Antiques Roadkill Page 11

  What Ashley told me about the mystery woman with Clint Carson at the Haven Motel was troubling, but I really didn’t take the notion of my sister being the murdered man’s shack-up partner—let alone murderer—very seriously. Peggy Sue didn’t fit either profile.

  On the other hand, this was not information I intended to share with Mother. I had problems enough already.

  In celebration of my newfound automotive freedom—I never thought I’d be thrilled to see that yellow bucket of bolts again!—I planned an outing for Sushi and me. I had a hidden agenda, which for now I’ll hide from you, because if I didn’t, it would just be an agenda.

  After packing a picnic lunch—leftover meat loaf sandwiches, stale potato chips, frozen Girl Scout cookies (chocolate mint), and tap water in washed Evian bottles—I scooped up the pooch, who had been dancing at my feet, sensing (and smelling) that something was up.

  Dressed for the occasion in a light blue tank top, dark denim shorts, and a pair of Peggy Sue’s old Chris Evert Converse white tennis shoes (an attic treasure), I asked Sushi, “Ready for an adventure?”

  She gave a quick, positive yap in response.

  I placed Sushi—a pink bow holding back the hair that usually covered her eyes—in a pet tote bag, like the one Paris Hilton carries her Chihuahua in. I saw a picture of that in People magazine—pink leopard print with pink fur trim and sparkly faux jewels … I wonder if Paris, like me, made it herself.

  Frankly, my version was a little pathetic, but Sushi didn’t mind because (a) she was a dog, and (b) she was a blind dog.

  Shortly, we were cruising along the River Road, windows rolled down because the air conditioner was busted, my poochie in the passenger seat, head high, little pink tongue lolling … both of us enjoying the fresh air mussing our manes (although my tongue was in my mouth) (make that my cheek).

  Traffic was light as I zoomed along without any music blaring, preferring the blessed silence. The dazzling sun—haze now dissipated—had magically transformed the rambling river into an unwound bolt of gold lame, flung to the horizon.

  My reverie, however, was interrupted as I glided by the entrance to Clint Carson’s place, where yellow police tape drawn across the drive (and tied between two scrub trees) warned of no entry … as if that could keep anybody out.

  I wondered what evidence the police had found, or more importantly, what they hadn’t found that I might, given half a chance.

  But I resisted the urge to stop, passing on by.

  In another fifteen minutes or so, a sign pointed the way to Wild Cat Den; I almost missed the familiar marker, having been away so long. So I wound up turning a little too sharply onto the secondary road, and if Sushi-in-a-bag hadn’t been strapped in, she would have tipped over.

  “Sorry, girl!”

  She gave me a don’t-do-that-again frown, punctuated by her ghostly eyes.

  The popular tourist destination, Wild Cat Den, had been so named because of the abundance of bobcats and cougars that once roamed the thick forest, living in the dens of the limestone cliffs carved by glaciers centuries ago. These mountain lions no longer hung out in the park, driven away by the ever-increasing presence of man; sightings are reported from time to time … although no one has actually caught one of the wild animals, not even on film.

  I tooled down the road, going by a rustic bungalow nestled among tall pines, where a female park ranger lived (a nice enough person unless she caught you with booze on the grounds, which is prohibited) (not that I’d know), and then passed the Pine Creek Grist Mill, a rambling gray wooden three-story structure built precariously on the edge of a swollen stream. A century ago, the mill’s big paddle wheel churned with the help of a man-made waterfall, which in turn cranked the mill’s inner workings, grinding grain into meal.

  Once a blight of disrepair and broken windows, the old mill had been restored to its former glory by the tireless effort of some citizens, including … you guessed it … Mother. Today, the old mill conducts weekend tours (and if you go, be nice—leave a five-spot in the donation box, and tell ‘em Brandy sent you).

  Before long I came to a long steel gate, yawning open to proclaim the park open. At 9:00 PM, that gate swings shut until the next 7:00 AM, and if you linger to camp out under the stars, I wouldn’t sweat the wildcats, but I would keep an eye out for that truck-driver-size park ranger lady (and don’t tell her Brandy sent you).

  I came to a fork in the road, which designated that big decision all Wild Cat Den visitors had to make: You take the high road, and I’ll take the low road.…

  The park was laid out on two levels—seasoned hikers might start at the bottom, choosing one of the many paths (of varying levels of difficulty) and work their way to the top. Those who prefer taking it easier would begin at the summit, letting a gentlemanly gravity help them down. But there’s always a moment, at the end, either way you go, when you realize your car is parked on the opposite level. That’s when you could use a friend to bring the darn thing around! A little hiking goes a long way … or is that short way?

  You probably already know well enough to figure I’m a low-road kind of girl. This gravel strand soon dead-ended in a flat, pounded-out dirt picnic area surrounded by lush green grass, towering shade trees, and a sun-glinting, babbling brook.

  Sushi, feeling the car slow to a stop, barked wildly, her spooky eyes crazy with possibilities. Hurry up, you dumb human! There’s virgin territory to pee on!

  Hooking the wicker basket on one arm, Sushi-in-a-bag on the other, I got out of the car and drew in a lungful of the kind of wholesome fresh air that makes life worth living, and allergies a real threat to it.

  Already, a fair amount of tourists were on the scene: hikers in shorts and T-shirts, toting water bottles, making use of the footpaths before the afternoon heat set in; families who’d laid claim to tables and benches, some already cooking on charcoal grills, the delicious aroma wafting our way and putting Sushi into a doggie dilemma (pee or food, pee or food—priorities!); and a few couples were stretched out on blankets, gazing mooningly at each other under the sun.

  Still plenty of room for Sushi and me, but actually—I had another spot in mind.…

  Boldly choosing one of the more difficult upward routes (stone steps instead of dirt path) to the top, we began the climb.

  Before long I was huffing and puffing, the ol’ thigh muscles stinging. I did my share of walking back in Chicago, particularly on the Magnificent Mile, but not at this steep angle; muscles I didn’t know I had were saying howdy do.

  So I stopped to catch my breath at a rest station next to a wood-staked plaque that read STEAMBOAT ROCK. The huge looming boulder indeed resembled the prow of a big ship. At the moment a couple of boys were on top of it, arms spread wide, yelling, “I’m king of the world,” though Leo DeCaprio they weren’t. An echo encouraged repetition, which got old real fast, so Soosh and I moved on.

  After a while the stepping-stones turned into a damn near perpendicular path made all the more treacherous, and slippery, by strewn pine needles; the once light-filtering trees were becoming more and more dense—dusk might as well have fallen. Suddenly both my Nature Girl and Nancy Drew instincts seemed ill-advised, the forest growing eerily silent … no chirping birds, or pecking woodpeckers, or chattering squirrels.…

  Where have all the critters gone? I wondered, almost channeling Peter, Paul, and Mary. More to the point: what did those critters know that I didn’t?

  A sudden quick movement in the brush startled me, but before I could react, a huge beast leaped into my path, snarling savagely, its rabid fangs drippingly bared, claws sharp as my Ginsu knife (before it fell into the garbage disposal), the creature eyeing me for its dinner—and Sushi for dessert.

  Not really.

  Just seeing if you’re paying attention—didn’t I tell you there are no mountain lions living in Wild Cat Den anymore?

  The next attraction on the state park’s program was Fat Man’s Squeeze, a fissure in the mountain wall that offe
red a shortcut to the top for the slender …

  … the rest of us had to keep on climbing.

  Why didn’t I at least try? After all, I’d lost weight after the divorce, hadn’t I? Well, I’ll tell you. Once, a weight-challenged youngster got stuck in there for two days until the park ranger greased him up with a bucket of lard by pouring it down the crack over his head.

  That’s what I heard in grade school, anyway.

  Sushi squirmed inside her faux Paris Hilton bag; she’d had enough of climbing, and let me know in so many barks. Hadn’t I taken her away from the smell of fresh grass and charcoaling hamburgers? How much optimism could one blind dog summon?

  “Just a little farther,” I promised, picking up my pace. “And then we’ll have our lunch.”

  Sushi was one of those rare dogs who could smile, actually smile—and “lunch” was a word she not only recognized, but beamed at.

  And then we were there: the Devil’s Punch Bowl.

  Unlike most of the other natural attractions at the park, a sign no longer announced this one’s time-honored nickname. The Park and Recreation Department wished this particular phenomenon had never occurred, and some effort had been made to change the ancient moniker … the lamest being the Angel’s Punch Bowl. But no self-respecting kid is ever going to trade the devil for a mere angel.…

  About one hundred feet in diameter and six deep, the Devil’s Punch Bowl might have been created by a small meteorite eons ago; back when the ranger gave walking tours (grade school), that had been the story, though the park’s Web site, in a grudging description, now described the more likely explanation: a pooling of an underground spring, having nowhere to run off, had formed the bowllike shape over time.

  The “Devil” designation came from a disturbing, reddish goop that oozed from the ground in the bottom of the bowl and—when it rained—made a pink, toxic-looking slushie.

  The Devil’s Punch Bowl attracted everyone from benign Wicca practitioners to scary Satan worshipers, and others who just found it a cool place to hang out.

  This would, apparently, include the two young men who just popped out of the punch bowl …

  … and planted themselves in front of me.

  One was tall and druggy thin, with stringy black greasy hair, and dark, dead eyes that were scarier than Sushi’s; he wore a dirty black T-shirt with a heavy metal band logo so badly faded as to be unrecognizable, his ensemble completed by torn, worn cutoffs and self-inflicted tattoos, badly drawn.

  The other kid was stocky, and the proud bearer of an acute case of acne, courtesy of a merciless puberty past, and multiple piercings, mutilations of his own making. He was better dressed than his friend, though, in cargo shorts and a short-sleeved shirt with dragons, unbuttoned and open over a hairy, protuding belly.

  I was kidding when I told you about the mountain lion jumping in my path; this, I’m afraid, really happened.…

  Not that I was too concerned; in broad daylight, with hikers around?

  Only none were around right now.

  “Yo, Red Riding Hood—what’s in the basket?” the thin one said, his voice as thin as himself; he was smirking at his cleverness.

  “Lunch,” I said, having no desire to banter.

  The plump one with his belly hanging out sneered and said, “You’re right on time with the goodies, bitch!”

  Eyeing the silver spear through his lower lip, I said, “Does that hurt?”

  “Hell no!” He seemed truly offended.

  “Your mouth looks a little red … swollen—is that a recent addition to your collection? Could be infected, you know.”

  The plump guy didn’t know what to say; “bitch” was the best move he could bust, apparently.

  “Give it up!” The skinny kid with the bad skin art stepped forward and wrenched the picnic basket from my hands.

  And at that, with a vicious growl, Sushi jumped out of her bag, landed on all fours, and—forgetting she can’t see but heeding her other well-honed senses—leaped right at the skinny one and sank her little sharp teeth into his bare narrow ankle.

  Now, don’t think for a minute that Soosh was trying to protect me. She’d just been smelling that meat loaf for a twenty-minute car ride, its promise trumping the grass and burgers below only to be subjected by me to a half-hour hike, and, by God and Rin Tin Tin’s testicles, if anyone or anything tried to come between her and lunch, there would be bloody hell to pay!

  They really were dealing with the wrong bitch.…

  “Get that thing offa me!” the thin kid hollered, shaking his leg as if in a native dance of an unknown tribe. But Sushi stuck to him—she had hold of him, and this was the closest to actually tasting meat she’d come today.

  The plump pierced guy was no help whatsoever to his friend, frozen there, stammering, “Look … look at its eyes, man … it’s … it’s like—puh-sessed!”

  Sushi’s eyeballs were awfully scary, I had to admit, especially with her hair tied back. I called to her, and she obediently if halfheartedly detached herself from that bony ankle.

  The kid jumped up and down on one foot, holding the wounded ankle in his hands, doing a sort of Funky Chicken this time, while swearing at me and Soosh in a cascade of profanity as filthy as it was unimaginative.

  I said, “Come on, you aren’t hurt, you big sissy—it’s hardly even bleeding. You may wanna consider a tetanus shot, though.”

  More profanity blurted from the hopping, hopping-mad beanpole. I’d have been amused, but finally the fat one unfroze himself and his lip curled back as he took a step toward me.

  I was wondering if I should hold the spooky-eyed pooch up, like a cross before an oncoming vampire, when a family of three thankfully chose this moment to swing by the fabled Punch Bowl—father, mother, and a boy around ten.

  Dad, a strapping guy in his early thirties, noted the tension, the overturned lunch basket, and looked at the two guys sternly, and me sympathetically, then said, “Any trouble here, miss?”

  I said, “I don’t think so.” I smiled and arched an eyebrow at them. “Boys?”

  They responded by pouting and stalking off, down the path, the plumper in the lead, the skinny skin-art guy hobbling after.

  The little family lingered awhile, making sure my two hungry “friends” didn’t return. The mother offered to help me with the spilled basket, but I declined, and the little family moved on, the kid turning back to look in fascination at the crazy-eyed little dog who’d so spooked the big bad wolves.

  Sushi had found her way over to the spilled basket and was sniffing around, making sure lunch was still there. I bent to gather everything—the food, in various plastic bags, had survived—when someone began to clap, the sound reverberating off the rock walls.

  I looked up toward the source of the applause.

  Sitting on the ledge overlooking the Devil’s Punch Bowl, khaki-clad legs dangling, was the real reason for my trip—Joe Lange.

  “You handled yourself well,” he said in his overly enunciated baritone. “… For a civilian.”

  Annoyed, I straightened, basket in hand. “And where were you when I needed you?”

  Joe didn’t answer, just tossed a rope over the ledge of the rock and began to climb down. I was impressed until he lost his grip and fell about ten feet to the ground with a whump! Seemingly unhurt, he sprang up in the cloud of dust he’d raised, and I suppressed a smile.

  I’d known Joe since biology class in junior high. Basically, he was a would-be man’s man who was really an eternal boy, and a nerd who saw himself as much smarter than he actually was. I’m not saying that he didn’t have brains, but he had sporadic black holes among the gray matter that he’d fall into.

  While Joe wasn’t hard on a female’s eyes, tall and loose-limbed with nice features, those features were a wee bit off: one eye higher than the other, mouth a little too wide, nose leaning to one side. And as long as I’d known him, he seemed perpetually forty years old, as if he’d come out of the womb that way (ouch!).
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  Joe had a penchant for pretzels and hard liquor—almost always to ill effect—believed in Nostradamus, and was a certified (and certifiable) gun nut. He was a Trekker—not Trekkie!—and strictly orthodox (classic Trek, only). Come to think of it, he was kind of like Mr. Spock—an incompetent Mr. Spock.

  That said, he was essentially harmless, a loyal friend, and interesting if bizarre company, guaranteed to be funny … although the latter was not always intentional.

  Back when we both attended community college, Joe had joined the National Guard; he loved being a weekend warrior … but then along came Desert Storm, and his unit got called up, something I think he never expected.

  The war must have been rough on Joe, because he got sent home before his tour was finished, for reasons never explained (to me, anyway), and he hasn’t really seemed right since.

  Joe said, “I thought your ETA was oh-ten-hundred.”

  “What?”

  He sighed. “Estimated time of arrival? Ten o’clock?”

  “Oh.” I’d forgotten to adjust to military-speak. “Revelry was late this morning.”

  “That’s reveille.”

  “Whatever.”

  Joe eyed the basket. “I see you brought provisions.”

  “Yes, provisions. But if there’s dirt among the protein and vitamins, it’s your own damn fault.”

  He waved me off dismissively. “I’d have stepped in if it got ugly.”

  “Got ugly? Didn’t you get a good look at those two? It started ugly.”

  He gestured for me to follow him. I scooped Sushi up and we left the beaten path, climbed up some rocks, and sat under a leaning, half-dead tree that threatened to topple at the slightest breeze.

  I spread out a festive red tablecloth and began to dole out the food, serving up the yapping, drooling Sushi first.

  “Not bad rations,” Joe said after a moment, his mouth full.

  “Thanks.”

  Sushi had already gobbled up her portion—one corner of my sandwich—and began stalking ours. Joe made a friend for life, giving her tiny bites now and then, mindful of her sharp teeth.