Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) (3 page)

CHAPTER 8

F
ROM THE GROCERY
store I rode back to the campground as rain ticked on my helmet and hissed on the pavement. Traffic was just starting to pick up.

The light drizzle did little to discourage outdoor activity among the campers. People were boating on the lake, playing horseshoes on the grass, eating at picnic tables. A few kids were playing a game of tic-tac-toe on the flat top of a tree stump. Four sticks made up the three-by-three grid. Each X was represented by a rock, and each O was represented by a pinecone.

I parked my motorcycle alongside my motor home, grabbed the groceries, and made my way to the entry door . . .

I stopped.

I dropped the groceries.

I stood staring at my entry door.

It was ajar.

“What the . . .”

My motor home had been ransacked thoroughly. It was a mess. Clothes on the floor. Drawers and cabinets emptied. Furniture tossed about. Books off the shelves.

But nothing was missing. Not a single thing. It had taken me the better part of an hour to check.

Somebody had been looking for something, and had apparently not found it.

I wondered if Harry and Sally Moran—my neighbors in the rusty travel trailer—had seen anybody hanging around my site. I was on my way to pay them a visit when I spotted something on the wet ground. I stooped to pick it up.

A toothpick.

It made me change my mind. I decided not to question the Morans. I decided not to mention the break-in to anybody. Including the cops.

I had a gut feeling. It told me the intruders had been searching my motor home for an orange locker key. I wanted to investigate this matter alone. Without any interference from the cops.

I like working alone. I like doing things my own way. I have pretty much always been autonomous, self-reliant, my own man.

My retired status gave me advantages over active law-enforcement officers. I was no longer constrained by bureaucracy, no longer bound by limitations, no longer hampered by rules.

It’s good to follow the rules when you can, but not when the rules interfere with hunting down the bad guys.

Investigating this matter meant I would be staying at S’mores and Snores Campground for a while longer. I did not know for how much longer. Maybe days. Maybe weeks. Investigations take as long as they take, and sometimes they take even longer.

I got an umbrella and waded down to the campground office. The two big marshmallows were still in the red box on the wall. Miracles never cease.

“Looks like I’m going to need to stay here a little longer,” I told the office manager.

He stopped chewing his burrito and looked at me.

“How much longer?”

“Not sure.”

He checked his computer.

“Not a problem,” he said, and bit into the burrito.

“Swell,” I said. “Bob the mechanic still arriving at noon today?”

“You’re first on his list.”

In my RV again I began to clean up the mess left by the intruders. My OCD was not too pleased. It has improved over the years, though not by leaps and bounds.

Every item of clothing folded just so, and placed neatly in a drawer. Every book perfectly aligned on the shelf. Every piece of furniture returned to its original location.

Everything in its place.

Everything in order.

Everything.

CHAPTER 9

“I
SEE WHAT
the problem is,” Bob said, looking at my engine.

“And you can fix it?” I said.

“I aim to.”

We talked as he worked on the engine.

“It ain’t rainin no more.”

“My first lucky break of the day,” I said.

“How you like livin in a motor home?”

“Best way to live, Bob.”

“I know it.”

Bob leaned and spat. He took hold of a socket wrench.

“There’s benefits to livin in a home on wheels,” he said. “Your home catches fire, you don’t have to wait for the fire department to come to you.”

“Never thought of it that way.”

“Most folks don’t.”

We were quiet, but the socket wrench was not. It looked like Bob knew what he was doing. You run into people like that every now and then.

“You married, Rip?”

“Nope. How about you, Bob?”

“Not no more. I’m in the D Club now.”

“D Club?”

“Divorced.”

“Yeah, I’m in that club too.”

“You ain’t educated till you been divorced.”

I nodded.

Bob stopped working the socket wrench long enough to show me his tobacco smile. He adjusted his John Deere hat.

“Marriage is craziern hell, what it is,” he said, working the socket wrench again. “Women marry cause they think they can change their spouse, and men marry cause they think their spouse’ll stay the same. Craziern hell.”

“No doubt.”

“And havin kids? It ain’t nothin but work. You know why folks have kids? Cause they don’t know no better, that’s why.”

He leaned and spat again. Then he put down the socket wrench, picked up a screwdriver.

“Cable guy was screwin my wife,” Bob said. “Cable wasn’t the only thing the son of a bitch put in.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I got a new gal now.”

“Pretty?”

“She’d make your tongue hard.”

“Good for you, Bob.”

“That’s life. When one pair of legs closes there’s always another one that opens.”

“I think I read that in a fortune cookie once.”

Bob wiped his hands on a greasy rag.

“Ever notice how often good-lookin women go with ugly fellers?” he said. “You got couples like Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio, Christie Brinkley and Billy Joel, Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett . . .”

“Miss Piggy and Kermit,” I said.

“Durn right,” Bob said. “I reckon good-lookin women like ugly fellers. I was thinkin maybe I should ugly myself up.”

“Worth a try.”

Bob smiled his tobacco smile again and shut the engine hood.

“All right,” he said.

“You fixed the problem already?” I said.

“Yessir.”

“How can I prevent future problems?”

“Keep your woman away from the cable guy.”

CHAPTER 10

T
HE
P
OTTSLAND BUS
station seemed like the best place to start to look for some answers. It was where the trouble had started.

Wait. Let me correct that.

My trouble had really started when I met Anna. But she was gone now, and I didn’t know her last name. So finding her would not be easy.

Nor would it easy to find the two thugs in Armani suits. I had no idea who they were.

Thus the bus station was the best place to begin my search for some answers.

The station was even filthier than before, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. The one food wrapper in the mesh garbage can looked lonely, as if it wanted to join all the others on the floor. I thought seriously about helping it out, but I have never been a big fan of reunions.

I searched the station for the two thugs. I didn’t really expect to find them there. My expectations were met.

Next I went to the lockers. I found the one I had opened before. The orange key was still in the lock. It was the key Anna had given me. It was the key the two thugs had been searching for in my motor home. It was not the key to solving this mystery, but it was still worth checking out.

The last time I looked in the locker I had expected to see Anna’s duffel bag, but the locker had been empty.

It was probably still empty.

I checked.

Empty.

I closed the locker door.

Outside the window a Greyhound bus pulled up. It had a picture of a greyhound dog on it. If I owned a greyhound dog, I would name it Bus.

“I’m looking for somebody,” I told the woman behind the ticket counter.

“Have you tried online dating?” she said, and smiled.

Her teeth were big. I pictured her chewing down a birch tree.

“The person I’m looking for, her name’s Anna. She bought a bus ticket here yesterday. She was going to Topeka.”

“Then she’s in Topeka.”

I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “Anna never got on the bus.”

The woman made a face. Her teeth were menacing. I remained calm.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “The person you’re looking for—this Anna woman—paid for a ticket to Topeka, but never got on the bus.”

“Correct.”

“What’s Anna’s last name?”

“I don’t know.”

Miss Beaver showed her teeth again. I was glad I didn’t have a wooden leg.

“And what is it you want me to do?” she said.

“Can you check your computer, see if Anna used a credit card to buy her ticket? That would at least give me her last name.”

“You’re asking me to do something unethical.”

I frowned, reached for my wallet.

Miss Beaver took my twenty-dollar bill from the counter and tucked it into her bra. Then she checked her computer.

“She bought her ticket yesterday, you say?”

“Yesterday.”

“Let’s see, hmm.”

I waited.

“Nobody named Anna used a credit card here yesterday.”

“You sure?” I said.

“Positive.”

I considered the possibilities. Maybe Anna had paid in cash. Or maybe she had lied to me about buying a bus ticket. Or maybe her name was not really Anna.

CHAPTER 11

A
WOMAN AT
the bus station was wearing pink sweatpants with the word
JUICY
printed in big white letters on her butt. I took the better part of a minute to study each and every letter. You never know where you might find a clue.

I looked around the station for other possible clues, but none of the other women had writing on their backsides.

On my way to the coffee vending machine I spotted a security camera mounted on the ceiling. It was positioned to provide an overview of the entire bus station, including the waiting area, lockers, and ticket counter.

I knocked on the door to the security office. When there was no answer I went to the ticket counter. The woman with big teeth was still there. She looked at me.

“You again?”

“Is the head of security in?”

“She’s on her dinner break.”

“Due back soon?”

“Just left a minute ago.”

“I’ll wait.”

It was a good thing I had already eaten dinner, because otherwise I would not have been able to wait for the head of security to return. I function best when I eat several small meals throughout the day. Eating small meals means I have to eat something every three hours or so. Otherwise my blood sugar level drops like Icarus.

Half an hour passed.

Forty-five minutes.

An hour.

Finally the head of security returned from her dinner break. She was built like a polar bear, with a barrel chest and squat legs. Her thick body was hunched over. Her head hung down. No words were printed on her butt, though the entire text of
Moby-Dick
could have fit back there.

“Got a minute?” I said to her.

She dipped her head and looked at me as if she had just come out of hibernation. Then she made a noise that sounded like a snort.

“You lose your wallet or something?” she said.

“I noticed your security camera over there . . .”

“Uh-huh.”

“. . . and I was just wondering if your DVR recorded something yesterday.”

“Of course it recorded something—it’s not broken.”

“I meant something in particular.”

“Like what?”

“Yesterday I was here with a young woman. We sat on that bench over there. She bought a ticket to Topeka, but never got on the bus. The last time I saw her . . .”

“Uh-huh.”

“. . . she was going to the ladies’ room. After that I never saw her again. She just disappeared.”

“Sounds like you got dumped.”

“I probably was.”

“And you want to watch it happening again in high definition?”

“There were two suspicious-looking guys watching us. I want to get another look at them.”

“Just because they were watching you?”

“Because I think they broke into my motor home this morning.”

The head of security eyed me with suspicion.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Rip Lane.”

“Mr. Lane, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“No need to be afraid.”

It made her smile.

“What are you,” she said, “a comedian?”

“Retired deputy U.S. marshal.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Come on into my office.”