Jill Churchill - Fear of Frying

The young men, who had already packed up most of the leftover food, now dragged out a banjo and a guitar and prepared to entertain them. They played a couple folk-song-sounding numbers that Jane didn't recognize, but liked, and then began to play "Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”

To nearly everyone's astonishment, Sam Claypool started singing with them. He had an amazingly good voice. The young men kept playing and quit singing in honor of the superior performer. When the last note died away, they were all silent for a long moment, then John started clapping. "Still got the talent, haven't you, Sam? Good job!”

Everybody else joined in the applause. Sam actually smiled, and Jane realized he was quite a good-looking man. It was a shame his smile was so infrequent. Everyone urged him into singing some more, and after consultation with the young men with the instruments, he obliged. He sang another folk song and then one of Jane's favorites, "Love Hurts," which always reduced her to tears. Jane was surprised that a man who appeared to have so little personality and social grace could put so much feeling into a song.

The concert was cut short by a crack of thunder and a sudden, short burst of rain. The campfire hissed and steamed. The young men put their instruments back in their protective cases. Edna and Allison started gathering up silverware and linens. Jane and Shelley tried to help, but were shooed away.

“You're our guests. We don't let guests help," Edna said firmly. "Scoot on back to your cabins before you get drenched."

“The rain's already stopping," Jane protested, but to no avail. She and Shelley got their flashlights and picked their way down the short incline to the road. Eileen was somewhere behind them, fretting about her pink slipper getting wet. Liz was advising her on the proper care of blisters.

The cabin was warm and cozy. They got out of their ponchos and the top couple layers of their clothing. Jane went to pull the drapes and realized that it had stopped raining and there was moonlight filtering down through the trees. "What bizarre weather," she said.

“That was one of the best meals and nicest evenings I can remember. Want a cup of coffee?"

“I don't suppose you have tea, do you?" Jane asked. She lighted the fire she'd prepared and abandoned the night before. The kindling crackled, spit, belched smoke, and suddenly burst into tiny flames that licked hungrily at the bark on the logs.

“I have tea bags and one of those little coil heaters," Shelley said.

“I'm surprised you didn't bring a cappuccino machine along.”

They fixed their drinks and sipped them in friendly silence. Jane sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, marveling at what a nice little fire she'd managed to create and feeling hypnotized by the sight, sound, and smell of it.

“I think I may just sleep in my clothes," Jane finally said. "I'm too tired to get up and take them off."

“We might as well go to bed early, I guess," Shelley said. "What time is it?”

Jane glanced at her watch — or rather, her bare wrist. "Shelley, my watch is gone."

“It's probably in your purse. Or on the bathroom counter."

“No, I looked at it when we got to the campsite. Oh, rats! I've lost my watch!"

“We'll go look for it in the morning."

“After it rains all night? Can't you hear the rain starting up again?”

Shelley groaned. "It's not waterproof?"

“I think so, but it could get washed away or covered with mud and I'll never find it." She was donning her sweater. "The kids got it for my birthday. I can't lose it."

“You're not going out alone," Shelley declared. She was shaking the moisture off her poncho.

It was raining in earnest by the time they sloggedtheir way back to the campsite, which was now deserted. The fire was out, the cooking utensils were stacked together, getting a bath in the rain. The formerly festive table was naked, and its tentlike canopy had been dismantled and taken away. Jane and Shelley minced around, shining their flashlights at the ground, hoping to catch a glint of the missing watch.

“I don't think I was anywhere but right here at the table," Jane said. Cold rain had found a way under the hood of her poncho and was trickling down the side of her neck.

“Didn't I see you walk over to the far end to put your scraps in that wastebasket that was over there? It might have fallen off then.”

Jane inched her way carefully, making small sweeps of the ground with her flashlight. "Here is it!" she called. "Thank goodness! I wonder if it still— Oh, my God!”

She'd held the watch up to her ear with her left hand while ignoring where the beam from the flashlight was pointing.

“What's wrong?" Shelley asked.

Jane stood frozen and speechless for a moment, then whispered, "Shelley, there's a body here!”

Eight

"A what!" Shelley said, rushing forward and tripping over a rock.

“A body. A dead one," Jane said with a horrified croak.

Shelley got her balance and joined Jane. "Where? Stop thrashing around with that flashlight.”

“I'm shaking. Here. See?"

“Sam Claypool," Shelley said. "Come on, we have to get Benson to call the police."

“I'll stay here," Jane said, trying to sound brave. "It's not right to just leave him here in the rain.”

Shelley grabbed her arm in a painful grip and hissed, "Jane, somebody killed him. Somebody who might still be standing a few feet from us in the dark."

“Killed him!"

“Jane, look at his head. Look at the big, heavy frying pan beside it. The man didn't smack himself upside the head with it. Come on.”

They scuttled awkwardly, but as fast as they could, across the campsite and down the rain-slick path. The skies had opened and were pouring down frigid, drenching rain that felt like wet sleet. Jane fell halfway down and ended up on her backside in the mud. Shelley made it to the bottom, turned to look for Jane, lost her balance, and fell to her hands and knees.

Picking themselves up with considerable difficulty, they ran toward their cabin. "Jane, we'll take the van to the lodge. Throw some towels over the seats while I find the keys.”

Like a jerky automaton, Jane did as she was told. Shelley jumped in the car, gunned the engine, shot backward a few feet, reversed, and headed for the lodge at a ferocious speed. At the front door she slammed on the brakes. The van skidded, convincing Jane that they were going to crash right inside the building. But Shelley stopped mere inches from the porch.

They flung themselves out of the car and through the front door. Above the pounding of her heart in her ears and the thunder outside, Jane thought she could hear voices in the kitchen and headed for the doorway leading to it from the reception area. Benson and his mother were there, putting away plates. They looked up with obvious alarm.

“Benson, Sam Claypool's been killed," Jane said breathlessly.

“At the campsite," Shelley added.

Benson didn't waste time asking questions. He reached for the kitchen phone extension and dialed the sheriff. Edna said, "You both look like you're about to pass out. Come sit by the fire.”

Jane glanced down. "We look like pigs. We're covered in mud."

“Then sit on the hearth.”

They did so and sat for a long time just trying to get their breath back. Finally, when they were able to talk without gasping and without their teeth chattering, Edna said, "What's this about, then?”

Jane explained about losing her watch and going back to find it and discovering Sam Claypool as well.

“I don't mean to be indelicate," Edna said, "but how did you know he was dead? Did you take his pulse or try to determine whether he was breathing? Maybe he'd just fainted.”

Jane cleared her throat. "His — his eyes were wide open even though it was raining in his face."