Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) Read Free Page B

We’ll have a main lodge, lots of family activities, you know, Wii, and a big room of those bouncy things kids like, outdoor playground and pool, some little cabins for couples…‌Mostly tent sites, though. RVs wouldn’t be able to manage these roads.”
    That was true enough. I shut my mouth before, as Aunt Marge would say, I attracted flies. “Tents?”
    “Camping, Cousin,” he said, and stabbed a piece of banana. “What’s the most affordable vacation you can imagine?”
    “Not leaving home?”
    Jack paid no attention. “Tent camping! Think of it! We could have some with electric or water hook-ups, forty-fifty a night for rural peace and quiet, real country hospitality…”
    “Have you met this town?”
    Jack kept going, banana piece waving in the air in little circles. Boris watched, hypnotized, tail beginning to lash. Uh-oh.
    “We can use the creek to feed the pool. Oh, not directly, I know there’d be health issues, but we can make it look that way. The tent sites would be simplicity itself, all we need is enough flat space. And imagine what it could do for the town, Lil!”
    He’d reached a peak of enthusiasm with the word town , which was when his fork lifted up, Boris levitated, and my cousin’s fork went flying across the porch with Boris in pursuit.
    Eyes boggling, Jack sat very still. Boris had caromed off his arm, but otherwise, no harm was done, except to his composure. “Th-th-th-that cat !”
    “Sorry,” I snorted. I wasn’t laughing. Really. More that I was thinking how hard I could laugh when I got some privacy. “Ahem. Anyway, you were saying?”
    From across the porch we heard the clank of a sterling silver fork hitting a metal table leg. Jack’s mouth turned down exactly like his late father’s. Or, come to think of it, mine on a bad day.
    “I’ll show you the site, and Steve’s ideas. He knows his markets.”
    Aunt Marge raised me to be kind. It didn’t always work. Nevertheless, I managed an honest compliment. “He always was good at white-collar stuff.”
    “I try not to hire idiots. So, it’s all right for you to take the morning?”
    “The joy of being sheriff,” I said, “and besides, I was on yesterday, I’ve got a day off coming. Let’s get rolling.”
    ***^***
    The turnoff to Grenville is just a dirt track, used mostly by hunters and kids. Weed-choked. Thickets of sumac and what-all around it. Boris took one look and decided he’d rather stay in the car. He’s hell on paws in town, but out in the woods, he turns into a wimp. I left his window rolled down‌—‌like my cruiser, my car has mesh over his window so he can’t get out‌—‌and trudged up the track in Jack and Steve’s wake. Once we passed out of the weeds and into the woods, the temperature dropped about ten degrees, and I could suddenly see why Cousin Jack thought a campground would be a success.
    Wow.
    The hollow was beautiful. Here and there you could see where someone had taken an acre or two for timber, scattered with younger trees, or where a storm had toppled a giant and done the same work. Rhododendrons sported late blossoms and laurels flashed white. Along the stream tumbling its way to Elk Creek, ferns and mosses covered the ground in sun-dappled greens. The light poured through the leaves, and glinted gold off the water. As we moved upstream, a deer track veered off, and I padded along it to a boulder in which tiny garnets marched in perfect lines. I remembered a science teacher telling us that it was a sign of something to do with the formation of the surrounding metamorphic rock, but it looked like magic.
    I rejoined the men where a long-ago Littlepage had planted the foundation markers for his house. You could still see the stones under lichen and moss and ivy. Jack busily kicked the growth away. “This’ll make a great lodge site.”
    Until now, Steve had been remarkably quiet, making notes on some kind of handheld electronic gadget, barely replying to a question. At Jack’s