They put on clean, dry clothes, but had to don the wet, muddy ponchos. The deputy — who turned out to be named Reedy, which was a serious disappointment to Jane, who wanted him to be called Fife — was waiting for them. The rain had again let up a little bit, but they hurried along as quickly as possible anyway for fear it would start up again. And it did, just as they reached the lodge. There were several unfamiliar cars parked in front, plus an ambulance, but no sign of the people who went with the vehicles.
Inside, most of the rest of the guests and staff, plus the ambulance driver and another police officer, were milling around. Allison wasn't in sight, but Benson, Edna, and one of the boys who had helped with dinner and entertainment had thrown together hot cocoa, coffee, and an assortment of doughnuts, apparently on the premise that a crisis always went better if there was plenty of food around. John Claypool was moving the sofas away from the fireplace and setting up rockers from the porch to hang clammy ponchos over to dry. He looked like a man who wanted to find something to do to keep his mind occupied.
Jane handed her poncho and Shelley's to him, and he arranged them neatly over the back of a chair. "You ladies found him, didn't you?"
“Yes, we did," Jane said.
“I should have gone back sooner," John said. "I told Eileen he'd stayed behind and I was concerned that he was worried about something."
“You went back to the campsite?”
John nodded and adjusted a few folds of fabric as if it were very important. "Went up there to see if he wanted to talk, but I didn't see him."
“And you didn't look around?" Jane asked.
John shrugged. "No reason to. He was sitting by the fire when we left. When I got back, he wasn't. I didn't have any reason to hunt for him. I just figured he'd gotten tired of sitting out there in the rain."
“Then what?"
“Huh? Oh, the rain was letting up, so I strolled on down here to the lodge and looked in the windows to see if he'd come here. Place was mostly dark, though, except for some light under the kitchen door, so I went on back to our cabin. I'm surprised I didn't run into you two ladies somewhere along the line. You sure he was dead? You couldn't be mistaken, could you?”
Jane shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I'm sure. Is Eileen with Marge?”
He nodded. "They aren't much alike, but they do get on pretty well. Poor ol' Marge. I don't know what she'll do without Sam. It's going to be tough on all of us.”
Jane mumbled her regrets and, not knowing what else she could say to a grieving brother, went to join Shelley, who was picking over the doughnuts. "You might be interested to know that John Claypool was out roaming around in the rain this evening after we left the campsite," Jane said in a low voice. She repeated what John had said.
“So was Al Flowers. Maybe," Shelley whispered back.
“What do you mean by 'maybe'?"
“He was telling me he went out to their car to get something he'd forgotten to bring in. Said he'd bought an audiotape, some kind of music Liz hates and wouldn't let him play on the drive up. So he sat out in the car and listened to it by himself. Had the engine running and the heater on and said it was warmer and drier than the cabin."
“Did he see anyone suspicious?"
“He says he was listening with his eyes closed and fell asleep."
“It's probably true," Jane said. "But it is an odd thing to do on a cold, rainy night, isn't it?" She thought for a minute. "I wouldn't want to think badly of him. I like him a lot."
“Me, too. Jane, should we be telling the sheriff these things about John and Al?"
“I don't know. They'll probably tell him themselves. John didn't indicate that it was a secret anyway.”
Shelley nodded. "No, neither did Al. Jane, why would anybody move a body? Especially a body that had already been seen by others."
“Maybe he didn't know we'd seen it," Jane said, choosing a doughnut with chocolate icing. She wasn't really hungry, just needed the comfort of chocolate.
They took their coffee cups and plates into the dining room, which was darkened. Nobody could overhear them there.
“He?" Shelley asked.
“Well, I suppose it could have been a woman. Sam Claypool wasn't a very big man, and I guess a strong woman could have moved him."
“But what I can't get my mind around is why anybody would move him," Shelley said. "Look at it from the killer's point of view. Sam stays back after the rest have gone. The killer creeps up on him, smacks him with the frying pan—"
“No, wait. He probably wasn't still sitting by the fire," Jane said. "If he had been, we'd have found him there. Or John Claypool would have when he went back."
“Right. Okay," Shelley said. "So the killer picks up the frying pan— No, that won't work either. If I were sitting out in the woods alone and somebody came along and picked up a heavy frying pan, I wouldn't stick around to see what they had in mind."
“Maybe the frying pan came later," Jane suggested. "We don't know what other injuries Sam might have had. We didn't turn him over or anything. How about this? The killer lures Sam away from the campfire and into the complete darkness beyond it. Maybe stabs him or knocks him out. Then, for good measure, to make certain he's dead, gets the frying pan and smacks him."
“Okay, but now comes the problem," Shelley said. "If the killer wants to conceal the murder, why not take the body away right then?"
“He — or she — heard us coming? We weren't trying to be quiet."
“Possibly, but if he'd slipped back into the woods and watched us, why bother to hide the body afterward? We'd already seen it."
“But did we?" Jane asked. "Nobody seemed to believe us until they discovered that Sam was missing. Remember all that stuff the sheriff said about shadows and leaves and stuff?"
“That's the point, though. Even if they thought we were highly imaginative nutcases, Sam Claypool is missing. And if the murderer saw us discover the body, he wouldn't know that people weren't going to believe us. Unless the body disappeared, which it did.”
Jane ate a bite of her doughnut, washing it down with some coffee. "And with all the rain, I'd guess any evidence of the murder and the removal of the body has been washed away."
“I hadn't thought of that. Yes, you're probably right."
“I did hear voices," Bob Rycraft said from the doorway. "I thought I was imagining it. What are you two doing in here?"
“Just talking," Shelley said. "Join us if you'd like."
“Thanks. I will. It's kind of a madhouse in the lobby. This is awful, isn't it? Do you think it was that weird guy who did it?"
“Lucky Smith? Maybe," Shelley said. "I hope so.”
Rycraft looked at her oddly. "Why is that?”
“Because if it wasn't him, it was likely one of us," Shelley replied bluntly.
Bob Rycraft put his hand over his mouth for a second, a strangely childish gesture. "No! I see what you mean, but it couldn't be one of us! It had to be him — or one of his followers."
“You're probably right," Shelley said, sounding tired.
Jane saw some light from the dining room windows. She got up to look. Several figures were in the wooded area behind the lodge. They were apparently examining the ground with flashlights, moving slowly toward the path that led down to the lake. Looking for the body of Sam Claypool. A strange place to be looking, she thought. She and Shelley had seen the body at the other end of the property. Perhaps another group was searching that area, or maybe they'd already finished searching and were widening their area in desperation.
Poor Marge, she thought. To get word that her husband had not only died, but was missing besides. There was something doubly gruesome about someone hauling around a dead body.
She rejoined Shelley and Bob at the table.