Jacob's Ladder (20 page)

“That's a lovely idea, Mary dear.” Ms. Lou Ellen immediately placed the paper on the desk. She appeared excited. “I think I'll go right over and see what I have that's ideal for that family.” She stood up from her seat and walked over to the counter. “Would you say chicken casserole or beef stew?” she asked her friends.

“Hmmm,” Rose replied. She appeared deep in thought regarding this question. “I think it goes back to what you remember about his condition, that it would matter whether he died from the cancer or from the sweat,” she said, attempting to be humorous.

“I see your point exactly,” Ms. Lou Ellen replied seriously. “A long-term illness speaks more of a stew or beef-based entrée.”

Mary and Rose faced each other. They were both surprised by their friend's thoughts.

“And a sudden death is more of a poultry-themed meal.” She tapped her finger on the counter in deep consideration.

“Stew,” Rose said. “I'd definitely go with the stew.”

The older woman turned to Mary for confirmation, but the office manager only shrugged her shoulders.

“Yes?” Ms. Lou Ellen asked, and grinned, “Then beef stew it is. Thank you so much for your assistance.” She nodded in Rose's direction.

“Lester, would you like to return home with me, or would you prefer to stay with these two comely women?”

The dog looked at Rose and then at Mary, who sneered at him, and immediately bolted for the door. Ms. Lou Ellen raised her brows and nodded, as if she understood the dog's decision.

“Drop by and see me, Rose,” the older woman said as she headed out. “I really must hear more about your incident.” She waved and walked outside, moving toward her cabin.

“You shouldn't be so hard on the dog,” Rose said as she put down the paper and eyed the coffeepot. She could tell there was still some left from the morning brew. She poured herself a cup and sat down in the seat Ms. Lou Ellen had previously occupied. She was now across from her friend. Mary waved away the comment.

“Any new campers?” she asked Mary.

“Two,” the manager reported. “One on number forty-five, the other near you, number seventy-eight,” she added.

Rose knew she meant the expensive rig she had recently seen that was just around the drive from her casita. Number seventy-eight was a nice site, a large pull-through near the bathhouse and the laundry room. “Family or single?” she asked.

“Don't know,” Mary said. “They check in late.” She reached up for the registration book. “California,” she said, searching for and locating the card. “Can't read the name.”

“Family from South Carolina at number forty-five. They arrived yesterday, staying two nights.” she explained.

Rose nodded. She continued to skim across the paper, not finding any story about what had happened to her. She did find a small report on the inside front page about the murder at Shady Grove Campground still being investigated. It said that there were no new details and that the name of the deceased was still being withheld while family members were being notified.

Rose remembered the two men she had met the day before, the nephew and his son, John and Daniel Sunspeaker. She remembered the slow and careful way they'd acted toward her, the kindness of the older man as he gave her the dressing for her wound.

She wondered if the sheriff had seen the two of them that morning, if the camper had arrived safely at the sheriff's office, and if the family members knew about the ladder. She decided that she should go to town and find out what she could. She noticed the clock. She knew Mary would need her lunch break first.

“You hungry?” she asked.

Mary nodded. “Maybe I just go next door and get some funeral stew,” she said.

Rose smiled. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Then she put down the paper and moved over to the desk to see what work needed to be done. When she noticed the message book, she remembered something.

“By the way, did that FBI agent ever come by here yesterday, the one who called?” she asked.

She remembered her conversation with the sheriff and that he claimed he didn't know anything about the Federal Bureau of Investigation being involved in the case. She assumed the man never showed.

Mary nodded, and the affirmative answer surprised Rose. “He came about ten o'clock,” she replied. “When he found out the camper had been stolen, he left very quickly.” She closed the registration book and straightened the papers on her desk. “He was very upset,” she added.

“Did he show you a badge?” Rose asked, thinking that this man, like the one pretending to be a Highway Patrol officer, might have been impersonating an agent.

“No,” Mary said. “Just told me his name and where he was from.” She finished cleaning up her desk and prepared to leave for lunch. “I remembered the phone call.”

“And where was he from?” Rose asked as she sat down.

“Louisiana,” Mary replied.

Rose waited. The name of the state startled her, though she didn't know why.

“Natchez,” Mary added, and Rose turned quickly to her.

“Good-looking tall man, long hair, from Natchez, Louisiana.”

Rose immediately remembered the stranger she had seen in town at the sheriff's office and at the library. She fell back against the seat at the desk and a long, cold shiver ran down the entire length of her spine.

TWENTY-THREE

After Mary returned from her lunch break, Rose gave the manager the few messages she had taken, then headed out of the office to her car, which was parked at her campsite. She had decided that she was going into town to find the sheriff and get permission to search inside the camper again. She also wanted to speak to the family members of the dead man to see if they knew anything about the secret compartment and the ladder that was hidden inside his travel trailer.

Rose considered paying Ms. Lou Ellen a visit first, but when she peeked in the window at the cabin, she saw that her friend had already left. She assumed she had picked out the perfect grief dish and was on her way to deliver it. She saw the dog curled up by the door, and for the first time, she wondered if the dead man's family would want the dog returned. She wasn't sure how her friend would feel about having to give him up. She decided that choice would not be hers to make and that she would let Ms. Lou Ellen handle that situation when the time came.

She walked along the entryway and rounded the corner of the drive, moving very fast. She traveled that path so many times every day, she'd quit paying attention to her direction anymore. She usually stared at the river or over toward Thomas's place.

As with previous trips, she wasn't watching where she was heading, and before she knew what had happened, Rose ran right into the owner of the California motor home. He was outside fiddling with something in the front of his vehicle.

“Whoa there, missy,” the man said, catching Rose before she knocked them both down.

“My goodness, I am sorry,” Rose insisted. She stepped back, embarrassed at what had happened. “Are you okay?” she asked.

She touched her head, remembering the recent injury. She was glad not to have caused herself more harm.

“I'm fine,” the man replied. “But it looks like you might need to be more careful.” He seemed to notice the bump and the bruise.

Rose studied the man. He was stocky, broad across the chest, and had wide shoulders. He was fifty or sixty—Rose couldn't tell precisely—and he appeared to be a man of money. He was wearing a beige silk shirt with narrow brown thread delicately sewn along the seams and borders, tan linen pants, and soft leather designer shoes, as well as a belt made of the same tawny color. The large belt buckle was carved from a thick, heavy piece of blue-green turquoise. He had on a silver chain that dropped beneath his collar, and his hair was black and slicked down, giving it a wet appearance.

Rose thought he looked nothing like a man who traveled by camper, even a camper as nice as the one he stood in front of, and when she remembered what he drove, she turned to get a better view of it.

“I just got this thing,” the man said, noticing her interest in his rig. “I'm not sure I know how to get it all connected properly,” he added. “I figured out the electricity and the water last night when I arrived, but this”—he picked up the long plastic pipe that he had dropped when she ran into him—“I don't know where this goes.”

Rose could see that he was trying to hook up his sewer line. He appeared completely helpless. She was in a hurry, but, remembering her job at Shady Grove and her duty to aid the other campers, she delayed her departure to assist him.

“Here,” she said, taking the connector from him. She walked around to the side where the appropriate attachment was located, knelt down, removed the cap, and fit one end of the black plastic pipe to it. Then she moved to the side of the vehicle and reattached it to the opening underneath. “Just make certain both ends are secure,” she said, reaching up and making sure it was a tight fit. “And you'll probably want to get a support attachment to put underneath it,” she added, standing and wiping her hands on her legs, “if you plan to camp a lot.”

“A support attachment?” the man asked, clearly displaying his ignorance. They moved toward the front of the vehicle.

“It's a long piece of plastic with small grooved legs. It just keeps your line off the ground, gives it a little gravity. Then you won't get so filthy hooking and unhooking.”

She noticed his clothes and thought of saying something about dressing more casually for camper maintenance, then decided against it.

“Every rig is different, but the valve to turn it on and off should be somewhere near the cap.” She could tell by the expression on his face that he would never find it, so she returned to the hookup site, knelt back down, reached underneath, and twisted the valve.

She stood up and headed toward him again. “It's open now, should work okay.” Then she asked, “Is this your first time camping?”

He smiled at her, stuck out his hand. “Robert Wellington,” he said, introducing himself. “From Stockton, California,” he added. “And yes, this would be my first time in a campground.”

Rose grinned. She held up her hands reminding him that she had just handled his sewer line.

He nodded, understanding.

Rose thought the man was attractive, charming, even if he was clueless about camping.

“Rose Franklin,” she said. “I live here, three sites down.” She pointed with her chin in the direction of her camper. “It takes a little while to figure things out, but once you do, it's simple after that.”

He smiled and turned to see her rig, then turned back around to face her. “Pretty here,” he said. “The river and all.” He looked across the Mississippi. “I could see why you might stay here.” He peered at Rose.

She nodded in agreement. “What brought you to West Memphis?” she asked, stepping away from the rig and closer to the driveway.

“I'm an art dealer,” he replied. “I'm here to see about some pieces.”

Rose turned her face toward the town across the river. “In Memphis?” she asked, thinking it would make more sense that his pieces would be there rather than in Arkansas. She knew there wasn't much in the way of art on her side of the Mississippi.

He shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Here in West Memphis.”

Rose was surprised.

“Well, where are my manners?” he said as he moved over to the door of his vehicle. “Please, come in and wash your hands.”

He demonstrated a bit of difficulty opening the door. Rose smiled and walked over, sliding open the latch.

He stepped aside. “Maybe you could give me a few lessons about motor homes,” he said, pulling the door open and gesturing for her to go in.

Rose walked up the steps. She knew she should be getting to town, but she was interested in seeing the interior of the large vehicle, a class-A motor home. She had been in only one since staying at Shady Grove, and that wasn't as big as this one. She moved inside the entryway. Mr. Wellington came in behind her.

It was beautiful and had leather furniture, stainless-steel appliances, and thick woven rugs. Rose had never seen such luxury in a motor home before. She couldn't help the sounds of delight she was making as she glanced around, taking everything in.

She turned to her right and saw the driver's quarters, an oversized cab with room for three or four people to sit comfortably. Then she peered down the hallway on her left and saw two closed doors, which she assumed led to the bedrooms. And then, remaining where she was standing in the entryway, she spotted something else. “You've even got a fireplace!” she exclaimed.

Mr. Wellington appeared amused that his guest was so taken by the motor home he had only recently purchased. “Here, please,” he said, inviting her to see the entire unit.

Rose shook her head in amazement. She slowly walked through the living room, past the kitchen, stopping to admire the fireplace with gas logs, and then headed into the master bedroom. That room alone was almost twice the size of her entire trailer. She was impressed.

“Well, this is hardly what I call camping,” she said, returning to where he stood, still taking in everything around her. She tried not to touch anything, but she certainly felt the temptation. She remembered her hands, and, recognizing her concern, he pointed her to the sink in the bathroom behind the master suite.

Rose turned around, walked in the direction from which she had just come, and entered the plush bathroom. She headed over to the sink and washed her hands. She eyed the marble shower and the heavy Italian tile carefully placed on the floor, the golden fixtures, and the white porcelain sink. Then she regarded the beveled glass and the large skylight above her head.

After washing with a fragrant lavender soap, she searched around for a towel and saw a small closet near the toilet. Thinking that it might have the linen inside, she opened the door and saw shelves of heavy cotton towels and stacks of neatly pressed sheets. On the floor was a cardboard box that appeared completely out of place with all of the other luxurious items. She took one of the small hand towels and stared into the box.