Once Upon a Trailer Park: Trailer Park Tales, #1

By Maggie Pill

New Series!

Suspenseful, hilarious, and focused on "mature" spouses with loving but sometimes contentious relationships.

Once Upon a Trailer Park begins with a murder on the streets of the Beautiful Bird RV Park in Palm Hill, Florida. As residents learn bits and pieces about the crime (some true, some less so), they form and reform theories of the killer's identity. It's the park weirdo. It's the ex-wife. It's the victim's employer.

Residents want to find out the truth, some due to friendship, some from fear, some to protect themselves. It soon becomes clear that asking too many questions leads to danger. In fact, it could spell disaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwendolyn Books
• Release date: Oct 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393536840

Book preview

Chapter One

Karen (Karen & Al from Pittsburgh) Tuesday, December 4, 2019, 5:00 a.m.

Coffee mug in hand, I came outside and reached for my first cigarette of the day. What time did you get up? I asked my husband softly.

Four. Al had already lowered the bamboo shades on either side of the porch and turned on the kerosene heater to chase away the morning chill. Three butts in the ashtray I’d emptied last night served as evidence he’d been there a while. Hips got to aching, he told me. Couldn’t stay in bed any longer.

Setting my mug down, I took my usual place at the table, facing the street four feet below. Al stood at the rail, leaning his weight on his elbows to lessen the strain on his lower joints. For some minutes we were quiet, sipping from our mugs and enjoying the silence. From time to time Al coughed a little, but it wasn’t bad, so we weren’t disturbing anyone. Not many in the park get up as early as we do. Sitting outside before even the birds wake up makes the place seem like ours alone, not a rented rectangle in the middle of three hundred exactly like it.

Looking to the east, I saw only darkness. Being December, it would be a couple of hours before the first glint of sunlight appeared on the horizon. For now, the available light was a battery-operated lantern on the table and a security lamp at the corner four lots down.

Despite his many ailments, Al’s eyes are sharp. There’s something in the road down there. Rising to look, I saw nothing at first. See the lump at the edge of the Martins’ lawn? As I peered harder he added, Between the palm tree and the Ohio State banner.

There might be something. I descended to street level, my flip-flops making soft plops with each step, and walked toward the spot, head thrust forward. Yeah, there’s...

After a few seconds Al said softly, What?

Have you got your phone? We need to call 9-1-1.

Chapter Two

Julie (Ron & Julie on Egret Street) Tuesday, 9:00 a.m .

My husband called for me to come out from the bedroom, where I was folding his laundry and putting it into his drawers, to perform yet another small service that had to be done right that second. I’d already stopped my work to dig up a letter opener (He doesn’t like ragged envelopes). I’d shown him where we keep the black marker (I’d told him twice, but he hadn’t been able to see it standing there in the cup at his elbow). When he asked me to come out a third time and set the wastebasket closer to him, I caught myself thinking that one of the items sent home with a post-surgical male should be a gag.

Seated in his recliner, Ron was removing our names from yesterday’s mail, so we won’t get our identities stolen. I might have suggested the task could wait a while, but he really needs things to do. Yesterday’s junk mail is what had come to his mind, and it had to be dealt with now, laundry or no laundry.

When Ron’s doctor first suggested a knee replacement, I’d resolved to be a good caregiver. The procedure had been successfully completed on Wednesday, and Ron was turned over to me Friday afternoon, along with a long list of written and verbal instructions, suggestions, warnings, and cautions. Though they made me nervous, I was determined to be patient and competent. Now, after three days with a grumpy, bored, and—I’ll say it—whiny invalid, I wondered if unnecessary interruptions were an acceptable defense for spousal battery.

Like most folks at B-Bird Park, Ron and I are snowbirds, meaning we live in the northern U.S. but winter in the South. For several reasons, Ron chose to have his surgery in Florida and recuperate in our comfy little mobile home park. Unlike our tiny hometown of Marisette, Wisconsin, Florida has plenty of hospitals. Weather was also a factor, since Marisette is so far north we feel Canada’s cold breath on our necks long before November arrives. In Florida there’s little likelihood of slippery driveways or knee-high snowdrifts. It was a bonus for Ron to find that he gets lots of company (and sympathy) when he sits under the carport awning with his bandaged knee, his cane leaned against the patio table.

Recovery is coming along nicely, but for the first time in his life, Ron has a list of no-nos. For some reason this changed him from a normal husband into one who thinks I should hover like a helicopter, ready to help if he needs the smallest thing. Can you get me a glass of water, Julie? Will you fix that blind, so the light doesn’t hit the TV? Would you get my other glasses from the bedroom? This from a man who before last week wouldn’t let me sugar his coffee when I fixed my own. I’ll do it was his mantra. Now, not so much.

I recognize that he needs help, but I haven’t gotten anything done in four days. As soon as I put my hands in dishwater, he needs a pillow from the futon to put behind his back. If I go outside to see to my flowers, he calls for me five minutes later because the darned computer screwed up again. (Translation: he touched a key he shouldn’t have and lost his Solitaire game.)

I get it. Ron’s not used to sitting still. His friends golf four times a week, and he can’t join them until the doctor okays it. They stop by to keep him up to date on the rule changes at Bay Pines and the ten-foot gator that’s hanging out at Sweet Meadow. He listens, nods, and feels completely left out.

Retirement hit Ron kind of hard. He hadn’t really considered endless days of waking up with no scheduled events, no customer calls, and no feeling of accomplishment at quitting time. He replaced work with golf, shuffleboard, and little chores around the house, but now surgery has temporarily taken those things away. I got him some books, but he’s never been much interested in reading. Television really is a wasteland; little bits of news and weather repeated on an endless loop, and hundreds of shows that aren’t worth watching. Ron needs something to take his mind off what he can’t do. The problem is I have no idea what that might be.

What he comes up with at this point are jobs for me. Why don’t you bake us some of those brownies with the pudding on the bottom, Julie?

Babe, I haven’t even done the breakfast dishes yet. And we’re supposed to be cutting back on sweets. I used the word we to be nice. Ron’s doctor said losing a few pounds would make a big difference in the durability of the new knee.

But it’s cool today, so using the oven won’t overheat the place.

If I baked every cool morning in December, we’d both double in size. What I said out loud was, I’ll see if I have the ingredients.

Hearing a knock at the door, I stepped onto the lanai. Hank Jansen was crushing a cigarette in the ashtray we kept on the outside table, mostly for him. Good morning, Hank.

Hey, Julie. Is the old man up and around?

I’m up, Hank, Ron called from behind me. Around, not so much.

I pushed the door open for him. Come in and have a seat. I’ve got some coffee left.

Fetching a chair for Hank, I set it at the table. Most mobile homes are set up for one or two people, and entertaining is mostly done outside, but the morning was too chilly for that. Taking another mug from the cupboard, I poured the remaining coffee evenly into all three.

As I rinsed the pot, Hank shared his news. They found a guy dead on Osprey Street this morning.

Oh, no. Death is no stranger to the park, so we were more sympathetic than shocked.

Karen found him.

Ron’s brow furrowed. Blond Karen or Karen from Pittsburgh?

Pittsburgh. Her and Al were up early, as usual. Al saw the body first, but he don’t walk so good, so she went to see what it was. Here’s this guy, laying there dead. Hank had been leading us along, like any good storyteller, and he dropped the plot twist we weren’t expecting. Stabbed to death.

Murdered? I said.

Here? Ron said a half-second later.

Looks like. As he savored our disbelief, Hank sipped at his coffee. Nobody knows him, so he was probably just visiting. His tone implied that made a murder on our streets less terrifying, but I couldn’t see how.

Chapter Three

Wilma (Wilma & Earl from the Thumb of Michigan) Tuesday, 9:30 a.m.

At nine-thirty Tuesday morning our phone rang. It was pretty early for us to get up, but Hank wanted to tell Earl and me about the murder. Earl had the phone on speaker, as usual, and I heard Hank’s comment. I figure the cops will want to interview the park’s night owls, so I’m giving you a heads up.

Sure enough, a detective named O’Connor came to our door around ten. As he introduced himself, I almost giggled. Detective? The guy didn’t look old enough to be hall monitor in a junior high. We like the night-time, Earl said when O’Connor asked how late we’d been up. He led the way to the table near our bay window and invited the detective to sit before he went on. We were right here until two-thirty, playing cards and listening to the radio—but low, you know, so we don’t disturb nobody.

That’s good. Even O’Connor’s voice sounded young, kind of high and reedy. His suit looked like he’d inherited it from an older brother and hadn’t quite grown into it yet.

We’ve got ourselves into a funny schedule since we left the farm, and we can’t seem to change it.

We don’t mind, I put in. It’s not like we have a lot of stuff that has to get done in the daytime.

The detective got down to business. You’ve probably heard that a man was killed over on Osprey Street. Did you hear anything unusual around one this morning?

At midnight Wilma said someone was hollering, Earl said. I don’t hear so good, but that’s what you said, right, Hon?

O’Connor turned to me. What did the person say?

I didn’t hear words, just screeching. After a while I figured it was some bird that got disturbed.

He seemed disappointed. Did you see anything unusual?

Earl scratched his neck absently. The park raccoon came by a few minutes before we went to bed.

The park raccoon.

Earl missed the note of impatience in O’Connor’s voice. We call her Rocky. The guy looked blank, probably too young to know the Beatles. People like watching her scuttle around, so nobody bothers her. Anyway, she went running down the street with something in her mouth, and I pointed it out to my wife. I thought she stole a piece of tinsel from some Christmas decoration, but Wilma said it looked heavier than that.

Tinsel. The detective had set out a little notebook and a pen, but he didn’t write anything down.

Sweetie, I said, he wants to know did we hear or see anything related to the murder.

We didn’t. My husband is a good man, willing to help anybody, and I could see he was sorry to disappoint the detective. We’re two streets over from your murder, he said. All we saw was the critter, and we only heard the bird or whatever acting up.

Thanks for your time. As the detective stowed his notebook and rose to go, Earl looked disappointed, like he hadn’t done enough. Still, we couldn’t help it if all we had to offer a murder investigator was a raccoon sighting.

Chapter Four

Ron (Ron & Julie on Egret Street) Tuesday, noon

Everybody says knee replacement is harder to recover from than surgery on a hip or shoulder. I don’t know about that, but I know I hate it. First there’s thinking about it ahead of time: the decisions you have to make, the warnings they have to give you, and the things your imagination brings up no matter how hard you try to think about something else.

Then there’s the day of surgery, where you feel like a little kid, wearing a stupid gown and being told, Go here, and Lie down there, and It’ll be a few minutes. For me, after running my own tree-trimming business for forty years, it was embarrassing to be told when I could pee by a bunch of girls twenty years younger than my kid.

Now the recuperation period is dragging by. Like the tortoises that wander through the park, I make slow progress, need frequent periods of rest, and move with a gait nobody would ever describe as lively.

Julie’s been great, and I try not to bother her too much. I’ve started doing little things to help her out, things she never had time to do. Our silverware drawer is much better organized now, though it was painful to stand on my bum leg long enough to do the job. She was surprised, I could tell, and she said it was really nice how I did it.

Because of the murder last night, Hank’s been by about once an hour. He’s like a housefly, going from lot to lot picking up information or telling people what he knows. The dead guy is Charles Adams, Hank says, and he lived somewhere south of here. He came to B-Bird looking for his ex-wife, who turns out to be one of our newer residents, Betsy Barnes. At first Hank said Adams attacked her and she beat him off with a broom. An hour later he came back to say that second part wasn’t true. Instead, Betsy’s neighbor on the other side, Big Frank Appleton, chased the guy off with a ball bat. Good thing, too, he told us. The guy wasn’t there just to talk to Betsy, and she’s got the bruises to prove it.

Chapter Five

Earl (Wilma & Earl from the Thumb)

Hank got some of it right and some of it wrong, as usual, I told my wife. Big Frank says the ex-husband hit Betsy, but she didn’t fight back. Instead, she ran next door. Frank went out, and the guy was running down the street. He lost him in the dark.

That sounds more like what you’d expect from an abused woman. Wilma rinsed some tin foil and put it in the dish rack to dry. She uses foil lots of times, not like some that toss it away after once.

It makes me kind of sick to think my wife even has to know there are things in the world like mean husbands and battered wives. As far as I’m concerned, a wife is the best gift God ever gave a man, and I’m the luckiest son-of-a-buck of all. I’ll never forget the day I got leave from the USS Kansas City in 1971 and went sight-seeing in Baltimore. In a shop on Pennsylvania Avenue, I met the cutest girl I’d ever seen, and I soon made up my mind she was the one for me. I’m not sure why, but she liked me too, and we started writing letters to each other. When I got out of the service in ’72 I went back to Baltimore, hoping she meant what she said in her letters about waiting for me. She did, and we got married a few months later. She’s been making me happy ever since.

Our biggest disappointment in life was that we never had kids, but that’s the way God wanted it. With my brothers and sisters all staying close to where I was raised in Michigan’s thumb, we had plenty of nieces and nephews around. When they were ready, we gave them all jobs on the farm, starting simple and moving on as their skills and ambition allowed. Like us, they never got rich, but they learned to work hard and appreciate what the land provides.

One of the nephews took over the farm a few years back, so Wilma and me moved into the little town of Steinberg, a few miles away. The town isn’t much: a grocery store, two bars, and a building that houses a different sure-to-fail business every year or so. The worst traffic jams up there happen when some farmer drives his sugarbeet harvester down the main drag.

When winter got to be too much for me, Wilma suggested we buy a place in Florida. It’s a big expense, keeping up two homes with Social Security and the small payments my nephew makes on the land contract. We have to watch our pennies, not like some that go out to eat every day and visit Disney or Busch Gardens or Canaveral whenever they want.

I feel sorry for Betsy, Wilma said, pulling me back to the subject of murder. "I suppose she’ll get off light after being