I'd about given up when I saw a pile of splintered wooden crates. I rattled the fence to make sure guard dogs were not on the prowl, then clambered up the boxes and grabbed the top of the fence, trying to recall when I'd last had a tetanus shot.
I was dripping with sweat when I at last scrambled over the fence and dropped to the ground. Dogs within a mile radius were barking, but the only sound in my proximity was the scurrying of rodents that had been interrupted while gnawing upholstery.
One of the cars was the white Honda Accord that Sarah had acknowledged; in the dim light it was more of a dingy gray. The plate was from Oklahoma. The one from Missouri was a red Camaro with a headlight affixed with duct tape. I'd never asked Duluth about Norella's car, so I had no idea which of the remaining two was hers. One was the sort of behemoth that Elsie McMay drove, the other a subcompact that did not seem large enough to be allowed on a highway.
Being a professional and all, I ascertained that the windows were rolled up and the doors locked. I was trying to see what might have been left on the seat of the behemoth when I noticed a pungent smell. I squatted down and peered under the car, assuming that some vital fluid had leaked out of the engine.
Darkness was a factor. I stood up, took a last look inside the car, and had turned to examine the subcompact when I heard a blood-chilling sound along the lines of a shotgun being cocked.
"What the hell you think yer doin'?" said a voice from outside the fence.
I finally located the figure on the far side of the gate. "Conducting police business. Does your mama know you go prowling with a shotgun, Crank?"
"I ain't prowlin'. Lester pays me ten dollars a week to make sure the local boys don't come scroungin' for parts for their trucks. Preacher Skinbalder pays me the same to walk around the church and watch for broken windows. Not more than a month ago, the little assholes made off with three televisions and a VCR. Miz Rutledge says she's gonna hire me if her watermelons start disappearing like they did the last two summers." He poked the barrel through a gap in the fence. "How do I know you ain't lookin' for an exhaust pipe."
"I don't smoke," I said curtly. "Do you have a key to the gate?"
"Ain't locked." He dragged it open and motioned at me to come out. "If you're a cop, where's your badge?"
"At home in a drawer. You saw me earlier at the PD, for pity's sake."
He lowered the shotgun. "Mebbe I did, but that don't mean you shouldn't pay a fine for trespassin', same as ever'body else. I'll let you go this time for five dollars, but it'll be ten if I catch you again."
"Quite a little racket you have going," I said. "I hope you're not behind the thefts. You wouldn't have three televisions and a VCR in your barn, would you? Was that why you were so upset when you caught Duluth in there?"
"If you know what's good for you, you'll be about your business."
I make it a policy never to argue with those packing shotguns, rifles, handguns, crossbows, or even spatulas. I got into the station wagon and drove out of the lot before he decided for reasons of his own to blast out the rear windshield. Estelle would not take it well, and Harve most likely wouldn't pay for it.
The café was brightly lit, but the parking lot was again uncrowded. Hoping that Chief Panknine had a charge account, I went in and sat down on a stool. The threesome in the corner might have been the ones I'd seen the day before, or Sunday pinch-hitters. Two teenaged boys eyed me, scattered change on the tabletop, and left. I did not warn them that Crank Nickle, aka 005, was on patrol.
Rachael came out of the kitchen. "I heard it was Ruth who was killed," she said in a low voice. "We were damn scared when Anthony came out to tell us what happened. It could have been any of us."
"Any of you?" I said curiously. "The popular theory is that Ruth's ex-husband killed her. Why would he have hurt someone else?"
She turned around to pour a cup of coffee, then set it down in front of me. "I didn't mean him. It's just that we're women and children living in isolated cabins in the woods. The lodge was safer because we could lock the doors at night, but the cabins are wide open. Three days ago I took the afternoon off and went for a picnic with my kids down by the lake. It was getting dark before I could convince them to get out of the water and put on their shoes. I still get nervous sometimes."
"Shouldn't you find moonlight comforting?"
"I don't think moonlight's going to help much if some psycho comes charging out of the bushes with a baseball bat. We're used to drunks driving by, hollering and tossing beer cans all over the road."
"When you and your children were at the lake, did you notice anybody else?"
She thought for a moment. "A couple of geezers in a boat. They didn't look like they were having much luck. Then again, how would I recognize luck? I keep hoping someone's going to leave me a lottery ticket for a tip, and all of a sudden I'll have fifty million dollars in the bank. At the moment, I have twelve dollars in my pocket, and Judith will take most of it for bread and milk."
"So Judith's in charge," I said as I took a sip of coffee. "I thought Deborah was."
Rachael began to fiddle with the metal napkin holder. "We're not supposed to talk about her. I can't tell you how to get in touch with her because I don't know. There's no point in asking me any more questions. Ruth's dead and there's not a thing I can tell you!" She clamped down her lip until she regained her composure, then said, "You want to take a burger to the prisoner?"
"You may have twelve dollars," I said in an effort to regain whatever smidgen of trust I'd begun to establish, "but I don't even have twelve cents. Maybe Corporal Robarts has access to a petty cash box."
"Forget about it. The cook's gone on home, so I'll have to fix it. Wait here."
I wasn't tempted to join those in the corner booth for a debate about dawgs and hawgs. I wandered over to the jukebox and ran my finger down the glass, noticing the selections were disturbingly similar to those found on the jukebox at Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill. A cardboard sign thumbtacked to the wall directed me to the restrooms in a short corridor next to the end of the counter. I took advantage of the opportunity to use the facilities, wash my hands, and inspect my face in a mottled mirror. I was operating on very little sleep, I reminded myself as I splashed water on my puffy eyes, and I wasn't going to make amends in a chair at the PD.
I was back on a stool when Rachael emerged from the kitchen. She put down a brown bag and said, "Anything else?"
Before I could answer, the pay phone rang. "Hold on," she said, then went around the corner and picked up the receiver. After a terse conversation, she came back. "Merle, that was your daughter. She said if you don't get home in fifteen minutes, she's gonna bury your Penthouse magazines in the compost pile. She might just do it this time."
Merle shuffled to his feet, nodded at us, and hurried outside. After a minute, his compatriots followed.
Rachael sighed. "I'm ready to lock up. Francine's used to cleaning up that particular booth when she comes in every morning. She's welcome to the fifteen-cent tip they leave."
"I'll drive you to the campsite," I said.
"You don't have to do that. I can walk, you know. I do it all the time, even when it's cold and wet."
"But you don't have any reason to this evening. We'll have to swing by the PD to drop off the burger on the way." When she hesitated, I said, "I promise I won't ask you anything more about Deborah, okay?"
"Yeah, okay." She took my coffee cup into the kitchen, turned off all the lights, and waited until I was outside to lock the door. "I didn't mean to sound rude. I guess I'm jumpy because of Ruth. I hope that ex-husband of hers spends the rest of his life in prison."