Minnie Crockwell - Will Travel for Trouble 01 - Trouble at Happy Trails (3 page)

The wailing stopped. I lowered myself to the first step, fully aware that I was in my nightgown.

“Ben!” I whispered.

A figure emerged from the shadows just outside my RV.

The porch light reflected Sally Richardson staggering past my rig on her way to who knows where. Her pink tunic was wet, appearing dark red. She held her hands up in front of her like Lady MacBeth.

 
Ignoring my attire, I jumped down the last step and called out.

“Sally! Sally! Are you all right?” I ran toward her.

She turned to me, her mouth working but no sounds came out. She smelled heavily of copper and metal. The smell of blood! She had blood all over her hands and clothes!

Please take care, Minerva. I fear she may have murdered her husband.

Chapter Two

I gasped at Ben’s words, and stiffened.

Sally stared at her hands.
 

“He’s dead,” she muttered. “Carl is dead.”

“What? How?”
 

Where was my phone? I needed to call 911. The nearby porch lights went out, and no one else had emerged from their trailers. I was left alone to deal with Sally.

“I don’t know,” she said on a ragged voice. She began sobbing.

“Are you sure he’s dead. Should I run over and see if I can help?”

She shook her head.

“No, he’s dead.”

Is he really dead, Ben? Can you see? Does he need an ambulance?

He is well and truly dead, Minerva. No one can help him now.

I hesitated to touch her, what with evidence and all, but I couldn’t just stand there and stare at her. And I really needed my phone.

“Come with me, Sally. I have to call the police.”

I took her gingerly by the shoulders and propelled her toward my RV.

Oh, my dear, is this wise?

What else can I do, Ben? I can’t leave her out here like this. She doesn’t look like a killer.

 
And how does a killer look, Minerva?

I don’t know. I can’t talk right now!

Sally’s sobs grew louder. I half pulled/half pushed her up the steps of my RV and guided her toward the couch. As crass as it sounds, I thanked my lucky stars the material was vinyl.
 

I couldn’t decide whether to wet a paper towel and hand it to her or to reach for my phone. Evidence be darned. I couldn’t stand to see her just sitting there with blood all over her hands.

She solved my dilemma by slumping down on the couch and curling up into a fetal position with her hands stuffed into her armpits. Her white capri pants, which I had not noticed earlier behind the counter in the office, had blood on the knees.

“I’m going to call the police, okay, Sally?” I wasn’t asking her permission so much as warning her.
 

She said nothing but kept sobbing.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“Ummm… This is Minnie Crockwell. Someone has died…I’m not sure how. I have his wife with me. She says her husband is dead. She’s covered in blood.”

Well, if that wasn’t the most scatterbrained disjointed 911 call ever!

“Are you saying that someone has been killed? What is your address, ma’am?”

“I don’t know. She just says he’s dead, and from the looks of all the blood on her hands and clothes, he might very well be.”

I couldn’t explain that Ben had confirmed Carl’s death. I couldn’t explain Ben to anyone.

I gave 911 the RV park’s address.

“Where is he, Sally?” I asked on direction of the dispatcher.

“In our trailer.”

“What space?”

“14.”

I relayed that information on to the dispatcher.
 

“We are sending police units and an ambulance. Did you say you have the wife with you?”

“Yes.”

“Can we speak to her, please?”

“Just a minute!”

I offered the phone to Sally, but she refused it. By now, her sobs had subsided, and she stared blankly across the RV at a vague spot near my kitchen drawers.

“She won’t take the phone,” I said.
 

“That’s okay. Units will be there in 3 minutes. Are you safe?”

“Yes, I think so.” I eyed Sally. She seemed almost comatose.
 

I stayed on the phone with 911 until the sound of sirens caught my ears. I had left my door open, and I looked out. Several police cruisers pulled into the park and shone their floodlights. The ambulance arrived behind them.
 

“The police are here,” I told the dispatcher. She wished me well and disconnected the call.

I grabbed a jacket this time and ran down the stairs toward the police cars. I wasn’t sure where Sally’s space was, but the police seemed to find it in minimum time.

One tall brawny young man turned to me, his hand on his weapon.

“Are you the woman who called?”

“Yes, that’s me, Minnie Crockwell. Sally Richardson showed up at my trailer, covered in blood, saying her husband was dead. I didn’t get a chance to check on the husband.”

“Where is the wife?”

“She’s in my trailer right now, over there, space 18.”

“Show me!”
 

Three other police officers entered the smallish travel trailer in space 14, and the paramedics followed.

The young policeman whose name tag read “Wilson” came with me as I led the way to my RV. I began to climb the stairs, but he stayed me with a hand on my arm.
 

“Ma’am?” he called into my RV. “This is the police. Are you all right in there?”

There was no answer.

“Stay here,” he ordered.
 

He climbed the stairs and peered in. He turned and looked down at me.
 

“Where is she?”

“She was right on the couch!”

She left, Minerva. I believe she is wandering aimlessly through the park right now, just down the lane to the right.

“Maybe she took off,” I said. “She looked like she’s in shock. She probably hasn’t gone far.”

Officer Wilson clicked the microphone attached to his epaulette, and mumbled some stuff I didn’t catch. But it was clear that he had called for several of the officers to come over to my RV.
 

Two additional officers arrived in no time at all, and all three regarded me suspiciously. Two climbed into my RV while another stayed with me, drilling me about Sally, my own whereabouts, etc. The way he eyed me up and down told me he was looking for blood on my own clothes. His nametag read “Campbell.”

“There’s blood on the couch,” Officer Wilson called out.

“Well, she was laying there.” I said.
 

Ben, I’m in trouble, aren’t I?

Surely not! You have done nothing but assist a woman in need.

Then why are they staring at me like I’m a criminal?

I cannot say, Minerva. It seems likely that they suspect you of some wrongdoing, especially in light of Mrs. Richardson’s disappearance.

Where is she now?

Still wandering about in the park, quite dazed and confused, I might add.

“I really think Mrs. Richardson is just wandering around in the park. Why don’t you send some guys to go find her?”

“We’ll take care of that, ma’am,” Officer Campbell said. “Right now, we just need you to take a seat on this picnic bench and relax.”

I could see other campers poking their heads out of the RV doors now. Some stood beside their campers and blatantly watched the goings-on.
 

Wilson and the other policeman took off on a sprint down the lane while Officer Campbell babysat me and asked me questions—my name, where was I from, what was I doing here? Why was it that people always wanted to know what I was doing in a certain place?
 

He seemed largely unimpressed when I told him I simply traveled around in my RV.
 

“But you’re not visiting family or anything?”

I sighed. “No.”
 

“You just travel around.”

I was having déjà vu. And where was Neighbor Right, anyway? Surely all this activity had awakened the senior gentleman and “the wife.”
 

“Yes, I just travel around.”

His radio yacked, and he spoke into it. He returned his attention to me.
 

“Why don’t you come with me? They found Mrs. Richardson wandering through the park. I’ll take your statement, and then we’ll release you.”

Release me? Had I been detained?

Thank goodness!
I heard Ben say.

I accompanied the officer to Sally’s trailer where Officer Wilson and the other policeman had her seated on the picnic bench. Officer Campbell seated me on the other end and took my statement.

It seemed like I was there for over an hour. People went into and left Sally’s RV. I kept my eyes averted as the paramedics brought Carl’s body out, but I heard one of the officers asking Sally about a gunshot to the head. I also heard the term suicide.

Ben, I thought you said she killed her husband.

I was not sure. In my wanderings through the park, I came upon her bent over her husband’s body. I presumed murder, but perhaps I was mistaken.

Was it gruesome?

Violent death is always gruesome, dear. Always. I have seen much of it.

“Well, that’s all we need for now, Miss Crockwell. You can go back to your camper now.”

“But what about Sally? She can’t go back to her trailer. Not if…”
 

This was beyond the reach of my experience, but wouldn’t there be…debris…around? From the gunshot to the head?

“No, she can’t. We’ll need to continue to process the scene. Maybe she has family in the area she can stay with.” He seemed largely unconcerned, no doubt having other things to worry about.
 

Come, Minerva. Return to your coach with me.

I rose to my feet, trying hard not to look at Sally.
 

Minerva…

I heard a warning in Ben’s voice.

I maneuvered my way around several police officers and came to stand in front of Sally. Onlookers started to disperse.

“Do you have anyone to stay with, Sally?”

She looked up at me, still as dazed and confused as she had been. She shook her head. “Not really. Carl’s nephew, but I don’t know.”

“Well, you can stay the night with me,” I said. Maybe I should have offered more, but I didn’t. “You might want to ask the officers if you can get some clean clothing though.”

“Thank you, Minnie,” she said. “I’ll call my brother and see if he can come help me. He lives in Oregon. I just can’t think straight right now.”

“I understand. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you when you’re done here.”

“Thank you, Minnie,” she said again. Her forlorn voice broke my heart. The whole
better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all
seemed like a bad idea. I doubted Sally would have been in as much pain if she’d never loved Carl at all.

I left and returned to my RV, ruminating. Had Carl killed himself? I wondered why. I couldn’t help but visualize the tall, thin, angry man I’d seen that morning. Now, he was dead.
 

How are you faring, Minerva?
 

“Oh,
I’m
okay, Ben. I’m not the one who’s dead or who lost someone. They were talking about suicide. How awful for Sally! She’ll probably blame herself for the rest of her life.”

Yes, I imagine she will. My uncle took his own life, and my aunt never fully recovered from the grief.

“Ben! I didn’t know that! I’m so sorry. I’ve heard it called a selfish act, but I think someone must really be suffering terribly to end his life.”

My uncle was in great pain from a disease of the stomach. The family understood his desire to end his life, but my aunt was disgraced. It is not de rigueur to take one’s own life.

“Well, it’s none too popular now, and although Sally won’t be ‘disgraced,’ people will always wonder if it was her fault, if he couldn’t stand to live with her so much that he killed himself.
 

A pity…

Ben’s voice held a soothing sympathetic note.
 

“Well, I’d better set up the couch for her.”

Sally showed up within an hour, carrying a small recycling bag sold by grocery stores.

“I took a shower in the campground shower house,” she said as she climbed the stairs. She was subdued. Probably stunned. Her face was swollen, her eyes puffy.
 

“Come, sit down. I made up the bed for you. Do you want something to drink? Tea? Water? Hot milk?” What did one offer a grieving person?