Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping (11 page)

When we approached the front of the line, all four of us tossed our paper cones into a trashcan next to the ride operator. Once we were seated, strapped into our seat and the Ferris wheel began to turn, Sarah said, “So tell me about your family’s living situation.”

“Well, you see, my daughter moved out and just as I was adjusting to living alone, my mother came to live with me, and I’m wondering what kind of issues this new living arrangement might entail.”

I don’t like to out-and-out lie to anyone, but I’ve been known to stretch the truth on occasion, sometimes to the extreme when I feel the situation warranted a white lie. My mother did reside in the Alexandria Inn with Stone and me, albeit it was in a small vase that had its own honored location on the fireplace mantel.

“Well, first of all, although it might take a little time to get accustomed to having your mother live with you, I can assure you it can ultimately work out to be very rewarding for both of you,” Sarah began.

“Okay, terrific! That’s really all I needed to know,” I replied, before she could start explaining the many ways we could benefit by living together. After all, I’d adjusted to have my mother’s ashes in an urn on the mantel a long time ago. “So, let’s get back to Fanny’s vicious murder. Who do you believe could have been the perpetrator?”

Sarah seemed thrown off balance by my sudden change of subject. I’m sure she’d been mentally preparing a list to recite to me regarding issues I might expect in my new living arrangement. But she recovered quickly and replied, “I really don’t know, but I have to wonder if her husband had something to do with it. Even though they haven’t been married long, I’ve rarely heard a civil exchange between the two of them during the last few months of attending book signings with her.”

“Um, yes, that does sound suspicious,” I agreed. “Any other ideas?”

Sarah looked around in all directions—I suppose to ascertain no one had crawled into our basket with us while we revolved around in space. She then leaned in toward me to whisper in my ear. “Just between you, me, and the lamp post, I also have to wonder if Norma might be capable of a cold-blooded murder like that. Truthfully, she had no use for the woman. There was no love lost between Fanny and Norma, I assure you. Incidentally, just before the tragic murder, Norma said that she’d like to push Fanny in front of an oncoming bus.”

“No kidding?” I asked as if I hadn’t heard the woman say that very thing while eavesdropping the previous day. I had considered it a figure of speech used to vent frustration with her fellow author. I think I may have even threatened to push Stone in front of a speeding train one day when he had hidden a candy bar from me as a joke. I was just kidding of course, but I’d been craving chocolate at the time, so it was totally understandable.

“Why, as a matter of fact, it was just before you joined us at our table to purchase copies of our books! You might have even overheard her make that comment.”

“Now that I think about it, I did hear her say such a thing. But I didn’t take her remark seriously. It’s the kind of thing anyone might say about another person they were annoyed with. I never for a second thought she might actually do something like that. Do you seriously believe she might be responsible for Fanny’s death?” I asked.

“I think it’s possible, given the hatred and bitterness she felt toward her. For what it’s worth, Norma can be a bit unpredictable, even mentally unstable at times. She spent three months in a pysch ward a couple of years ago after trying to stab the guy she was dating at the time.”

“Wow, that’s a lot to digest,” I said. I really didn’t know what to make of Sarah’s comments but could hardly wait to repeat them to Wendy.

“And, remember, Lexie, this goes no farther than the two of us—and the lamp post of course. I wouldn’t want my suspicions to get back to Norma, you understand. If she could kill once, she could surely do it again to someone who had implicated her in a murder that might get her put away for life.”

“Absolutely, Sarah. My lips are sealed,” I promised, even though I felt as if she was just being melodramatic.

“And another thing,” Sarah continued. “Norma heard Fanny referring to us as ‘aspiring authors,’ and she has not gotten over it yet. She was offended by Fanny’s inference that we weren’t bona fide authors when we’ve both published books that we hadn’t had to resort to self-publishing to get printed. Fanny even expressed surprise that either of our books got published in the first place.”

I didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t quite believe it either, or that their “aspiring authors” status had been upgraded to “wanna-be best-selling authors” in Fanny’s opinion. So instead of being frank I replied, “How rude! She sounds like she was a real piece of work.”

“Precisely!” Sarah retorted with such vehemence that I had to wipe spittle off my cheek. “And I want you to know that I don’t believe in gossiping, but I consider this more a case of information-sharing.”

“Yes, of course, especially since everything you told me is based on first-hand knowledge on your part and not just assumptions and conjecture.”

“Exactly! And remember, mum’s the word. Oh, by the way, Lexie. I have to commend you, because you were remarkably calm for someone with a phobia such as yours. I’m proud of you for facing down your fear so admirably.”

I had completely forgotten about my earlier remarks about being scared spitless to ride the rather sedate carnival ride, so I thanked her and said, “You just don’t know how hard it was for me to hide my anxiety and not be overcome by my rather irrational fear.”

Just then there was a loud, eerie squealing sound as the Ferris wheel gears began to grind, which caused the baskets to jerk spastically to and fro. The basket Sarah and I were in ground to a halt at the very highest point of the ride. I turned around to look at Wendy and Norma, who were still slowly swinging in the basket behind us. Wendy shrugged, and turned her palms face up in a gesture of uncertainty.

I shouted loud enough to be heard by Norma and everyone else within six baskets of us, “Now do you see why I don’t like these damned carnival rides?”

* * *

What followed the sudden stalling of the carnival ride were the longest two-and-a-half hours of my life. Every ten or fifteen minutes the Ferris wheel would roar to life, make ungodly crunching and squealing noises, advance two feet in its rotation, and come to a screeching halt again. I had figured out that at the rate we were going, it would take about ten to eleven hours for us to get low enough to the ground to be able to disembark our basket, as the people who were fortunate enough to be at the bottom of the ride had done after the Ferris wheel had stopped operating.

I wasn’t totally surprised about the untimely breakdown. I had seen young men, who didn’t look like they had the wherewithal to put a “some assembly required” bookcase together, assembling elaborate carnival rides in the past. When assembling a bookcase, a person might dispose of any leftover nuts, bolts, or other leftover hardware, without any adverse consequences. Granted, a poorly assembled bookcase might crumble to the floor when overburdened with hundreds of pounds’ worth of books, but it wouldn’t be likely to take any human lives with it when it fell. On the other hand, left-over parts cast aside by carnies with an eighth-grade education, trying to put together a more highly complicated carnival ride, could prove catastrophic. I shuddered, just imagining the potential outcome of such a situation.

The operators of the Ferris wheel were aware that people stuck on the ride were getting anxious, frustrated, and increasingly incensed. One young lady several baskets ahead of us was freaking out, crying and screaming to be let off the ride immediately. There was only one way off the ride at that moment, and the operators below were obviously reluctant to point that out to her. The result of exiting the ride in that fashion would certainly be unpleasant, if not lethal, for the hysterical woman.

Frequently, a man on a loudspeaker announced that mechanics were working on the problem and it would just be a few more minutes before the problem was corrected.
Liar, liar, pants on fire….

Sarah Krumm did not seem disappointed or frustrated in the least about the situation. It gave her more time to explain every possible thing, no matter how remote, that could come into play in a multi-generational household. Did I know that approximately fifteen percent of elderly adults in the United States were living with their children?
No, I didn’t
. Did I really care how many elderly adults were living with their parents?
No, I didn’t
.

Had it ever occurred to me that my “live-in” mother could potentially want a new love interest to move into my house too sometime in the future?
No, I didn’t
. Had it ever occurred to Sarah that if a person could truly die of boredom, they’d be taking me off this ride on a stretcher, and putting me in a body bag the way they had Fanny Finch? Sarah seemed to think I was as enthralled with our conversation as she was.

I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t particularly worried about my mother moving her new beau into my house. For one thing, she’d always been totally devoted to my father, even after his death in the 1990s. More importantly, there wasn’t enough room for another urn on the fireplace mantel.

Just about the time I began to think my eardrums might start bleeding from Sarah’s incessant talking, the Ferris wheel fired up again and managed to keep running long enough for the four of us to vacate our baskets. Stone, Andy, Veronica, and Wyatt were sitting on a bench, waiting patiently for us to be rescued from our plight. When they had no success looking for us, they’d noticed the Ferris wheel had malfunctioned, and looked up to see us in baskets at the top of the ride. The men appeared to be content to sit on a bench and gorge on junk food while they waited. Veronica just looked bored out of her skull, to which I could completely relate to.

Stone and Andy had on rather gaudy western shirts and carried plastic bags holding the shirts they’d worn to the fairgrounds. They’d also donned the shiny silver and turquoise bolo ties they had hoped to score. I half expected them to break out in a rendition of the old country song,
Streets of Bakersfield
, because their “costumes” would have made Buck Owens proud.

I had to admit, however, that Stone looked handsome, or at least as handsome as he could look while shoveling spoonfuls of sloppy food in his mouth and wearing a liberal amount of it on his chin. He’d be lucky if his new shirt survived the gorge-fest, because getting mustard, ketchup and chili sauce out of clothing was not one of my fortes. I’d ruined more shirts with splattered grease spots than I care to admit before Wendy gifted me with a monogrammed apron the previous Christmas. I wondered if Stone would be offended if I gifted him with a monogrammed bib for Christmas.

I had to smile as I watched Stone eating the messy conglomeration in the plastic bowl he was holding. His silver hair and light blue eyes were accented by the silver studs on the pockets and wingtips of the collar of his blue-and-tan, and now chili-stained, plaid shirt. I thought for the umpteenth time in the last year that I couldn’t have landed a better or more compatible husband than Stone Van Patten. The fact that he was easy on the eyes was merely an added bonus as far as I was concerned. He could have been the homeliest man on the planet and I wouldn’t have loved him any less, or agreed to marry him any quicker than I had.

Veronica was filing her fingernails as all three men were working their way through large containers full of Fritos buried under heaped-up servings of chili and cheese. I watched as Stone pulled a roll of Rolaids out of his pocket, tossed two in his mouth and soon after, spooned up another large bite of the Frito pie, complete with jalapeño rings on top. I could have sworn he’d brought a new roll of Rolaids to the fairgrounds, but it was nearly empty. My husband seemed to have an odd green tint to his face, which I feared was a preview of coming attractions.

As we walked back to the shuttle bus loading area, I almost swallowed my own Rolaid when Wendy whispered to me, “Wait until I tell you what Norma told me about Sarah. She thinks there’s a good chance she’s the person responsible for Fanny’s death, and I think she might possibly be right.”

“I have a lot to tell you, also,” I said. “Sarah was wagging her accusatory finger in Norma’s direction, while Norma was apparently pointing hers at Sarah. I’d gotten the impression the two ladies were close, but with friends like that, who needs enemies?”

“Well, Mom, there’s an old saying that one should keep their friends close, and their enemies closer. Maybe the appearance of closeness between the two gals is based on more than a true friendship. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m finding that the circumstances regarding Fanny Finch’s murder are getting more intriguing all the time.”

Music to my ears
, I thought. It was nice having my daughter, who I rarely got to see anymore, interested in the murder case as much as I was, even though our involvement was only on the peripheral of the investigation. The outcome of the case would have no direct bearing on either one of us. It was the fact there seemed to be a growing list of people who might have wanted to kill the author that piqued my interest, and apparently Wendy’s also.

There was a nagging voice in my head telling me to step aside and let the Cheyenne homicide detectives track down and exact justice on the killer without any interference from Wendy and me. Unfortunately there was a louder voice in there drowning it out, asking, “
What harm can be done by snooping around a bit, just in case we accidentally stumble on to something the detectives have overlooked
?”