Free Fear of Frying by Jill Churchill

said, “You’re a faster shower taker than I am. You go first.”
    She put on her robe over her underwear and huddled on the floor in front of the fireplace.
    Shelley walked into the bathroom door, and came back out a minute later in her long T-shirt nightgown. “I’m too tired. And I’m sick of water falling on me.“
    “Poor Marge,“ Jane said, her voice muffled by her pillow. She struggled up to a sitting position. “I wonder when they’ll tell her.“
    “Not until they’ve taken the body away, I’d guess. I hope she doesn’t have to identify it in that condition. I wonder where she thinks he is.“
    “Still at the campsite? Alive at the campsite, mean,“ Jane suggested. “Or maybe she assumed he went on down to the lodge. It’s not that late, you know.“ She held up the watch that had started their ill-fated quest. “It’s only nine-thirty.“
    “No,“ Shelley said, then glanced at her own watch and said, “My gosh, you’re right. It seems like it ought to be nearly dawn.“ She thought for a minute. “I haven’t had time to really take this in, but who would want to kill Sam Claypool? He was such a boring, innocuous person. I can’t imagine him rousing that kind of passion in anybody.“
    “Maybe it was that drunken nutcase, what’s his name?“
    “Oh, Lucky Smith. Maybe. He could have gotten tanked up and figured it would really wreck things for Benson if a guest were found dead.“
    “Kind of an extreme way to make a point.”
    “That’s why they call them extremists,“ Shelley said. “Why don’t you make us some coffee.”
    “Because my legs have solidified. Give me a second and I’ll do it. I wonder who else might be roaming around in the woods and up to no good.”
    “On a night like this, not many,“ Shelley said. “But you’re always hearing about batty survivalists in remote areas.”
    Shelley nodded. “Yes, but I think most of them have their own land and warehouses for their weapons. I don’t think they do much camping out in the rain in October. Although, for all I know, that could be their very favorite activity,“ she added with a wry smile.
    “Should we go over to Marge’s cabin when the police have told her?“
    “A sympathy call? I don’t think so. She’s got her family with her. John and Eileen. I think it would be butting in. We can take her some food when we get back home. I guess we’ll all leave tomorrow instead of staying on. Liz is going to be disappointed that she can’t make a thorough report.”
    Jane looked at Shelley. “You’re blathering.“
    “I know. I need fresh coffee to slap around my brain cells.”
    Jane hoisted herself off the floor and applied what little energy she had left to the coffeemaker. There was a small, high window at the side of the house facing the road. She could see occasional glints of light, but couldn’t tell if it was distant lightning or flashlights in the woods. As she measured out the coffee, an official car of some kind went by silently but quickly.
    Jane went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and hair, and put on a flannel nightgown. As she went back to pour the coffee, there was a knock on the door that frightened her out of her wits.
    “Don’t open it!“ Shelley said.
    “Who’s there?“ Jane called.
    “Sheriff Taylor, ma’am.“ It was the “ma’am“ that convinced her. He came into the cabin, dripping like a sponge. “Did you ladies both see this body?“
    “Yes. Briefly,“ Jane said.
    “And you say it was Sam Claypool?”
    Jane and Shelley glanced at each other, and Shelley replied, “What do you mean... we ‘say’ it was Sam Claypool? It was. There was no mistaking him. You met him yourself, earlier today.“
    “And exactly where did you see this?“
    “At the far end of the campsite from the path we came in on. There’s a semicircle of big rocks,“ Jane said. “Well, medium-sized. And he was just on the other side of them. Sheriff Taylor, these are odd questions. Why are you