Bite of the Snapper - A Teen Mystery, now an Ebook from Amazon

Bite of the Snapper
A Teen Mystery

Photo from the Florida Integrated Science Center Biology Dept

Check out my other teen mystery,
THE FACE AT THE PORTHOLE.

First Chapter of...

THE BITE OF THE SNAPPER
A Teen Mystery

by Clayton Emery
Available as an Ebook from Amazon

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!”

The flock of twelve girls screaming out the door almost trampled Melissa flat. The counselor dove aside, tried to snag a girl, but missed. “All right! What’s going – Oh!”

Mel held open the screen door of Cabin Number 7. Inside the girls’ cabin, under a rumpled bed, crouched the biggest, meanest raccoon Mel had ever seen. He had a ginger-brown body, a fat tail, a black mask like some burglar from a cartoon, and teeth like white nails. The coon hissed like a steam kettle.

“Ooookay...” Mel let the door slam. “Um, let’s not panic. . . “

“What do we do?” one girl asked.

Another piped, “Let’s scream some more!” With that, three girls put their heads back and shrilled as if at a rock concert.

“Hush up, you-all.” Mel waved a hand. Ten-year-olds, she thought. “We need -”

“I’ll get Mrs B!” one girl shrieked. She ran off.

“I’ll get Ben!” another shouted. Four more girls yelled, “Us, to!” All five took off.

“Do they have raccoons in Kentucky?” asked one girl.

Mel peered through the screen door at the raccoon, which munched on something between its feet. “Yes, we have coons in Kentucky. Thoroughbred coons, pacers. We run a passel of them before the Derby every year.”

“Is that true?” asked a girl.

“Here comes Ben!” the chorus shouted.

Mel turned to see this “Ben” that had the teeny-boppers in a swoon. She hadn’t met him yet. Mel had only arrived in camp yesterday morning. She wouldn’t be here at all, except another counselor had come down with measles and Mel, the camp’s second choice, had been called to fill in. And she’d been glad. Stuck in Kentucky, she would have faced a summer at Burger King: heat, grease, and zits.

Dashing across a carpet of pine needles, dark hair flying in the breeze, Ben Whatever carried a pole with a rope attached. Five of Mel’s girls ran after him, giggling themselves out of breath. As the crowd thudded to a halt, the girls shrieked, “Ben’s here!”

“Make way, ladies, make way!” Ben boomed. Girls giggled so hard they almost fell down. “I’m here to save the day! Where’s the fire?”

Mel jerked the screen door open. “Right in there, Tarzan. Go get ‘im.”

Blown up like a frog at his own importance, Ben smirked. He had a bony tanned face and a good, if lean, build under his blue T-shirt and tattered jeans. A gold ring glinted in his left ear. Mel guessed he was about her age, sixteen or seventeen. She had to admit he was good looking, in a starved way, but she thought the little girls carried on unnecessarily. But then he was the only guy among two hundred girls.

The camp handyman tugged rope loose from his pole. Mel saw it was a homemade capture noose right off the Animal Channel. Eyebolts held the line alongside the pole and made a loop at one end. Ben peeked into the cabin, then winked at Mel. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll see you’re safe.”

Mel rolled her eyes. “Watch he doesn’t bite a hole in y’r other ear.” Ben stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him. “Well, girls? Any bets on who eats who?”

“Ben’ll get him. You’ll see.” They mashed their noses against the screen. Curious despite herself, Mel peered too.

“Come on, Chuckles, come on, Fatso. . .” Ben crawled forward on hands and knees, crooning to the coon. The animal hunkered deep under the bed, squashed backwards into a corner. Ben slid the noose along the floor. “Come on, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you. Come on, baby. Just a little closer. . . Ha!”

With one quick flick, he hooked the loop over the raccoon’s head. With the other hand he yanked to cinch it tight. The raccoon hissed and spit furiously. Over the noise, Ben shouted, “Open the door! Get back! Coming out!”

Mel was too slow. Ben’s back smacked the door open and Mel caught the screen in the face. Little girls tumbled out of the way, shrilling. The boy hopped down the steps, dragging the coon after him like a boat anchor. The animal splayed all four feet as it scrabbled for a hold on the cabin floor. It left a wet trail as it pe*e*d in fear.

“Stand back!” the boy yelled. “Way back! He’ll bite!” He wrestled the coon down the steps to the dusty ground. The raccoon stood stock still, too terrified to move.

“You’re hurting him!” a girl yelled.

“I’m not hurting him. He’s got thick fur all around his neck. It’s just like grabbing you by your hoodie. He’s just surprised, is all. But don’t get too close unless you want rabies shots.” Girls jumped backwards like a pond full of frogs, then crept close to see the wild thing. Ben let them look as he caught his breath.

Mel rubbed her banged nose. “What are you going to do with it? You're not goin’ to kill him, are y’?”

“Kill him?” Ben scowled. “I never kill anything. I’ll dump him down the mountain. You girls haven’t left any food in your cabin, have you? You hide a Snickers bar under your pillow and you’ll wake up with a raccoon or a skunk or a fox on your face.”

“Oh, no, Ben,” they assured him, “we wouldn’t do that.”

Mel said, “These are smart girls. They know the rules are for their own safety.” The girls nodded at Ben. He grinned back.

“Well,” called a voice, “is this your cabin mascot?” It was Mrs. Breckinridge, or “Mrs B”, the Camp Director. She was a middle-aged woman with short dark hair streaked with gray, round glasses, a neat sweatsuit, and always a clipboard. She peered at the coon. “Why, it’s one of our fuzzy woodland friends come to visit. Is he going to take turns sleeping on the foot of your beds?” The girls giggled. “Where will release him, Ben?”

“Down by my swamp, I think, Mrs. B. There’re some nice juicy frogs he can fish for. Okay if I use the truck?”

Mrs. B waved her clipboard. The boy dragged the coon away slowly, so the animal could half-walk without strangling.

Girls asked, “Can we go with him? We want to see it run off.”

“Nope.” Mel shook her head. “Y’all have Crafts before we go ridin’.”

Groans. “We want to go with Ben.” Mel felt stung. She thought of something waspy to say, but held her tongue.

Mrs. B opened the screen door. “Melissa is right, girls. Off to Crafts. And Melissa, you’ll have to mop up this urine.”

Mel could have spit. Ben got the glamorous job and she had to mop up? But she thought of her arms greased and salted like French fries and said only, “Yes, Ma’am.”

She was mopping fifteen minutes later when Ben appeared in the doorway. “He leave you any presents?”

“What?” Mel used the crook of her wrist to push hair out of her face. “Are you back?”

The boy stepped on her fresh-mopped floor to peer under the bed. “Yeah. I asked, did he leave you any - Ah, here we are.”

He reached under the bed and pulled out a feathery brown lump. Only then did Mel remember the coon had been chewing on something. Ben held it up - a dead ruffed grouse.

“Eww. . .” Mel made a face.

“Are you kidding?” Ben waved it in the air before her. “This is dinner! Yum-my!”

“Double eww. Come on, out.” She waved the mop at him.

Laughing, the boy hopped out the door and down the stairs.

“Everybody set? Come on, Bettina! Pull his head around! He’ll go where you tell him, but you can’t shilly-shally.”

“Shilly-shally?” A couple of girls snickered.

Forty-five minutes of fussing had finally gotten all twelve girls suited up and all twelve horses saddled and bridled. All for a forty-five minute lesson. Each girl wore a bike helmet. Mel, the camp’s chief “equestrian counselor”, had a proper riding helmet and English boots. Otherwise, she was dressed like the girls in a T-shirt and jeans. Mel was tall and slender with long brown hair lightened by the sun. She knew she had attractive brown eyes, though they looked past a nose that stuck up a little too much and tended to freckle.

She swung up onto Jolly Roger, a big gray spirited horse. She booted him around the gaggle of girls and horses assembled before the barn. “Don’t yank on the reins, darlin'. Tug gentle. You don’t want someone pulling your teeth out, do you?”

Mrs. B stopped by with her clipboard to watch the class set off. She stood next to Mel’s boot. “You’re doing well, Melissa. Your instructions are simple and clear. You’ve got a way with horses and children.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

Mrs. B smiled. “And that soft southern accent of yours is so pleasant to listen to. I don’t think there’s anyone else north of the Mason-Dixon Line would call me ‘Ma’am’.”

Mel would have repeated, “Yes, ma’am,” but grunted instead. Yankees accepted that for a polite reply.

But her heart softened when Mrs. B patted her on the thigh. “We’re lucky to have you. I guess losing Sharon to the measles was a blessing in disguise.”

“I guess so, Ma’am. I’m – I’m glad to be here.”

“Well, I won’t keep you from your lesson. Move ’em out.” She walked off with long strides, swinging her clipboard.

Mel called, and the girls and their mounts set off for the edge of camp. The horses plodded patiently over pine needles and roots and rocks and dirt. They entered the cool summer woods. The smell of pine resin washed over Mel as if riding under a waterfall. But the spicy smell of these Maine woods only made her homesick.

More homesick. This was the first time she’d ever been away from Kentucky alone. Only four days gone, and already she was hungry for the bluegrass downs of Kentucky, the lazy summer heat of the evenings, the singing of cicadas, the lilt of women’s voices through screen windows. Maine was a wilderness of pine trees and rocks and cold nights and mosquitoes, she’d found. And having everyone make fun of her southern accent didn’t help. She never pointed out that Yankees chattered like typewriters.

But she wasn’t going to admit to anyone she was homesick, and she wasn’t going to cry about it. Not yet, anyway.

The path turned onto a dusty fire road. Mel pointed her mount down the mountain. Camp Willometawam occupied the top of this Maine “mountain" - Mel, from a real mountain state, wouldn’t even call it a hill. Fire roads circled the mountain and made fine riding paths.

Mel clucked to her horse, Jolly Roger. She might be homesick, but she had to admit this was a great place to work.

The girl’s camp offered horse riding, canoeing, hiking, and rock climbing as well as the usual crafts, archery, and singing around the campfires. The girls weren’t rich and snooty, the counselors and directors were mostly friendly, and Mel got to ride seven hours a day. For that much riding, she would have taken a job in Greenland. Mel was horse-happy and proud of it.

She cranked around in her seat. “Let her drop her head, Melanie! She’s got to see where she’s goin’! Trust her, she won’t stumble! April, relax! This is s’posed to be fun!”

The horses’ hooves stirred up dust like a brown snake that clung along their bellies. It was a very dry summer, everyone kept saying. They’d need the fire roads unless we got some rain, people added. The directors had even considered suspending riding classes until some rain wet down the forest, for they feared a class might get cut off by a forest fire. But the girls and their parents had protested so loudly the idea was dropped. Still, Mel kept one nostril cocked for the smell of smoke.

Blue glinted through the upper reaches of the trees. That was Lake Willometawam. Around the edge of the lake, like a string of pearls, were many houses, mostly white, some expensive. On the other side of the lake was the town of Brick Hill.

Mel looked back again. She pulled over to let the line pass. Little April, so short her stirrups had to be doubled, drew aside. The girl clung to the pommel and swayed as if riding a camel. Wiry blonde hair spilled out from under her purple-streaked bike helmet. She gnawed her lower lie. Mel leaned over and squeezed the girl’s skinny forearm. “Hey, April. Relax, child. You’re doing the horse a fever, you knew that?”

Stiff with nerves, the girl didn’t even turn her head. “I — I am?”

“Yep. The horse likes to get out and exercise, and you’re taking him. Same as a dog likes a walk. So relax so you can both enjoy it. Breathe, honey.”

The girl took a shuddering breath, then let it out with a whoosh. She smiled. “Okay, I feel better.”

“Good.” Mel chuckled. “So does your horse.”

She kneed her mount and cantered ahead. They had almost reached the bottom of the fire road where it met the town road that circled the lake. A hundred feet back up the fire road was a boathouse that belonged to the camp. Mel led the parade into the cleared space before the boathouse. “Let’s give ’em a breather. Dismount if you want, but hang onto the reins.”

Two girls dismounted, but the rest stayed astride, more winded than the horses from excitement. This was only the second week of camp, and some of the girls had never ridden before. Mel slid from the saddle to give her horse a rest from her weight. Jolly Roger cropped grass.

Mel stretched and walked around in a circle. The boathouse was big as a two-car garage, old and weathered with the doors locked shut. These days the came used fiberglass and aluminum canoes they left in the water, so the boathouse was never opened. Melissa didn’t even know what was inside - clunky old wooden rowboats, she assumed.

Mel stumbled. The clearing was rough underfoot and crisscrossed with tire tracks. She wondered who had made them. Parkers? Fire wardens? A whole let of people just turning around?

A patch of white at the edge of the clearing caught her eye. She tisked and picked it up. “Some people are such slobs - Huh?"

It wasn’t litter or even paper. It was a fold of cloth. Lace, a square foot of it. “Well, what’s this?”

Little April craned in the saddle to peer over her shoulder. “That’s an antimacassar.”

“A what?”

April waggled her head, making her helmet bubble. “An anti-maca-sur. They go on the backs of chairs. Old-fashioned chairs. Men used to wear grease, macassar, in their hair in the olden days, and ladies pinned those to the back of their chairs to protect the fabric.” All the girls stared, and the tiny girl blushed. “My mom collects antiques. That’s how I know.”

Mel draped the lace across her saddle. It was pretty lace, she thought, old and thick and yellowed to ivory. It must be expensive. "You mean a doily?”

“Doilies are round.”

“Oh.” Mel flattened the lace with her fingers. “But what’s it doin’ out here in the woods? Beer cans and Slim Jim wrappers I c’n understand...”

A girl asked, “Can we go now?”

“Huh? Oh, sure, honey child." The girls giggled and Mel bit her tongue. “Mount up, you two.”

Mel folded the antimacassar and tucked it into her belt in front so she wouldn’t lose it. She mused, “Maybe Mrs. B will know what to do with it...”

The parade walked the last hundred feet towards the circle road. Big houses set back among the trees lay on either side. At the road, which was also dirt, Mel halted and listened. The camp had standing permission from the town to cross the road. On the other side was another trail that followed the lakeside in front of the houses. The class could ride there too, for the camp had originally owned this entire side of the lake and kept permission to cross the properties they sold.

Still, Mrs. B had impressed on Mel the need for caution. The equestrian counselor was to listen for cars, then plant herself and her horse squarely in the middle of road where they were visible, than hustle the children across. Violating these rules would send the insurance company into fits and probably get Mel fired.

So, Mel listened. All was quiet. She nudged her horse into the middle of the road. “Come on, girls, let’s move. Don’t hurry, but don’t drag your tails.”

One, two, three, she counted them, listening the while. Suddenly her horse twitched her ears. Mel cocked her head. Was that rushing noise the wind or?..

“Hold up back there, Carrie.”

Wobbly April and her horse were mincing across the road. Mel started to say, “Move, girl -”

With a roar, a silver van tore around the road in a swirl of dust, the engine racing. April jerked at the reins. Spooked, her horse came to a dead stop, right in the path of the charging van.

“April! Move!”

Mel glimpsed the driver’s frightened face, saw his shoulders hunch as he slammed on the brakes. But his speed was too great. The tires only skidded on the gravel road.

April screamed.

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