Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) Page 2

  I sipped my coffee again and waited.

  “Okay,” Anna said finally. “I spotted them.”

  “Know those guys?”

  “No.”

  “Ever seen them before?”

  “Never.”

  “Fine. It’s probably nothing then.”

  It wasn’t long after that when Anna excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

  I wondered what the Armani suits would do next. Would they watch the door to the ladies’ room? Would they watch me? Would they be brave enough to try the coffee?

  My answers came a short time later. One guy watched the door, and one guy watched me. Neither was brave.

  Anna was gone a long time. A loooong time.

  If she stayed in the ladies’ room much longer, she would miss her bus to Topeka. Which would not be a bad thing for me, because I would get to spend more time with her.

  I decided to be a good guy and check on her.

  Knock knock knock.

  Nobody answered the door to the ladies’ room. I tried again.

  Knock-knock knock knock-knock . . . knock-knock.

  No response. Not even a flush.

  Walking into the ladies’ room was not a good option for me. So I recruited a nearby woman.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind checking the ladies’ room for me?”

  “Why? Is the men’s room out of toilet paper?”

  “Probably. But that’s not why I’m asking. My friend’s been in there a long time, and her bus is leaving soon. Her name’s Anna.”

  Anna wasn’t in there. Nobody was. I thanked the woman for checking.

  Now it was safe for me to enter. I did. Nobody screamed.

  I found a clue—the window was open.

  It didn’t necessarily mean Anna had climbed out the window. Maybe she had walked out of the ladies’ room when I wasn’t looking. Maybe she was already sitting on her bus.

  She wasn’t. I walked up and down the bus aisle twice to check.

  After that I waited outside the bus until it coughed exhaust fumes that partially blotted out its diminishing taillights.

  Where the hell was Anna?

  I remembered the orange locker key. I took it from my pocket. I went swiftly to the lockers.

  The key slid into the lock. The locker door opened.

  Empty. No duffel bag.

  I closed the locker door and left the key in the lock.

  Then I scanned the bus station. The two guys in Armani suits were nowhere in sight.

  In the parking lot of the bus station I fired up my motorcycle. Then I set out for S’mores and Snores Campground.

  CHAPTER 6

  THAT EVENING I got on my laptop to video chat with my parents. I told them about my adventures with Anna.

  “. . . and then she just vanished from the bus station,” I said.

  “Usually they don’t take off like that until after somebody’s bought them an expensive meal,” Mom said.

  “Which is why I never do that,” I said.

  “Relationships just aren’t what they used to be,” Dad said.

  My parents had first met at a wedding where my dad caught the garter and my mom caught the bouquet. They have been married now for almost fifty years. How many modern marriages last that long? Not many. Mine didn’t.

  “How are the neighbors?” I said.

  “Noisy as ever,” Dad said. “They come in late at night, slamming car doors, beeping car locks. Early in the morning they put out their barking dogs. During the day they unleash leaf blowers, chainsaws, and screaming kids.”

  “Why don’t you say something to them.”

  “What difference would it make?” Mom said.

  She was right. Inconsiderate neighbors rarely become considerate neighbors just because you ask them to. In fact they often get worse if you complain.

  “Best thing,” Dad said, “is to remain friendly but aloof with any inconsiderate neighbors. Try to avoid eye contact. Grunt when they greet you. Just enough of a grunt to communicate friendliness, without communicating interest in any meaningful communications.”

  “Why don’t you two buy an RV,” I said. “Sell your house and adopt a mobile lifestyle. Like me. If you’re parked next to annoying neighbors, you can just put your RV in drive and pull away. You’re not trapped next to them for years on end.”

  “We’ll give it some thought,” Mom said.

  “Do,” I said.

  CHAPTER 7

  FIVE A.M.

  All was quiet at S’mores and Snores Campground. I took a short walk around the grounds. Half a dozen camper windows glowed like fireflies in the cool early morning dark. I could smell bacon cooking.

  After my walk I ate my usual breakfast. Oats and blueberries, for lowering my cholesterol. And hot coffee, for raising my spirits.

  Bob the mechanic was supposed to arrive at the campground at noon that day, according to the office manager. I predicted Bob would fix my engine within half an hour, charge me no more than fifty bucks, and I would be on the road before one p.m. Of course predictions rarely turn out to be right, as those who work in the field of weather forecasting are painfully aware.

  After breakfast I opened my laptop, turned on some white noise, and started to work on my novel. One of the benefits of retirement is that you can finally do things you always wanted to do but never had time for. Like writing novels.

  Writing is a discipline, not unlike working out, eating healthy, and maintaining a schedule. These disciplines have brought order to my life. They have given me some sense of control. Without them I would have become adrift in a chaotic world.

  Much of my life has been spent in solitude. I have never tired of it. Being alone is a good thing. Being with people who make you feel alone is not. This is a lesson I learned the hard way.

  At seven a.m. I closed my laptop and went out for a run. Three miles later I did some bodyweight training. Pull-ups. Push-ups. Sit-ups.

  The hot shower felt good. I shaved in the shower. First my face. Then my head.

  I have sported a shaved head ever since joining the United States Marshals Service. At first it was because I didn’t want to have hair that fugitives could grab onto. Then I came to realize that having no hair made my life easier. No trips to the barber. No time wasted on brushing hair, drying hair, spraying hair. No bed head in the morning.

  I know that some women don’t like guys with shaved heads. But there are plenty who do. Plenty.

  My refrigerator was almost empty, so I motorcycled to the nearest grocery store. It was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, including holidays.

  Grocery shopping is best done early in the morning, when there’s not much traffic on the road, and not many customers in the store. You can get there, get your stuff, and get back home without wasting time.

  Lean Cuisines were on sale. I tossed some into my shopping cart. Sometimes I buy Smart Ones. Sometimes Healthy Choice. Depends on what’s on sale.

  You cannot beat these delicious frozen dinner brands. They’re low in fat and calories, high in protein, and easy to make. Takes less than five minutes to microwave one. Takes no time to clean up when you’re done. You just throw away the food tray.

  Scott Rapid-Dissolving toilet paper is specially made for RVs. It dissolves rapidly, as the name implies. Which means it will not destroy the black tank in your RV. I picked up a pack and put it in my shopping cart.

  In the dairy aisle I got some coffee creamers and Greek yogurts. In the fruit aisle I got some grapes and apples. In the candy aisle I looked but did not touch.

  The cashier eyed me as I placed my items on the conveyer belt.

  “Sugar,” she said, “ain you goan eat anything tastes good?”

  “This stuff tastes good.”

  “No it doan. You needs some real food.”

  “Like?”

  “Burgers, fried chicken, pizza.”

  “That’s real food, huh?”r />
  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I’ll pick some up on my next visit.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  CHAPTER 8

  FROM 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

  THE POTTSLAND 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.

&
nbsp; 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.