“Maybe the frying pan came later," Jane suggested. "We don't know what other injuries Sam might have had. We didn't turn him over or anything. How about this? The killer lures Sam away from the campfire and into the complete darkness beyond it. Maybe stabs him or knocks him out. Then, for good measure, to make certain he's dead, gets the frying pan and smacks him."
“Okay, but now comes the problem," Shelley said. "If the killer wants to conceal the murder, why not take the body away right then?"
“He — or she — heard us coming? We weren't trying to be quiet."
“Possibly, but if he'd slipped back into the woods and watched us, why bother to hide the body afterward? We'd already seen it."
“But did we?" Jane asked. "Nobody seemed to believe us until they discovered that Sam was missing. Remember all that stuff the sheriff said about shadows and leaves and stuff?"
“That's the point, though. Even if they thought we were highly imaginative nutcases, Sam Claypool is missing. And if the murderer saw us discover the body, he wouldn't know that people weren't going to believe us. Unless the body disappeared, which it did.”
Jane ate a bite of her doughnut, washing it down with some coffee. "And with all the rain, I'd guess any evidence of the murder and the removal of the body has been washed away."
“I hadn't thought of that. Yes, you're probably right."
“I did hear voices," Bob Rycraft said from the doorway. "I thought I was imagining it. What are you two doing in here?"
“Just talking," Shelley said. "Join us if you'd like."
“Thanks. I will. It's kind of a madhouse in the lobby. This is awful, isn't it? Do you think it was that weird guy who did it?"
“Lucky Smith? Maybe," Shelley said. "I hope so.”
Rycraft looked at her oddly. "Why is that?”
“Because if it wasn't him, it was likely one of us," Shelley replied bluntly.
Bob Rycraft put his hand over his mouth for a second, a strangely childish gesture. "No! I see what you mean, but it couldn't be one of us! It had to be him — or one of his followers."
“You're probably right," Shelley said, sounding tired.
Jane saw some light from the dining room windows. She got up to look. Several figures were in the wooded area behind the lodge. They were apparently examining the ground with flashlights, moving slowly toward the path that led down to the lake. Looking for the body of Sam Claypool. A strange place to be looking, she thought. She and Shelley had seen the body at the other end of the property. Perhaps another group was searching that area, or maybe they'd already finished searching and were widening their area in desperation.
Poor Marge, she thought. To get word that her husband had not only died, but was missing besides. There was something doubly gruesome about someone hauling around a dead body.
She rejoined Shelley and Bob at the table.
“Bob said he went jogging after dinner," Shelley told her.
“In the rain?" Jane asked. "How miserable!”
“That's what your friend Mrs. Nowack said," he replied. "But if you're a serious jogger, you have to get your miles in whether it's convenient or not. I've gotten so dependent on it that I can't get to sleep at night unless I've done a couple miles first."
“Did you see anyone?" Jane asked.
“Nope. Not really. The Flowerses' car was running, though. No lights on, but the engine was running. I wondered why, but it was none of my business. Mr. Flowers told me he was listening to a tape."
“Have you told the sheriff's people that?"
“No, nobody's talked to me. They're all busy trying to find the — Mr. Claypool.”
Jane felt a sudden and irrational flash of irritation. What was all this Mr. This and Mrs. That with him? Was he trying to make them feel old and frumpy or did he really think of everybody that way? Get a grip, she told herself harshly. He is young and very polite. That's all.
“I wonder how long they'll keep us all here," she asked.
“I overheard some talk between Mr. Titus and one of the sheriff's men about possibly setting up cots for us here in the lodge," Bob said. He said this cheerfully, as if he really thought an adult sleep-over would be great fun. Jane wanted to smack him silly.
Shelley put her head down on the table melodramatically and said, "Oh, no! I want to go to bed in a real bed! I'm so tired!”
Jane patted her friend's outstretched arm. "Well, if we have to sleep here, we're bagging spots next to the fireplace. Come on. Let's stake out our territory before someone else thinks of it."
“Good thought," Bob said.
They went back out into the lobby, which seemed like Grand Central Station after the quiet of the deserted dining room. John Claypool was pacing. Benson was messing about with the coffee urn. Allison had joined the group, and Edna was fussing at her to go back to bed, that there was nothing Allison could do to help and needed her rest. Liz Flowers was compulsively tidying the magazines set out around the room, putting all the National Geographics in one pile and wildlife magazines in another. Al Flowers was reading an old newspaper Liz had apparently unearthed. Jane had grown so irritable that the rustling of it made her want to snatch it away, wad it up, and throw it in the fire.
“I'm losing it," she muttered to herself.
She and Shelley fought their way through the barricade of drying ponchos John had constructed and discovered the two ambulance attendants hogging the fire.
“Do you mind?" Shelley said in her haughtiest voice. They fled like frightened children.
They sunk into the sofas. A moment later, they heard the front door open and Eileen's loud, excited voice exclaiming, "They've found him!”
Jane and Shelley got to their feet and were peering over the curtain of ponchos as Eileen, grinning, flung the door wide open, and made a gesture like an emcee introducing a guest. Marge and one of the sheriff's men came in the door with Sam Claypool between them. He was soaking wet and covered with mud, but standing upright, and smiling tentatively, as if confused by all the hubbub.
He showed no signs of any injury whatsoever.
Ten
Jane and Shelley walked back to their cabin in stunned silence. It was raining bucket-sized drops and they didn't even notice. Nobody accompanied them. Everyone had pretended to ignore them when they left the lodge. Jane unlocked the cabin door and they poured themselves inside, dripping rivers. Still in silence, they undressed and got into their beds.
Shelley flipped the light off, made a huffing noise, and thrashed around in her covers. Finally Jane said, "Shelley?"
“I can't talk about this, Jane. I can't even think about it. We're both very tired. It's all a figment of our imaginations because of sleep deprivation. Or maybe we are asleep and this is all a dream."
“Yours or mine," Jane said wryly.