmers of America and their contests, a covered area for local art displays, and the ubiquitous barbecue pit. I had discovered that most Coloradans preferred a barbecue to a fish fry, but I supposed it was tribute to the Western roots of the state. When I recalled the fish fries and crawfish boils back home, my mouth watered and I found myself feeling a bit odd. Could I be homesick? No – I was merely reminiscing about the food of my childhood, nothing more.

Shoving the memories firmly back to the place from whence they had sprung, I turned my immediate attention to the town that was Manchester. Tidy sidewalks lined with flowerfilled planters and judiciously placed iron benches could be seen everywhere I looked. It appeared that Manchester and messiness did not get along. The stores, while small and generally of the mom-and-pop variety, kept the window presentations tasteful and even the newspaper cases displayed neatly folded daily editions. In short, the entire downtown looked like a movie set, at least in my humble opinion. Piney Woods residents, although neat enough, would have never lasted in such environs.

Derek wandered over to a store window to examine more intently the fair poster neatly taped to the inside of the glass. He gave a low whistle, motioning the rest of us to move in closer.

‘Did you see this, Miss Bea? They’ve given us top billing! We’re “Becklaw’s Murder Mystery Tour, here for a six-night engagement only! Get your tickets while they last! Entrance to the performance includes a home-made barbecue supper. Drinks extra.” That’s pretty cool.’ Derek looked at Miss Bea, a fond look on his face. ‘You’ve done well, Miss Bea.’

Miss Bea preened, which was certainly her right. I would have, if I had been the one to think this whole thing up, hire four non-actors, and manage to achieve the heady heights of top billing at the Silverton County Fair. I was pretty excited, too, and wondering about the bit-parters that had already been hired for the duration.

My thoughts must have telegraphed themselves to Miss Bea, who looked at all of us and announced that we had a nine o’clock meeting at Skinny Joe’s Steakhouse and Brewery. ‘To meet the folks I’ve taken on to help us,’ she clarified. I felt relieved, while the boys looked disappointed. It was a bit too early in the day for indulging, I thought.

That gave us enough time to stop at a local restaurant for a hot meal. My toasted English muffin sandwich was absolutely delectable, oozing egg and molten cheese from the sides, the thick piece of Canadian bacon bigger than the muffin itself. A large frosted glass of OJ sat at my elbow, and I alternated between sips of it and my mug of coffee. The cottage fries that came with the sandwich were almost as good as Miss Bea’s. Ah. Much better than crackers.

When we had all eaten to our heart’s content – well, I know that I had, but I can’t speak for LJ, whose appetite seemed endless – we paid the bill and waddled out to the wagon. With a slight groan, I heaved myself into position on the back seat. I hoped I would be hungry enough to enjoy lunch because I had spotted the restaurant’s menu and was determined to get back there.

Skinny Joe’s Steakhouse and Brewery sat at the juncture of the town’s two main streets – a large brick building with a roof of some type of metal that had been formed into fancy shapes. Quite metropolitan for such a small place, I thought to myself, remembering the modern buildings that punctuated the cityscape of Alexandria. I was surprised, then, to see the rough refectory-style tables and benches that marched in lines across the middle of the great space inside. I guess I thought that the interior would match the outside, but there’s no accounting for taste, as my mother always says. It was still impressive to a small town girl from Piney Woods, where the biggest building we had was Queen of Peace, the Catholic church, and its adjoining Madonna Hall.

Skinny Joe could have been a member of the Anderson bunch; his name no more matched his build than Sleepy Uncle Pete’s did his character. He stood at more than six feet tall, and was about that same distance around. His belly stuck out alarmingly from behind a dirty apron, and the rolls that formed his waist jiggled and bounced with the effort of movement. I found I was holding my breath while watching him teeter toward us, wiping his hands on the apron, a broad smile on an equally broad face.

‘Welcome to Manchester, folks,’ Skinny Joe announced in a voice that was surprisingly musical and mellow. I guess I expected something rough and gravelly, or high and flighty; that’s usually the range for bigger men, I’ve noticed. ‘The young ’uns are on their way, so sit tight. Could I offer you a drink on the house?’