A Rip Roaring Good Time (4 page)

It was warm and muggy in Nebraska that afternoon. It was the kind of heat and humidity that zapped your energy within minutes. Given the weather, my tequila sunrise was particularly refreshing. When I set the full jars of our iced cocktails on a small folding table we carried in the under-belly storage compartment, the sweat rolled off them like an NFL linebacker at training camp.

Fortunately, there was a nice breeze, a pleasant view of the Platte River, and much-needed shade under the awning on the door side of the Chartreuse Caboose. I had cranked out the full-length canvas awning after I'd removed the chairs from the same storage compartment beneath the trailer. This was a much more enjoyable atmosphere than one would find in an asphalted Wal-Mart parking lot.

We sipped on our drinks as we discussed our upcoming stay at our new friends' bed and breakfast. The Alexandria Inn was a massive renovated Victorian mansion from the turn of the 20th century according to Lexie. We talked about how nice it'd be to see the fascinating home and visit with our new friends.

After we'd exhausted that subject, Rip explained the issues with the travel trailer he planned to have the local Rockdale mechanic take care of during our stay. His detailed explanation of each repair that needed to be done nearly caused me to nod off.

I finally distracted him enough to launch into a new, more intriguing subject. We discussed what Lexie had told us concerning the surprise birthday party she was hosting for her daughter.

"It sounds like it'll be a rip-roaring good time," my husband said.

"Yes, it does," I agreed. "I'm really looking forward to a little R&R while we're at the inn. It will be nice to kick back for a week or so and just hang around the inn like lazy slugs for a few days."

"Good luck with that," Rip said. "Since we came out of our self-induced hibernation, which most folks call retirement, I've never seen you manage to rest and relax for over about ten minutes in a row."

Little did I know, this would not be an issue. As things would turn out, there would be little time for kicking back, resting, and relaxing in the coming days. Being a lazy slug for a spell would turn out to have just been wishful thinking on my part.

Chapter 3

We pulled into Boney's Garage in Rockdale, Missouri, early the next afternoon. An older mechanic named Paul, who specialized in recreational vehicle repairs, was going to work on a long list of issues regarding leaks, squeaks, and reeks that had been accumulating over the last several months. The mechanic would work on the repairs while we spent the week at the Alexandria Inn. I'd been nagging Rip to work on the problems himself. Naturally, I would have liked to avoid the cost of a repairman, someone who, at seventy-five bucks an hour, had no incentive to hurry and get the job completed.

After a lengthy career as a member of law enforcement, Rip could bust them, cuff them, and stuff them like nobody's business. If you needed someone to scour your basement for potential serial killers after you'd heard a suspicious noise, or to talk a suicidal citizen at the bitter end of his rope down off the ledge of a tall building, Rip was the man for the job.

But ask him to get a toilet to flush properly, and he'll stare at it in a stupor as if viewing some unrecognizable object brought back to Earth from a mission on Mars. Watching this man stand hopelessly boggled in front of the ill-functioning commode with a can of WD-40 in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other, one would never guess he'd utilized the object, and other ones just like it, many thousands of times in his sixty-eight years of life.

It was frustrating at times but I couldn't fault the guy for not being handy around the house. After all, for the majority of his life Rip's main focus had been to make it through each eight-hour shift without becoming a statistic while enforcing law and order within his jurisdiction. Somehow, he'd managed to get through all thirty-seven years on the force without sustaining a major injury, either accidental or intentional, in the line of duty. When he'd retired at sixty-two, he'd felt as if he was pushing his luck and the odds were against him.

Unlike my previous job at the ice cream factory, where all I took home with me was a tummy ache, a few extra pounds on my tall frame, and abundant chocolate stains on my blouse, his wasn't the kind of job you could leave at the office after you clocked out at the end of your shift. This was especially true after holding a tiny child in his arms as it succumbed from injuries sustained in a head-on collision caused by a drunk driver, or after having to kill a misguided teenager who'd pulled a handgun on him when Rip stumbled onto the young boy selling meth in an alley.

I was thankful my dear husband could put both of these heart-rending events, along with many other horrendous incidents he'd been involved in, behind him and enjoy his retirement away from all the stress and turmoil. Rip seldom watched the news on television after he retired. It wasn't because he didn't care what was going on in the world. He just didn't want to revisit old memories evoked from the overwhelming negativity of your average evening newscast.

I thought about these things as I watched Rip describing the eerie sound emitting from the air conditioner unit in our travel trailer, the eye-burning odor radiating from the refrigerator, and the water gushing from the pipes underneath the sink every time I washed the dishes.

From my line of view, as I leaned against a greasy concrete wall, Rip's balding head was barely visible over the hood of our pick-up truck as he conversed with the mechanic. At five-foot-seven, he was an inch shorter than I was but made up for his height deficiency with a doughnut-induced spare tire around his waist. Yes, it's true. Some cops really do rely on long johns and apple fritters for sustenance. My husband may have given up his job of maintaining the peace, but he'd yet to turn his back on a cream-filled doughnut.

I continued to watch as Paul, the older mechanic, nodded his head frequently while Rip went into way too much detail about each issue. Paul's eyes eventually glazed over, as he'd no doubt tuned out the non-stop blabbering by Rip and started calculating in his head how much money he'd make at his hourly rate before my husband even finished working his way through the extensive list. I could see our bill growing with each faulty item Rip told the mechanic about.

"Hey, Chatty Cathy, over there," I finally shouted. "Could you kick it up a notch? He doesn't need to know every single item in our icebox. That stench smells more like burning rubber than that moldy chunk of head cheese I should have thrown out two weeks ago."

Without stopping to take a breath or even acknowledge I'd spoken, Rip launched into a long-winded story about the time he'd cut the cheese during a somber funeral service in Rockport. That anecdote cracked him up every time he told it. I still don't know how the man could turn on a dime mid-sentence.

Before my rising temper could begin to steam like the radiator the younger mechanic was working on in the other stall, I went outside and sat impatiently on a wrought-iron bench until Rip finally unhitched the trailer and motioned for me to get in the truck. He had already transferred Dolly to the truck, and she was carrying on as if a sewer rat had a hold of her tail.

* * *

Later, after a strenuous evening of sniffing and checking out every square inch of the building, Dolly snarfed up her eight o'clock meal and was snoozing at the foot of our bed in one of the nicest suites in the inn. When guiding us to the suite, Lexie had assured us no one had died in it.

While Dolly was no doubt dreaming about her ten o'clock "go to bed" snack, Rip and I were relaxing on the back covered porch of the inn, enjoying some apple tarts and a couple of cups of stout coffee with our hosts, Lexie and Stone. We were discussing the events following the death of a snooty author at the campground in Cheyenne, Wyoming, a couple of weeks prior.

We'd recently picked up some tidbits of interesting news from my cousin, Emily, who owned the campground we'd all been staying in at the time of the murder. I had recognized Lexie's curious nature as being very much like my own, and I knew she'd want all the juicy details. As expected, she absorbed the information like a sponge.

The only good thing to arise from the tragedy was that we were becoming acquainted with our two new friends. After a few minutes, I noticed I was getting uncomfortably warm. I didn't want to complain to these nice folks, but I was sweating like a prizefighter and Rip was constantly wiping his brow with an old stained handkerchief he'd pulled out of his back pocket. Having gotten accustomed to the cooler, dryer climate of Cheyenne, it felt like it was a hundred and ten on that porch and as if I were trying to breathe through a soggy throw cushion. And drinking hot coffee hadn't helped the matter much.

When Lexie finally noticed a rapidly expanding wet splotch on the front of my shirt from perspiration trailing down between my breasts, she said, "Oh, heavens, you two must be sweltering. It took us a couple of days to re-acclimate to this muggy weather, and we were only in Cheyenne for a week."

"Yeah, this humidity is like a slap in the face after you've gotten used to not being able to work up a sweat if you tried. Right now I'm sweating like a call girl in church." I pulled my damp shirt away from my body and fanned it to emphasize my point. Lexie flashed me a warm smile while nodding her head in agreement.

"Let's retreat to the parlor inside. Stone usually keeps it like a meat locker in there." After she finished speaking, Lexie picked up the now empty coffee carafe and opened the French door that led into the kitchen.

With a couple of days on the road under our belt, Rip and I were both yawning and struggling to concentrate on the conversation. Rip spoke for both of us when he said, "We're kind of wiped out. If you two don't mind, I think we'd like to call it a day so we'll be fresh for the party tomorrow."

"You're right," Lexie replied. "We probably need to get a good night's rest too. We have a lot to get done tomorrow before all the guests begin to arrive at seven-thirty in the evening. Andy's going to tell Wendy he's taking her out to eat for her birthday and that I'd asked them to stop by here on their way to the restaurant to pick up a gift we'd gotten for her. When she opens the front door, the lights will flick on, everyone will shout 'surprise', and her thirtieth birthday party will commence. We'll be serving a catered dinner soon after they arrive, and there'll be plenty of refreshments on hand to satisfy everyone's appetites."

"I have underwear older than Wendy. In fact, I think I bought the pair I'm wearing right now during the Revolutionary War. And, according to Rapella, they've still got a few good years left in them. But, seriously, what a wonderful surprise to celebrate Wendy's milestone birthday," Rip said.

"Yes, and that's not even the biggest surprise awaiting her," Lexie responded with a sly smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

"Then what is?" Rip and I asked in unison.

"Once the party is in full swing Andy's going to hush the crowd to announce he wants to make a toast. Then he's going to get down on his knee in front of all their family and friends and ask her to marry him."

"Oh, what an exciting evening it's going to be!" I exclaimed. "As Rip said on the way here, it sounds like it's going to be a rip roaring good time. It'll be a night your daughter will never forget."

Little did I know at that moment my statement could not have been any more spot on.

Chapter 4

The coffee I'd ingested before hitting the sack had me tossing and turning all night. Wendy had warned me about Lexie's caffeine addiction. I realized then that if I drank a cup of her robust brew every time she offered me one, I'd down enough of the powerful stimulant to keep a small village awake for a week. I vowed to increase my water intake while I was at the Alexandria Inn instead of my coffee consumption.