Wanderlust: A Van Life Mystery: Van Life

By Jeramy Gates

A standalone novel: Van Life mysteries do not need to be read in order!

 

Synopsis:
When Amanda ditched her lucrative job and high-rise apartment for a life of adventure on the open road, she got way more than she bargained for...

After months of documenting her adventures on social media, Amanda's channel is a huge success. Better yet, she's visiting one of her dream destinations: Yellowstone National Park. Yellowstone is everything she'd hoped it would be: It's wild, beautiful, and teeming with life. Erik, the tall, good-looking campground employee is a pleasant surprise as well. Then Amanda gets another, less pleasant surprise: The Body.

Amanda's discovery of a murder victim near the campground revives haunting memories from her childhood. The police may never solve the crime, but Amanda isn't willing to let it go. She enlists Erik's aid, and with the help of a retired writer named Margaret Applewood, they set out to solve the murder. When a second body appears, Amanda begins to realize just how complex the web of intrigue and deception is. If she's not careful, the killer may set his sights on her next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timber Hill Press
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224937691

Jeramy Gates

Jeramy Gates is the author of numerous Amazon lists bestsellers in the categories of Mystery, Thriller, Science Fiction and Fantasy (as Jamie Sedgwick). Jeramy spent his childhood on a ranch in the Montana Rockies, but now lives among the grapevines and redwood groves of northern California with his wife and three children. When traveling, you may encounter Jeramy with his family and their three dingoes, camping in their fifth wheel trailer.

Book preview

Prologue:

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PODCAST #1:

The Adventure Begins!

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Greetings, fellow travelers! My name is Amanda, but you can call me Wanderlust. I gave up my high-stress executive job to live the RV life. The used twenty-nine-foot motor home you see behind me will be my new home—and office! This Class C Fleetwood is where I will live, journey, and work from now on. But before we begin this adventure, let me show you how I have modified the interior of this RV to be the ultimate in comfort, convenience, and workability....

Moving inside, you can see where the dinette used to be. This will be my workstation, where I will edit and upload all of my videos, and chat with YOU on my live streams. I will stow my video equipment and extra supplies overhead in this area...

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Podcast 47:

A Very Special Day.

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"Good morning, fellow travelers! I’m celebrating because my channel has just reached one hundred thousand subscribers. I can’t believe it happened so quickly. I couldn’t have done it without you. I am sooo grateful. But before I pop this bottle of champagne, I must send a special ‘thank-you’ to everyone who has supported my subscription service, where all my exclusive content is available. Your donations have made this possible. I can’t thank you enough..."

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Podcast 52:

A Real Landmark!

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Hello, fellow travelers! Can you believe it has been six months already? We’ve visited parks, landmarks, and destinations in twelve states. But don’t worry, I have many more adventures planned. Soon, I’ll be visiting the Great Salt Lake and after that I’m heading to one of my dream destinations: Yellowstone National Park...

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Podcast 57:

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Hey, Folks. I just wanted to say that, umm, today... I found a body.

Chapter 1

October 27th

2:00 A.M.

Western Wyoming

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Give me more light. Clint Mattsen stepped into the grain bin. His voice cracked with age and weariness. He was too old, had spent his whole life working too hard, and at two a.m., it was just too danged late. His twenty-nine-year-old son Rory ran back to the truck to fetch a floodlight.

Clint was seventy, but he was tall and straight, with a lean muscular build and a bushy mustache that perfectly complimented his expensive black Stetson. To the untrained eye, he looked every bit a genuine cowboy, but a local would know at a glance that he had never been a real cowboy. Clint’s clothes were too nice, his boots too shiny, his truck too big and too new. To the locals, he was just another big-city businessman in a cowboy hat. And they were right.

Clint had made a killing in stocks at the turn of the century. Somehow, he managed to get out of New York before the big crash of ’08. It was then that Clint had turned his focus on Wyoming. With its wide-open spaces, abundant resources, and broad expanses of unused land, the state was a veritable promised land of opportunity. This was where he decided to settle down.

Clint purchased a farm with a stable and a modest wheat operation. He had no desire to become a farmer, though. Instead, he built a country club with a restaurant and a golf course. Locals didn’t think much of the place at first, but it snagged a lot of traffic going into the park, and that meant money for everyone.

On the other hand, Clint’s son Rory was a worthless piece of crap. That was rougher language than his father would ever use, but nonetheless true. Rory was shorter and stockier than his father, and a great deal less resourceful. Rory took a four-year education at a top college and turned it into almost two hundred thousand dollars of debt. Clint bailed him out, of course. Clint always bailed him out.

After that, Rory had run a couple businesses into the ground—but at least they weren’t Clint’s. These days, Rory pretended to be an employee of the country club, but he was really just a useless playboy who spent most of his generous salary on booze, weed, and loose women. Clint knew it would be best to cut the boy off, but he couldn’t seem to do it and his wife would never allow it anyway. Someday, Clint supposed, he’d die and pass on his life’s work to his lazy, worthless son who would then squander it all in a few short years. There was nothing he could do to stop it, but at least he wouldn’t be here to see it.

Rory came running back to the bin with a portable floodlight in hand. He placed it on the floor and hit the switch. The two men stood back, surveying the twelve-foot pyramid of grain. The building was essentially a tall metal silo. It was equipped with a simple but effective vacuum system for pumping grain in through the roof, or out and into a waiting truck. Clint grabbed the end of the flexible vacuum hose with both hands and nodded at Rory.

Turn it on, he said.

The pump came on with a jet-engine whine and a loud persistent ka-chunk, ka-chunk! from the motor outside. Clint moved the hose around, pulling the grain up and out of the building. He was cautious not to pull too much out of the bottom. Doing so could cause a collapse, and the last thing he wanted to do was drown in a sea of wheat grain.

Pound by pound, cubic foot by cubic foot, the material sucked up into the hose and splashed out somewhere in the darkness outside. The machinery was old, but the process was quick. In less than five minutes, the pile was hip deep. Clint moved the hose back and forth, left to right, up and down in a circle, until Rory let out a shout.

Clint froze, and Rory hit the power button on the machine. The pump went silent, leaving only the dull mechanical echoes reverberating in their ears. There! Rory said, stepping forward. He had a shovel, and he used it to move some of the grain out of the way. This caused a little cascade, and as the tiny particles tumbled down, a woman’s face appeared. Her skin was purple, her mouth wide, frozen in a horrified gasp. Her glazed eyes glared at them, colorless, accusing.

What now? Rory said.

Clint sucked in a deep breath and looked into his son’s pleading eyes. Get a tarp, Clint said, his voice cracking with more than just age and weariness.

Chapter 2

Amanda looked up from the dash and saw the silhouette of a pedestrian flash through the headlights. She yanked the wheel, swerving into the center of the two-lane highway. The RV swayed, pots and pans clanging in the cabinets, small items escaping the shelves and crashing to the floor. The headlight beams danced across the highway, yellow road reflectors glaring back at her, the tires making thump-thump-thumping sounds as the motor home crossed the center line.

Amanda took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves as she slowed the vehicle. Her hands trembled on the wheel. She tossed her head, flicking dark bangs out of her eyes, and eased back into her own lane. Safely back on the right side of the road, Amanda glanced at the side mirror and saw the vague shape of an elderly woman trudging along the edge of the pavement, shoulders hunched over, a red plastic gas can in one hand.

Amanda had taken her eyes off the road for just a second. Just long enough to kill someone, she thought, feeling slightly queasy. Thankfully, there had been no oncoming traffic. Not out here in Middle-of-Nowhere, Wyoming. Amanda eased onto the shoulder and activated her emergency lights. She put the Fleetwood into Park and waited. A minute later, the passenger door swung open. The overhead light illuminated the pleasant smiling face of a woman in her sixties—younger than Amanda had first guessed, and that was a relief. The woman had silver hair and intelligent grey eyes that glistened behind steel-rimmed spectacles.

Thank you for stopping! she said in a cheerful tone. I’ve been walking almost two hours.

Are you okay? I almost didn’t see you.

The woman reassured her that she was fine. All things considered, anyway, she added, holding up her gas can. I drove into Powell for supplies. I could have sworn I had plenty of fuel, but I ran out. My gauge must be broken. Do you have a place where I can put this?

There’s a box on the back bumper. Let me drop it in there for you.

Oh, I can handle it, the woman said with a wave. I’ll be right back.

After stowing her gas can, Amanda’s passenger climbed in and introduced herself as Margaret Applewood. My friends call me Peggy, she added with a friendly smile. My truck’s just a few miles down the road.

You said you’ve been out here for two hours?

Thank goodness it’s not raining. There aren’t many people on this road, especially at night. I’m afraid it’s one of the pitfalls of the wide-open spaces.

Are you thirsty? Amanda said. I have bottled water in the fridge.

Peggy showed a canteen hanging from a strap over her shoulder. I came prepared. I’m just tired. I’ll sleep well tonight. This last part included a cheery little giggle that Amanda found surprising. If Amanda had been carrying a gas can around for two hours, she doubted her mood would have been so pleasant. Amanda noticed that Peggy had tossed a canvas satchel on the floor next to her feet. She wondered why the woman had carried it with her instead of leaving it in her vehicle. It must contain a computer, or some other valuable item.

Do you live around here? Amanda said as she pulled back onto the highway.

No, my trailer is parked at a little campground up the road.

Oh, you’re on vacation?

"Permanent vacation, Peggy said with a grin. I’m something of a nomad."

No kidding. You live full-time in your RV?

That’s right. I was a lab scientist, once upon a time. Now, I’m a writer, she reached down to pat her satchel, indicating that it held her notebooks, or perhaps a computer. That explained why she had been lugging it around. What about you? Are you here on business, or pleasure?

Amanda grinned. Both. In fact, you won’t believe this... She went on to explain that she too was a nomad, and that she had been living that way for seven months. Amanda made a living documenting her adventures on social media. Peggy found this fascinating. After a brief conversation, it turned out they were even staying at the same campground. I couldn’t get a reservation in Yellowstone, Amanda explained. My plan is to rent a car to make a few day trips.

What a pair we make, Peggy said. Me in my twilight years, you in the springtime of life, both of us chasing dreams of freedom and autonomy. We make a living with no office, no boss, no deadlines. She leaned closer, touching Amanda on the arm, and gave her a wink. Was there ever a better time to be alive?

I think not, Amanda said, and they both laughed.

I do suppose it gets lonely, though.

Amanda shot her a questioning look.

I meant for you, Peggy said. I’m too old for that. I’ve been through it all: the husband, the kids, the career, the mortgages... But you’re so young. It must be hard, being alone on the road?

Sometimes, Amanda admitted. But it’s a small price to pay for freedom.

For certain, Peggy said. One cannot put a price on that.

A few minutes later, Peggy pointed out her vehicle on the shoulder up ahead. It was a silver Ford pickup. Amanda slid off the highway and pulled in behind her. Peggy offered Amanda a twenty. This should cover your gas.

No, thanks. I was already driving this way.

Are you sure?

Absolutely.

Well, thank you very much. It was nice to meet you, Amanda. Maybe I’ll see you at the campground and I’ll buy you lunch.

Deal, Amanda said.

She sat idling while Peggy emptied her fuel into the truck. A minute later, she climbed into the cab, turned the engine over a few times, and it sputtered to life. Satisfied that Peggy would now get back to camp safely, Amanda put the RV into gear and gave a wave as she drove away.

It was ten pm, way past check-in time when Amanda pulled into the campground. The park was dark and quiet, but the lights were still on in the office. That was a good sign. Hopefully, they hadn’t given her campsite to someone else.

Amanda parked on the street out front and went inside. As she entered the rustic A-frame building, the familiar odor of lemon-scented wood polish met her, spread like a thin varnish over the mustiness of old threadbare carpeting and the nausea-inducing blend of chemical cleaning products that lined the center aisle.

The place appeared empty and Amanda turned her head, scanning the room. Next to her stood a tall rotating display of old DVDs available for rent. Just past that, a counter full of candies and treats with a cash register sitting on top. Glass-fronted coolers and a freezer lined the back wall.

Three aisles divided the center of the room, their shelves burdened by an assortment of canned and boxed foods—the typical unhealthy, highly processed and well-preserved sort that campers often resort to, due to their low price and long shelf life. The usual handy supplies were all there as well—things campers always need but often forget to bring along: dish soap and laundry detergent, toothpaste, paper plates and so on.

Amanda groaned inwardly as she realized the place was empty. The owner must have forgotten to lock up before leaving for the night. Now what? Maybe she’d get lucky and find an empty space. She hoped they wouldn’t mind if she parked without paying first. As Amanda turned to leave, a man’s voice said, We’re closed.

She let out a gasp. She spun around to see a Norse god standing by the door. Well, he was human enough, but he was tall with broad shoulders, wavy blond hair, and smoldering blue eyes that surely must draw stares everywhere he went. The man wore jeans and a t-shirt, and looked to Amanda less like a Midwestern campground employee than a California surfer. She blinked, staring at him with a deer-in-the-headlights look.

Sorry, he said with a smile. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just picking up a bar of soap. I’m Erik.

Amanda shook off her surprise and reached out to shake Erik’s hand. She introduced herself. I know it’s really late, she said in an apologetic tone, but I have a reservation. Is the owner around?

Erik gave a shake of those blond locks. Michele had business in Bozeman. She asked me to keep an eye on things. I’ll check the register and see if she made a note.

Stepping around her, Erik pulled the guest log out from under the counter. Amanda caught a subtle whiff of his cologne or body spray. It was an elusive, but tantalizing scent—spicy and woodsy, like cedar or sandalwood. It was pleasing, and it fit Erik’s looks and personality. Much more enticing than the moldering chemical scent of the building.

The guest registry was a big black journal that looked exactly like every other one Amanda had ever seen. It had the worn, stained, tattered look of a wizard’s journal that had survived a thousand battles. Why did these places still use ledgers like this? It seemed like they were all stuck in the last century.

Here we go, Erik said. I don’t see your reservation, but it looks like there’s a space available. It’s a back-in, not a pull through. Is that okay?

I’ll take what I can get, Amanda said. She just felt relieved they had something, even if it wasn’t quite what she’d reserved.

Great, I’ll show you where it is.

Thanks.

Erik hopped into a golf cart parked beside the office and led Amanda to her site. He offered to guide her in using hand signals, which wasn’t necessary but made the process a lot easier and faster. She greatly appreciated his assistance, and she thanked him.

No problem, Erik said. Want me to hook you up?

No, thanks. I’m fine. Amanda tried to overlook the double entendre,