“What? You think we did this?” Punk's face flushed.
“I need to talk to everyone who had dealings with Mr. Conniver,” the sheriff said.
Punk sighed and filled him in on their problems with their trailer while the sheriff made notes.
“Did you try and get satisfaction on these issues?”
“We haven't even seen him,” Punk said.
“Unless he was the guy who scared that lady at the bonfire last night,” PJ said. “But we never spoke to him.”
“Did you have any kind of guarantee on the trailer?”
“Yessss—,” Punk tried to think what Conniver had told and given them.
PJ said, “The papers are in the trailer. I'll get them.”
The sheriff opened the file on the table and shuffled through the papers. On the third page of one document, he found what he was looking for.
“This 'as is' box is checked; looks like you got what you got once you drove it off the lot.”
Punk's face fell. “But, he said there's a list of items that were inspected, but the furnace has a problem, the propane tanks were empty—,” he stopped as the sheriff pulled another sheet out and laid it in front of Punk.
The items Punk mentioned were on the list, but nothing was checked. PJ looked at him in bewilderment. How did they miss this?
The sheriff got up from the bench. “Sorry folks. I'm not your lawyer or your accountant. But what this tells me is that you at least had reason for a grudge against the victim. And you, Mrs. Norton, admit to having opportunity by being in the area. As for means, it wouldn't take much effort to push a man of the victim's size off a cliff. Lucky for you, it appears that you have plenty of company in all three areas. But don't leave this park. And you might want to contact your lawyer for more reasons than your purchase.” He nodded toward the trailer, touched the brim of his hat in farewell, and turning on his heel, headed back across the road to Fred and Doris's.
Punk and PJ watched him speak briefly to Fred and then head toward Gigi's motorhome.
Punk turned to her. “You really didn't see Conniver this morning when you were out there? You can tell me. Accidents happen...”
“Norbert Norton!” PJ almost yelled. “You really think that I...?” she couldn't finish and broke into tears.
“There, there, honey. I'm just asking. No, I don't think that you...”
She stormed into the trailer and slammed the door.
Punk scratched his head and looked around. Fred was sitting at his table talking to a younger woman—well, younger than he and Fred—whom Punk hadn't seen before. Maybe forties with a mass of dark red hair. Punk picked up his coffee mug and wandered over.
Fred motioned him to a seat at the table and waved casually at the woman.
“Punk, this is Aletha Barnes. She's in that Class C next to us.”
“Oh, the lady with the cat!” Punk said and regretted it as soon as he did. Aletha's blue eyes teared up and she said, “I don't have a cat any more. Thanks to Con Conniver, may he burn in hell.”
“He may be doing just that,” Punk said in a tone he hoped was comforting.
Aletha wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Well, I missed all of the excitement, I guess. I didn't go to the bonfire last night and I slept in this morning. Just got up.”
“What happened to your wife?” Fred asked Punk.
“I kind of put my foot in my mouth. I just asked her if she did see Conniver this morning on her walk. The sheriff as much as told her that she's a suspect. I thought maybe something happened accidentally—.”
Fred was shaking his head. “Punk, how long you been married?”
“Forty years, but—,” Punk stopped when he saw his wife come back out of their camper with an armload of Halloween decorations.
“Then you should know by now to keep your mouth shut,” Fred said as they watched PJ thrust some solar lights into the ground along the road, with more force than necessary, and jam a plastic pumpkin or skull on each one. “Maybe you should go help her.”
“Right,” said Punk, getting up from the table. “Nice to meetcha,” he nodded to Aletha.
By the time Punk had crossed the road, PJ was visiting with the woman, Adela, from the silver trailer next to them.
“This is my husband, Punk,” PJ said to Adela with more disgust than relish.
Adela started to shake hands when she was interrupted by a yell behind her.
“Mom!” A young man in an oversized t-shirt and low-slung, baggy shorts hobbled down the trailer steps barefooted.
“What?” Adela said, with the exasperation often inspired by young teenagers.
“I did somethin' to my ankle—cut it, I think. Where's the first aid kit?” He stopped by their picnic table and planted his foot on the bench, pointing to an angry looking wound. “I must have scratched it on a branch when we were hiking last night.”
It looked an awful lot like a dog bite to PJ.