her mouth to argue, the right front tire sunk bumper-deep into a hole, jarring me all the way down my spine. The car tilted awkwardly, tires spun with a loud, slurpy whine, and all of us squealed at the same time. Then Bitty let off the gas pedal and it got totally quiet, just the purr of the German-made engine idling nicely along.
Gaynelle broke the stuffy silence. “Well, thank heavens I brought along some emergency beverage.”
I knew what that meant. Gaynelle always brings along an emergency beverage in a nice silver flask. She passed it around, and after a moment or two, Bitty put the car in Park and cut the engine.
“Does anyone have the phone number for the owners of this place?” she asked.
No one did. That hadn’t seemed too important when we had a map; Rayna had already confirmed our reservations. Since the police had finished with it, she was able to get us the same shack where Larry Whittier had been murdered. Well-cleaned, I hoped.
Now, while I was pretty sure this wasn’t the right cabin, if we couldn’t get the car out of the mud we might well end up spending the night in it anyway. That was even less appealing than sleeping in a murder scene.
From the backseat, Carolann asked in a rather subdued tone, “Do you think this shack has been renovated?” She’s usually quite exuberant, but her spirits were obviously dampened by more than rain.
“Not in the last fifty years,” said Gaynelle.
I chanced sitting up again since it had been at least two minutes since the last lightning strike. The rain had slackened, and now just hissed against the Mercedes hood. Bitty’s headlights were still focused on the shack at an odd angle. A loose board hung down and flapped in wind gusts. “Okay, Bitty,” I said, “since you’re certain this is the right place, go see if the door is unlocked. We’ll wait here.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you’re the only one insisting this is the right place. Go ahead. Get out and try the door. Maybe it’s not so bad on the inside.” I figured the inside would look just as bad as the outside. The shack was built of wood planks that had weathered over the years, and the front porch sagged on one end. In fact, the entire structure sagged at one end.
“Do you think they have valet parking?” Bitty asked, squinting through the windshield. “Maybe I should try honking a few times.”
“You’re stalling,” I said. “Go on. Step on up there if this is the right place.”
“Well, I will,” said Bitty. “Give me something to cover my hair. I can’t get my hair all wet. I just got it done. Bonnie would be upset with me.”
I made a rude noise and she looked at me with narrowed eyes. “What?”
“You’re scared to go to the door because you know this isn’t the right shack,” I said. “You’re afraid zombies are waiting inside. Admit it.”
“I’ll admit nothing of the kind.” She looked back out the windshield. The loose board banged in another gust of wind, and she jumped slightly. “Clayton gave me a book this summer about how zombies are real. Do you think zombies are real?”
“I think Clayton just likes to tease you,” I said in reference to one of Bitty’s twin sons. “You make it irresistible at times. I was kidding about the zombies.”
Bitty’s shoulders hunched forward and her knuckles were white around the car’s steering wheel. “Well, I still say this place looks haunted.”
Truthfully, I was getting a bit exasperated with Bitty. Her stubbornness can go too far. So I said, “There’s only one way to find out. Go knock on the front door. If no one answers, we’re at the wrong place. If Jack Nicholson answers, you’ll have the satisfaction of being right.”
Bitty gave me an uneasy glance; her face was illuminated by the dashboard lights, so I knew mine must be, too. When I put both hands to my face and opened my mouth wide to imitate the painting The Scream , she said something very rude. I laughed, of course. Teasing
Gaynelle broke the stuffy silence. “Well, thank heavens I brought along some emergency beverage.”
I knew what that meant. Gaynelle always brings along an emergency beverage in a nice silver flask. She passed it around, and after a moment or two, Bitty put the car in Park and cut the engine.
“Does anyone have the phone number for the owners of this place?” she asked.
No one did. That hadn’t seemed too important when we had a map; Rayna had already confirmed our reservations. Since the police had finished with it, she was able to get us the same shack where Larry Whittier had been murdered. Well-cleaned, I hoped.
Now, while I was pretty sure this wasn’t the right cabin, if we couldn’t get the car out of the mud we might well end up spending the night in it anyway. That was even less appealing than sleeping in a murder scene.
From the backseat, Carolann asked in a rather subdued tone, “Do you think this shack has been renovated?” She’s usually quite exuberant, but her spirits were obviously dampened by more than rain.
“Not in the last fifty years,” said Gaynelle.
I chanced sitting up again since it had been at least two minutes since the last lightning strike. The rain had slackened, and now just hissed against the Mercedes hood. Bitty’s headlights were still focused on the shack at an odd angle. A loose board hung down and flapped in wind gusts. “Okay, Bitty,” I said, “since you’re certain this is the right place, go see if the door is unlocked. We’ll wait here.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you’re the only one insisting this is the right place. Go ahead. Get out and try the door. Maybe it’s not so bad on the inside.” I figured the inside would look just as bad as the outside. The shack was built of wood planks that had weathered over the years, and the front porch sagged on one end. In fact, the entire structure sagged at one end.
“Do you think they have valet parking?” Bitty asked, squinting through the windshield. “Maybe I should try honking a few times.”
“You’re stalling,” I said. “Go on. Step on up there if this is the right place.”
“Well, I will,” said Bitty. “Give me something to cover my hair. I can’t get my hair all wet. I just got it done. Bonnie would be upset with me.”
I made a rude noise and she looked at me with narrowed eyes. “What?”
“You’re scared to go to the door because you know this isn’t the right shack,” I said. “You’re afraid zombies are waiting inside. Admit it.”
“I’ll admit nothing of the kind.” She looked back out the windshield. The loose board banged in another gust of wind, and she jumped slightly. “Clayton gave me a book this summer about how zombies are real. Do you think zombies are real?”
“I think Clayton just likes to tease you,” I said in reference to one of Bitty’s twin sons. “You make it irresistible at times. I was kidding about the zombies.”
Bitty’s shoulders hunched forward and her knuckles were white around the car’s steering wheel. “Well, I still say this place looks haunted.”
Truthfully, I was getting a bit exasperated with Bitty. Her stubbornness can go too far. So I said, “There’s only one way to find out. Go knock on the front door. If no one answers, we’re at the wrong place. If Jack Nicholson answers, you’ll have the satisfaction of being right.”
Bitty gave me an uneasy glance; her face was illuminated by the dashboard lights, so I knew mine must be, too. When I put both hands to my face and opened my mouth wide to imitate the painting The Scream , she said something very rude. I laughed, of course. Teasing
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