Tickled to Death by Joan Hess

littering.
    There were several cars and trucks in the rocky parking area. As I rolled to a stop, a quartet of sturdy people emerged from a path into the woods and began to unload gear into a station wagon. Gender was not obvious, but all had sunburned faces, binoculars, bird guides, and bulging backpacks. When a second group emerged, there was good-natured repartee about such curious topics as wigeons and gallinules.
    The lodge may have been a romantic honeymoon destination at one time, but from this closer perspective I could see the broken windows in the upper two floors, the bare mortar where rocks had fallen, the obvious tilt of the porch roof above a massive wooden door. Glass sparkled in theground-floor windows, however, and trellises were thick with honeysuckle on either end of the porch. The yard was untamed, the weeds high, the trees and shrubs allowed to sprawl according to the dictates of nature. Poles of varying heights held aloft bird houses, and at the farthest one, attempted trespassing was being thwarted by squawks and a great deal of fervent flapping.
    I was debating whether to mention the bat colony when Caron said, “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll get a job washing dishes at the Mexican restaurant. It pays minimum wage, but I can work twelve hours a day. Maybe they’ll let me make tacos after I’ve been there for a while. Making tacos can be very fulfilling, I hear.”
    “Mrs. Verdin wants a baby-sitter on Thursday mornings so she can play bridge,” Inez added. “She doesn’t even pay minimum, though. You’d be baby-sitting for the twins until they leave for college.”
    “Forget it,” I said sharply, although I was inwardly aglow with petty pleasure at their distress. “You agreed to this training session, and you’re not going to back out just because you’re not staying at the Hilton. The first floor has been remodeled. You’ll be perfectly comfortable.”
    With a screech, Caron slithered onto the floorboard and covered her head with her arms. It seemed an overly melodramatic response to my dictum, and I was about to say as much when I spotted a man near the corner of the house. Hewas cradling a shotgun, the barrel of which was pointed in our general direction.
    “Don’t worry about Wharton Dunling,” I said with a great deal more assurance than I inwardly felt. “He has a problem with a groundhog that’s been ravaging his garden. He won’t shoot us unless we go after his zucchini.”
    I waved at him to convince myself, if not the girls, that he was harmless. He was tall and bony, with cadaverous cheeks, protruding ears, and a tight mouth. He was nearly bald, and what hair remained on the sides of his head quivered like white pinfeathers. His days of wearing a crisply starched uniform had passed, obviously. He wore baggy plaid shorts, a stained T-shirt, and moccasins. His legs were hairy and white, his bare ankles gnarly.
    In response to my gesture, he stepped out of view.
    Caron peeked over the edge of the dashboard. “He must feel right at home in this place,” she muttered as she resumed her seat and twisted the rearview mirror to make sure she hadn’t sustained damage. “He probably was killed in the Crimean War. I can hardly wait to be kept awake all night by rattling chains and guttural groans. There’s not much point in worrying about driver’s ed, is there? In the morning I’ll be found at the foot of the stairs.” She sprawled across the seat, clutched her throat, and widened her eyes in fabricated terror. “Tell my mother”—gurgle,gurgle—“that I forgive her. It wasn’t Entirely Her Fault.” Her eyes fluttered closed and her hands dropped limply to the seat.
    “Maybe we should have asked Mrs. Bradshaw more questions,” said a small voice.
    I opened the car door. “Get your luggage. Let’s hope Mrs. Dunling is here. Perhaps she has cookies and milk waiting for you in her cozy kitchen.”
    Livia Dunling was hovering in the doorway when we extracted the