Granny Bares It All Page 6

  But I would catch one of you trying to drive me off the road, I thought. Out loud I asked Angie, “Is that how you had your accident? A drunk driver?”

  Angie let out a little laugh. “No, although I know plenty of bike riders with stories like that. No, I just took a corner too fast, hit some gravel, and got a bad case of road rash.”

  “That was before her championship,” a woman in her forties named Liz said.

  “I got more careful after the accident,” Angie said with a grin.

  “Championship?” I asked.

  “She won first place in the Tristate Motorcycle Meetup for the three-mile obstacle course,” Liz said.

  “Congratulations,” I said, and ticked her off my list of suspects. If Angie could win an obstacle course on a motorcycle, she could have driven that Lexus better than the murderer had.

  “So how many members does Sunnydale have?” I asked.

  “Oh, several hundred. I’m not sure exactly,” Liz said. The others shrugged.

  Great. One down, several hundred to go.

  My phone rang. Octavian. Suddenly I was acutely aware of where I was and the state I was in. I’d forgotten about it for a few minutes speaking with the ladies.

  I felt tempted not to answer. Something about talking on the phone with my new boyfriend while in the buff made me horribly embarrassed.

  The phone kept ringing. I really should start putting the darn thing on silent.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Liz asked.

  I walked away from the others and answered. Octavian’s cheerful baritone came on the line.

  “Hey, pretty lady, what are you up to today?”

  “Oh, um, just enjoying the great outdoors,” I said, flushing from head to toe and everywhere in between. I found myself putting my thumb over the phone’s camera just in case it magically turned on somehow.

  “Would you like some company?”

  “Oh, um, I have a very busy schedule today, um, scheduling.”

  “Well, how about dinner tonight?”

  “Oh, I really can’t.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Octavian said in a way to show that it wasn’t. “Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Well, I’m taking care of Martin tomorrow night.” Octavian had met Martin. Octavian had been friendly. Martin had been dismissive. “But if you’re willing to brave a dinner at Fatberger, you’re more than welcome to come along.”

  “Oh dear, I’ve heard of that place. I’ll have to go back to seniors’ yoga if I eat there.”

  “Oh, you’re not going to yoga anymore?”

  “No, I’ve taken up walking. Better to get out in the fresh air instead of gyrating in that Seniors’ Center listening to joints crack.”

  “Hmm, I see what you mean.” More likely, he had started going to the class to find someone. Now that he had, he saw no reason to go anymore. Quite flattering, I have to say.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can arrange it,” Octavian said. “Enjoy the sun. Make sure you don’t get burned. The sun is strong today.”

  “You have no idea,” I said as I rang off.

  As I went back to the group, Liz smiled.

  “Somebody’s boyfriend doesn’t know she’s a nudist.”

  I stopped and stared.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “Because you didn’t want to answer, and then when you did, your face lit up. It was obviously someone you wanted to speak with, but you kept blushing and looking down at yourself. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with us.”

  “Are you a private detective or something?” I asked as I sat down on my towel. That would be just my luck.

  “No, I’m just observant. I used to be in the military, years back now, and I was trained to notice things. I was a forward observer for artillery.”

  I couldn’t say for sure, but I swore she glanced at my bullet wound as she said this.

  I gave her a mock salute, making sure I did it wrong. “Glad to meet you, General. Thank you for your service.”

  Liz laughed. “More like first lieutenant, but thanks for the promotion.”

  “Where were you stationed?”

  “Germany for most of my service. I was in Operation Iraqi Freedom, though. Spent a year in the country after we took it.”

  “Tough stuff,” I said, and ticked her off my list. If that woman had had to deal with the combat zones of Baghdad or Karbala, she would have been much more aggressive in trying to run me off the road. She would have also been more careful trying to break into my house. Not that the Army instructs the average soldier on how to perform combat driving or pick a lock, but she would have had enough situational awareness that she wouldn’t have made the simple, silly mistakes the murderer had.

  Unfortunately, her combat experience probably had educated her in what the scar from a bullet wound looked like. While she hadn’t said anything, Liz almost certainly knew that I had been shot. She must be wondering about that. I hoped she wouldn’t start wondering out loud.

  “Good morning, ladies!” Two middle-aged men came sauntering down the slope toward the lake. I immediately felt self-conscious and grabbed my towel. I realized my mistake and put my towel back down. I really needed to get better at this if I was going to blend in.

  It was the suddenness of their appearance. I’d been enjoying the sun and conversation with a group of women, and other than my telltale scars, I had stopped being self-conscious about being naked. Now all the old doubts and awkwardness came back.

  They came back even more when the two came right up to me.

  “You’re new. Pleased to meet you,” one rather handsome man in his fifties said. “I’m Charles. This is Brad.”

  “I’m Barbara,” I said.

  “Welcome to Sunnydale,” both men said at the same time. They sounded like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, except they weren’t roly-poly twins but attractive men twenty years my junior. Somehow that made it harder to speak with them.

  There followed a light conversation that would have been utterly unremarkable except for the fact that none of us was wearing anything. I winced every time they glanced at my body. Not that they stared or anything—nobody in this place stared—they just did the usual male checking-out thing. You know, looking you in the face as you talk, and then their eyes flick down for a second to look at your body. They’d been doing that since I was a teenager. The frequency had dropped off remarkably in the past twenty years, but it still happened. They certainly did it a lot more when they made up an excuse to speak with Angie. It was a habit with men, or an instinct, and no amount of “we are all the same in our bodies” nudist philosophy was going to change that.

  I found it irritating me that they were looking at her so much. Searching out this feeling, I came across two truths—one revealing and the other embarrassing.

  First, they weren’t looking at her bare breasts any more than regular men on the street would have looked at her clothed breasts. If anything, they did it less.

  Second, I wasn’t angry at the men for wanting to look at Angie. I was angry at them for looking at her more than they looked at me.

  I need to get out of here, I thought.

  “I think I’ve had enough sun,” one of the women said. “I’m going up to the activity room to play some Ping Pong. Anyone care to join me?”

  “All right,” I said, a bit too hastily.

  The two men were already in the water. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Come on, Barbara, I chided myself. If you can’t stand being around men in this place, how are you going to solve this murder?

  Nine

  The memorial service was held on a hilltop overlooking the camp. A line of trees stood nearby, the crickets already making their whirring evening song.

  A small pyre of wood had been set up, its bottom fringed with kindling. To one side stood a table with a buffet meal. Hanging from the edge of the table were several poster boards showing images of Clarissa.

  Most of them had been t
aken at the camp, judging from the large amount of flesh tones I could see from where I was standing. I made a mental note to study those pictures when it came time for the buffet.

  Right now, I needed to study the crowd.

  And it was an impressive one. At least a hundred people had shown up and stood in a big circle around the pyre. They were of all ages, shapes, and sizes. Many looked somber. A couple cried softly. Others spoke in low tones among themselves. I tried to focus on their faces, imagining them as fully clothed bankers and secretaries and schoolteachers. It was a surreal experience, made more surreal when I recognized a few of them. Over there was the woman who ran the florist shop downtown. Not far away was the woman who gave out parking tickets to the tourists who came to see Cheerville’s Colonial-era sights and inevitably parked in the wrong place. That young man standing nearly opposite me in the circle was the day manager at the supermarket I frequented. To my relief, he showed no sign of recognizing me.

  One interesting detail I noticed was that the crowd lacked two things—besides clothing, that is.

  The first was that there were virtually no racial minorities. I saw exactly one Hispanic couple and one black man. I suppose it wasn’t so surprising that we were virtually all white, or at least golden thanks to the sun. Cheerville is an unusually white suburb, and I’ve heard that minorities can feel uncomfortable surrounded by a sea of white faces. Being surrounded by a sea of nude white bodies would probably only compound their discomfort.

  I also noticed that there were only two teenagers, and they were the only ones wearing clothing. A boy about Martin’s age wore a bathing suit and was staring at a girl aged around fifteen who wore a light wrap around her waist and chest. I saw several younger children, naked as if it were bath time, and even a couple of toddlers who really should have at least been wearing diapers, but the lack of teenagers was noticeable. Many of the adults were of the age where they would have had teenaged children, but they had stayed at home.

  I’d read a bit about this on various nudist websites I’d studied. “Clothing-free” nudist camps often made an exception for kids in their teens, recognizing that the stage of life they were going through came with a lot of shyness and awkwardness about their developing bodies. This concession to their feelings showed sensitivity and more than a little practicality. I could just imagine some of the conversations that went on around a nudist family’s dinner table.

  “Mooom, do we have to go to a nudist camp again this year?”

  “It’s fun. Look at this brochure. There’s a big swimming pool and tennis, and there’s even horseback riding. Remember how much fun you had riding last year?”

  “The saddle gave me blisters on my butt.”

  “Don’t swear at the table.”

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “You’ll have a great time. And they say there’s plenty of kids your age.”

  Kid blushes uncontrollably.

  “Oh, and teens can wear clothing if they like.”

  “Really? Oh, that’s cool. Can you show me that brochure? Hey, the pool looks great! And they have archery too. Can I do archery?”

  The teenage years were a social status minefield. You tiptoed through several hazardous years trying to look cool and trying not to do anything embarrassing. A hard task under normal circumstances, even worse when one was expected to do it in the buff.

  I had spent the day suppressing my own embarrassment and trying to chat with as many people as possible, ears perked for any mention of Clarissa Monell.

  Not that I learned much. People said all the usual things about how she was a dedicated nudist and always lent a helping hand around the resort. Apparently she also wrote numerous articles for national nudist magazines, although under a pseudonym, since she didn’t want to get in trouble at her government job.

  So quite the activist, and well loved, at least on the surface. When someone dies, everyone tries to say their best about them. It’s certainly not the time for complaining about the deceased’s annoying habits or digging up some old personal rivalry. That would happen in private conversations I would not be privy to.

  At quiet times during the day, I had used my phone to log into Sunnydale’s online forum and found that Adrian was a bit of a naked celebrity. He’d done a lot of work for the movement, and everyone seemed to look up to and defer to him. Angie had especially sung his praises, and so had Liz and several of the others.

  The memorial service was starting. Perhaps something interesting would be revealed here. Not the really juicy stuff, of course, but at this point in the investigation, I’d take what I could get.

  Adrian and Zoe Fletcher stepped forward and stood close to the unlit pyre. Zoe addressed the crowd.

  “We’re here today to remember one of our own, one of our best. Clarissa Monell was known to all of you and loved by everyone. She was cut down in the prime of life by a horrible hit-and-run incident a couple of days ago.”

  I glanced around the circle, looking for guilty faces, and saw none. Zoe’s voice did not waver, and Adrian didn’t look suspicious or tense. Either I couldn’t see the murderer from where I stood, or the murderer had gotten their act together and put on a calm demeanor for the memorial service.

  Zoe went on.

  “I knew Clarissa for many years, and I always found her to be caring, giving, and honest.”

  Did I sense a slight stress on the word “honest”? I glanced at Adrian. His face was a mask.

  “She was always a strong fighter for the nudist way of life and a helping hand to those in the community who needed her. Sadly, her work life was less than ideal. Like many of us, she was stuck in a stifling office, wrapped up in formal clothing, when she would rather be free to frolic through the fields as God had made her. I’m sure that many of you have memories of Clarissa that you’d like to share, so feel free to step forward and tell us all about them.”

  Someone stepped forward almost before Zoe finished her speech. I recognized the woman who Adrian had been speaking angrily to the first day I visited Sunnydale. She had swum away at our approach, and Adrian had put on a smile. I’d been wondering about her.

  Zoe did not look terribly happy that she wanted to speak.

  “Naomi, you wanted to say a few words?” the co-owner of the nudist colony asked, obviously wishing the answer would be “no.”

  “Yes, I would,” Naomi said. She was in her forties but in good shape. A few stretch marks showed she had given birth. Otherwise she had healthy skin and toned muscles.

  I stopped studying her body and listened to her words. Odd how I had never noticed other people’s bodies as much as I did now. And here I was in the one place where bodies weren’t supposed to matter.

  “Like many of you, I only knew Clarissa through Sunnydale and a couple of regional conventions…”

  Nudists have conventions? Like the Shriners? I imagined a bunch of old men wearing fezzes and nothing else driving around in little cars. That almost gave me the giggles.

  You’re investigating a murder, Barbara. Focus.

  “…I always found her full of life and grace. She was a hard worker, too. As Adrian and Zoe know all too well, running a resort like this requires a lot of work. We have some great volunteers here to help them with that burden, but Clarissa was the best. She organized our volunteer program and made it run more smoothly. She also volunteered to manage the resort’s taxes, something she did for free. Adrian and Zoe were kind enough to offer her free membership, but she wouldn’t hear of taking any other payment…”

  Adrian and Zoe had lost their poker faces. Adrian looked annoyed at Naomi. Zoe looked annoyed at Adrian.

  And yet the IRS had confirmed that there was nothing amiss with the resort’s tax returns. Plus those returns showed the resort was solidly in the black. Sure, something could be hidden, but so far, Grimal and the IRS had found nothing.

  So what was going on with those taxes?

  “When Clarissa decided not to do the taxes anymore because of her failin
g health, she was kind enough to teach me how to do it.”

  This set off a big red flashing light in my head. Clarissa did not have failing health. She had had a checkup just a few months before she died, and she was in remarkable health. Had she lied? It seemed an unlikely lie to expect anyone to believe. If she was swimming and playing tennis naked in front of the whole community, it would be hard for them to believe she was ill.

  Perhaps she simply gave that excuse hoping no one would challenge her on it. We all do that sometimes, tell unconvincing lies or half-truths knowing that most people, eager to avoid an argument, won’t publicly doubt us.

  I bet someone in this gathering knew the real reason she had quit. I bet several someones did.

  “She was a great asset to the community, and it will be hard to fill her shoes, even though she was most comfortable not wearing them,” Naomi concluded.

  The joke fell flat. A few people smiled politely, but no one laughed, least of all Adrian.

  He stepped forward.

  “Thank you, Naomi,” he said. “Yes, there are a lot of vacancies to fill now that Clarissa is gone. Luckily, two of the main ones are already filled. Naomi has taken over the taxes and is helping with the accounting, and Angie Dickson has graciously agreed to take over as volunteer coordinator.”

  “What?” Zoe gasped, looking outraged. I thought I heard a few others say the same. There was certainly no shortage of surprised and angry faces in that circle.

  Adrian’s words rolled right over them. “Angie has been with us for many years and has been a leading volunteer in all aspects of our community. She has also been active on the national and international levels and been to many regional and national meetups. I think she’ll make a fine volunteer coordinator. Welcome to the team, Angie.”

  “I’m glad to be of service,” Angie replied.

  Her tone caught me off guard. I thought she’d be embarrassed by the sudden outburst of disapproval or defiance that she had gotten the position even though for some reason some people didn’t want her in it. Instead, she was looking daggers at Adrian.