Free Whack 'n' Roll by Gail Oust Page A

afternoon.”
    The women were a good audience—almost, but not quite, as good as the Babes. Both of them listened with rapt attention while I recounted what had happened the other day on the golf course.
    “What do you think the guys found back there?”
    Donna’s question hung in the air. Neither Betty Lou nor I voiced an opinion. Don’t know about Betty Lou, but I had plenty of opinions, but kept them to myself.
    At last, Betty Lou heaved herself out of the chair and marched off in the direction of a spiffy red and silver Win nebago that probably cost more than my house.
    “Hey, Betty Lou,” Donna yelled. “Where you goin’?”
    “I’m packing up,” she yelled back, not breaking stride. “I’m not gonna spend another night in this place. It ain’t safe.”
    “S’cuse me, Kate,” Donna said, dumping out the dregs in her cup. “Wait up, Betty Lou. Eddie and me’ll be right behind you. He caught enough bass for one fishing trip.”
    I watched in admiration as the pair disassembled their campsites. Their movements were economical and well rehearsed, but then again they had no tent stakes to pry out of the ground, no air mattresses to deflate. Not like the times Jim and I had taken the kids camping. In no time at all, Betty Lou and Donna had whisked the checkered cloth from the picnic table and folded canvas chairs into matching pouches. Bit by bit the motor homes were ready to roll.
    I stood off to the side and tried to stay out of the way. Other campers saw what the sisters-in-law were doing, and one by one began to follow suit. I wasn’t as easily deterred. I sat on a tree stump, prepared to stay as long as necessary.
    I didn’t have much longer to wait before a white van drove up and parked behind my Buick. I felt a certain sense of satisfaction at the sight. I was blocked in. No way the sheriff could expect me to leave a “crime scene” with the coroner’s van practically on my rear bumper.
    My stump provided a ringside seat for all the action. How the Bunco Babes would love this, Pam especially. Local police, state police, and men from the sheriff’s department filed back and forth talking into cell phones and barking into walkie-talkies. I caught a word here, a phrase there. One word in particular stuck in my head.
    Remains.
    My earlier suspicion was confirmed. The arm we had found on the golf course was about to be reunited with more of its body.
     
    I stayed at the campground until men from the coroner’s office loaded a gurney carrying a black vinyl mound—a mound too small to be an entire body—into the back of their van and pulled away. Soon various law-enforcement officials began to drift back to their vehicles and leave. It was time to make my getaway before Sheriff Wiggins showed up and gave me the evil eye.
    By now the campground was nearly empty. Donna waved as she and Eddie followed by Betty Lou and her husband pulled out of the park. Betty Lou, her nose buried in a map, didn’t look up. No doubt she was searching for somewhere safe .
    My brain buzzed with questions as I got behind the wheel of the Buick. Would the coroner now be able to identify the victim? I said a little prayer that Claudia and Vera were off somewhere having fun. That Rosalie was having a great visit with her grandkids. I crossed my fingers that the small mound zipped inside the vinyl bag belonged to some unfortunate stranger and not a friend.
    Who would commit such a heinous crime? I wondered. The consensus was that the perpetrator couldn’t possibly be from Serenity Cove Estates or Brookdale. In this instance, I hoped consensus was right on target. But what if it wasn’t? It worried me no end that Claudia and Vera were unaccounted for. And I’d rest a lot easier when Rosalie returned from Poughkeepsie. I wanted to do something, but what . . . ? It wasn’t my nature to sit back and wait.
    I kept to the speed limit on the drive back to Serenity Cove Estates. No need to rush. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I