Murder At Slippery Slope Youth Camp Read online

  Murder At Slippery Slope Youth Camp

  The Doreen Sizemore Adventures Book 3

  Serena B Miller

  Contents

  Main Body

  Also by Serena B Miller

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2014 by Serena B Miller

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published By L J Emory Publishing

  ISBN: 978-1-940283-09-8

  Murder At Slippery Slope Youth Camp

  * * *

  Some people love to travel. But me? I flat out hate it. The way I look at it, my home town of South Shore, Kentucky is one of the few places left on earth that still makes sense and I ain’t in no hurry to leave it. With all the talk about gun control, I’m thinking that they’ll have a hard time prying guns out of all the good old boys’ hands we got around here. It’s one of the many reasons I only feel safe when my feet are planted smack dab on Kentucky soil.

  It used to be just the Communists we were supposed to fight if they come over here. That was back when life was simple. Now it seems like there’s threats all over the place. These days I’ve started losing track of who I’m supposed to be scared of. There’s ISIS, of course. And North Korea keeps making noise. China is a big worry, too. Then there’s the finger-pointing back and forth between the Democratic Party and the Republican Party and now we got us the Green Party, the Libertarian Party, and the Tea Party. Heard the other day there’s somebody trying to get something started called the Coffee Party.

  Sometimes it seems like everybody in Washington is having themselves a party except us regular folks just trying to make ends meet.

  I can only get two channels on my TV set and they’re a little fuzzy. People at church tell me I should sign up for cable but them two channels I get right now are enough to worry a person to death—especially if you watch the news much. Them news people don’t seem to have a whole lot of good news to tell us about.

  That’s why I like living in Kentucky. We still got a few people who know how to go out in the backyard on Sunday morning, kill a chicken and turn it into dinner before putting their church clothes on. I’m one of them people. I know how to turn a young ground hog into fritters, too, or make venison taste like prime beef. Kentuckians like me know how to survive whether we got a grocery store or not…although I do like me a Moon Pie every now and again. Moon Pies don’t exactly grow on bushes.

  Now, what was I talking about?

  Oh yes, them people in Washington D.C. What a hot mess that place is! I seen a lot of elections come and go over the years and I surely hope the good Lord has things under control because it’s clear to me that there’s a lot of folks in Washington who hardly know how to dress their own selves, let alone run the country.

  I’ve seen a lot of elections come and go because I ain’t no spring chicken. I’m seventy-one year’s old and I say the word “old” because people who say things like they’re seventy-one years “young” or try to pretend they’re having their 39th birthday for the umpteenth time just flat out annoy the tar out of me. As hard as I’ve worked I figure I’ve earned credit for every last one of them years.

  I got me a little house that ain’t much to look at. The roof sways a mite, and there’s a couple of boards on my front porch that it would be wise not to stand on if you ever come visit. My old house is all paid for though, and the tax people decided a long time ago that it weren’t worth much so the taxes are real low. I thought about getting it painted last year but I was half-afraid if I did fancy it up a mite the tax people would come sniffing around again and as you probably know that is never a good thing. As it is, I get enough money from my social security check to just about live on if I’m real careful. Fortunately, I got tolerable good health and can still do for myself so I don’t need a lot.

  I say “tolerable good” health because if I told the truth to people and said that I’m as healthy as a horse I’m pretty sure people around here would plumb work me to death. In case you’re worrying, I’ve been to see the doctor about that little dizzy spell I had awhile back and all he says is that’s to be expected at my age and to go ahead and do what I want to do. He said I got me a slight blood sugar problem and all I needed was to eat healthy snacks more often, so that’s all right. I did not mention my affection for Moon Pies. I didn’t want to worry him. I like my little doctor. He’s learning to speak English real good.

  Now where was I again? Oh yes. How people would work me to death if I ever told them I was as healthy as a horse.

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking who’s gonna work Doreen to death when she don’t have no family to speak of living close by anymore? No kids. No grandkids. No husband to pick up after. All she’s got is her own self and how hard can that be?

  Anybody who thinks that ain’t never been part of a country church. Little country churches are all over the place here in northern Kentucky. Most of ‘em are just a’ hanging on. Too many young people moving away to other places to get better jobs. Them that don’t move away, well, I hate to say it, but an awful lot of ‘em ain’t all that work-brickle anyhow.

  Of course why should they bother to work hard when they can sit around cashing checks from the government while they study up on how to make that crystal meth stuff that’s just about ruint our country? I never saw the like of what’s happening these days. Why, the other day I saw an advertisement for people on the dole to come get their selves a free phone.

  Makes me so mad I just want to spit. Shoot—I don’t even have no telephone and I worked most of my life over the bridge in Portsmouth at that Selby Shoe factory until it shut down. Sewed right through my own fingers a couple of times, too, when I weren’t paying attention. Then I got a job clerking at the grocery store in town. That was a pretty good job and I liked it. Got to talk to a lot of people and the drawer weren’t never short-changed when Doreen was behind it, I’ll tell you that! I earned every blessed dime I ever spent.

  I’m not a hard-hearted woman but I’m getting awful confused about the world I’m living in these days. In my opinion, I tend to think that giving people a hoe and a packet of seeds might be a lot better investment instead of a free phone.

  Anyway, about country churches working a person plumb to death. My friend, Ella, is only two months younger than me and she made the mistake of saying she had too much time on her hands one Sunday morning in the foyer. Before she knew what had happened, she ended up in charge of Vacation Bible School.

  Frankly, I’d rather try to pet the old stray tomcat who comes mewling around my door than be put in charge of Vacation Bible School. That tomcat has got a wicked left hook if you try to pet him. I know this because I still got the scars. I feed him anyway, but he’s like some people I’ve met--don’t try to get too close or they’ll rip your head off.

  So it was right after church and me and Ella were getting caught up with each other a’talking in the back of the church building and I was offering to bake any amount of VBS cookies for snack time if only she wouldn’t make me teach a bunch of squirming little kids. Then I glanced up and saw our new preacher headed our way, looking like he planned to talk with me.This does not usually happen. Me and him have a near-perfect relationship. He preaches. I tell him his sermon was good. He asks if I am well. I tell him I’m tolerably well. And if all goes according to plan, I never think about him or see him again until the following Sunday.

  “Sister Sizemore,” he said, real polite. �
��I’ve been wondering if you would consider coming along with us on a youth outing I have planned for this spring.”

  I pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose and looked at him to see if he’d lost his senses.

  “Me?” I say. “Tagging along with our youth group? Shoot, I didn’t even get all that involved with the youth group when I actually was a youth.”

  It’s the truth. Except for that time when I was eighteen and helped ride herd on the younger kids at church camp, I been a home body for as long as I remember. Which is why one of the few times I ever stepped foot outside of Kentucky was this year when I took that trip to San Antonio, Texas on the train and found a dead body…which just goes to show you that it don’t pay to travel.

  Anyway, just because I solved that mystery and accidentally got myself writ up in the local newspaper I’ve been kind of a local celebrity ever since. As you might can tell from that, it don’t take a whole lot to impress people in a little place like South Shore, Kentucky. Shoot, Velma Whittaker wrote a book about child-raising. She paid four-thousand dollars to get it printed, and has been selling it out of the trunk of her car ever since trying to recoup her investment. There was a real big write up in the paper about Velma being an author.

  I might have been more impressed with her book if I didn’t know Velma’s kids. Stinkers, every last one of them. I wouldn’t give you a dollar for the whole blessed tribe.

  Now, where was I?

  Oh yes, Reverend Jimmy Bell, our new little preacher from Michigan, was wondering if I would like to come along and help out on a youth outing.

  Before I tell you the rest of this story, I think I need to tell you about our church. Back when I was a girl it was called The Little Faith Evangelical United Brethren church and we were pretty sure we were the only ones going to heaven. I remember feeling sorry for them liberal Methodists and their wrong ways. Then somebody somewhere decided we needed to combine forces with the Methodists and suddenly I was attending The Little Faith United Methodist church. Now, this was a shocker, but I dealt with it pretty good for a lot of years. Then things changed again.

  The United Methodist Church went and got behind some things that were a whole lot more politically correct than scriptural and my friend Ella and some others got all upset about it and they went to some kind of a meeting and read some Bible scripture against it and the powers-that-be told them to be quiet and sit down and Ella got hot under the collar and said some things she probably shouldn’t have and the upshot of it all was that our church resigned from the United Methodist Church.

  The bad thing was, we also lost our building that we bought and paid for these past hundred years. They told us we could have it back, but we’d have to pay them for it, so we had some fund raisers and were finally were able to buy it back and now it’s all ours and nobody can take it away from us. There’s a new sign over the door of our building now that says, “Little Faith Community Church.”

  I’m not real sure what we believe these days, but I’m pretty certain nobody thinks we’re the only ones going to heaven anymore. If they do, they’re keeping it to their own selves. All I know for sure about my church anymore is it’s where my grandmother went to church, this is where my parents went to church, and this is where I’m going to go to church until my dying day. Unless they force me to teach VBS again. Then I might have to look into some other churches. Don’t mean to be negative. I’m just sayin’ an old woman is allowed to set limits.

  I like our new little preacher and his pretty wife who is smart enough to smile a lot and keep her mouth shut. He’s trying real hard to get our church headed in a direction other than the one we’ve been going which means losing a few members every year and not getting anyone new to replace them. Used to be that a person could hardly find a seat in that building. Now there’s all kinds of room to spread out. Shoot, everybody there could probably lay down on a pew, stretch out, and take a nap during Sunday morning sermon and we’d have room left over.

  I think Reverend Jimmy Bell might be more of the Baptist persuasion, but he ain’t admitted to it yet. It’s just that he has this radical belief that Christianity should involve more than sitting in a pew for an hour each Sunday, which makes a lot of us at that church a tad uncomfortable if we would admit to it. Reverend Bell seems to think that we should be out doing good deeds and telling people about Jesus all the time. Which is fine and dandy except I got a small problem with getting aggressive about telling people about Jesus here in my home town all of a sudden.

  I know my neighbors real well and they know me. They know I read a chapter in my Bible every day, and they know they can count on me to pray for a sick relative of theirs if they ask me to. They know I always tell the truth even if it hurts.

  I’ve been known to give a cashier back extra change if she makes a mistake, and I’m good for a pot of potato soup every now and then if someone’s sick. I don’t drink, smoke, chew or cuss….except for that one time when I was trying to cut off a rattlesnake’s head with a hoe, barefoot and scared. I confess—there were a few cuss words slipped out that day. I was scared half to death.

  I pay my taxes and don’t cause anyone any trouble. If people around here don’t know I’m a Christian by now, they ain’t paying attention. If I were to suddenly start spouting off about people needing to come to Jesus everyone would start looking at me funny and wondering what had gotten into old Doreen.

  Anyway, that’s the reason I agreed to go help cook for that bunch of kids at the Slippery Slope Youth Camp. Reverend Jimmy Bell guilt-tripped me into it. It’s all his fault.

  I am a tolerable good cook and I was evidently going to have to do something more noticeable to keep up my reputation as a good Christian if I was to keep attending the Little Faith Community Church. I didn’t think my nerves could take rocking crying babies or walking around South Shore knocking on doors with a handful of gospel tracts, so I said yes, and that was where I made my mistake. I shoulda asked where the camp was first. I just naturally thought it was some place fairly local. Like over in Eastern Kentucky. I thought it would at least be within the state.

  It was only after I agreed to do it that the preacher told me the Slippery Slope Youth Camp was way up in Ontario, Canada. It sat on the tip end of a wilderness peninsula, stuck out in the middle of a big lake, in the middle of a big old island sitting smack dab in the middle of Lake Huron.

  The church that’s been trying to keep it going is even smaller than ours now, and a friend of Reverend Jimmy was the volunteer manager of it, and was overwhelmed with trying to keep it going on nothing much more than a shoe string. Reverend Jimmy and his friend thought it would be a good idea for us to take some of our menfolk and teenage boys and some tools and supplies and help spiff the place up. A lot of poor kids go to that camp, and he said it was a good project for our people to get involved in.

  Jimmy asked if I had a passport. I told him no. I never needed one before. Who would have ever thought I would become a world traveler at my age! He told me I’d have to hurry up and get one. I asked him if I’d have to have shots. He choked back a laugh and said I didn’t need shots to go to Canada.

  Well, who knew? Ella went on a tour to the Holy Land once and she had to get shots. I figured Canada weren’t no better than the Holy Land. Reverend Bell having to choke back a laugh because of my ignorance kinda hurt my feelings and I had to hold back tears. Canada is an awful long way away. What had I gone and gotten myself into?

  There’s not a lot I got to be proud of. I don’t have no college degrees and never had no big, fancy jobs or anything. About the only thing of real value I have is my good name, so I’ve always made it a point that if I say I’m going to do something, I do it. So I figured I was going to have to go to Slippery Slope Youth Camp no matter what. Even if it meant figuring out how to get a passport.

  Then my preacher let the other shoe drop, so to speak. He informed me that there is no electric or phone service on the island, that my cell phone couldn’t even get
reception there, and I’d have to cook on propane stoves, use an outdoor toilet, and bathe in the lake, and cook for eleven men and boys. He said that the only good way get to the camp is by motorboat and he suggested I might want to get a woman friend to go along with me to help.

  What Jimmy don’t know is that I don’t have no cell phone, so that weren’t no big never mind to me and although I’m not thrilled with the idea of going back to more primitive ways, I’ve put in my share of hours sitting in a outhouse hoping a copperhead wouldn’t bite my backside while I’m doing my business. I’ve never bathed in a lake, but I used to carry a bar of soap down to the Ohio River on Saturday evenings when I was a kid and needed a good all-over scrubbing before church the next day. That was before I got my job at Selby and got indoor plumbing put in.

  I figure propane is about like cooking on anything else although it’s been a while since I cooked for anyone more than yours truly, except for when I went and took care of my brother and his wife when she was having that chemo.

  Right then and there I decided it was time for Ella to take a vacation and go with me to Canada. Ella used to be the head cook over at the high school and knows a thing or three about cooking for big groups.

  Well, to make a short story long, six weeks later me and Ella climbed aboard a church bus with a bunch of teenage boys and their fathers, and headed north. Can you imagine?

  Ella brought a book to pass the time. I brought my crochet work, but it weren’t long before I wanted to use my crochet hook to stab the Peters boy. He started the song, “Ninety-nine Bottles Of Beer On The Wall” which took us nearly to Columbus and just about drove me out of my mind before the trip was barely started.

  There’s a reason I live alone. I try to be a God-fearing woman but there are times when people just get on my last nerve and that song started rubbing me plumb raw. When the ninety-nine bottles of beer had been taken off the wall and passed around, he started singing a song I’d never heard of before but the boys behind me started snickering and saying it was by a group called Bare Naked Ladies.