Camping sucked.
Stevie flipped to another part of the book slowly, to an even more graphic image.
“This is the most elaborate of the Nutshell Studies,” she said. “It’s called Three-Room Dwelling. Three rooms, three bodies. What’s key in this one is the blood splatter . . .”
“Where is this camp?”
“Somewhere in Massachusetts,” Stevie said. “Looks pretty, I guess. He even said I could bring my friends. Look at the blood on this blanket here . . .”
“What’s it called?”
“What?” Stevie said.
“The camp. What’s it called?”
“Oh. Um. Sunny something. Sunny . . . Oaks. Some kind of tree. Wait. I looked it up on my phone last night.”
This was a careful calculation. Her parents had probably never heard of the Camp Wonder Falls murders, and the Sunny Pines website certainly didn’t advertise the connection, but she couldn’t risk them Googling it. She had it primed and ready to go.
Her mother looked at Stevie’s phone while Stevie continued her contemplation of the blood splatter on the tiny kitchen floor.
“It looks nice,” her mother said.
It did. Stevie had examined the site in detail. It was image after image of trees, kids leaping off a platform into a lake, kids playing instruments and making crafts, bonfires, cookouts, and toasting marshmallows.
“And they said you could bring friends?” her mom asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Stevie flipped to another part of the book, to an attic scene that featured a hanging.
“And this is a real offer?” her mom said, eyeing the pictures. “From the real owner?”
“Yup.”
“Let me see it.”
Stevie blinked, as if this request was a surprise.
“Oh,” she said. “Sure. I guess.”
Stevie reached for her phone and pulled up a message, then passed it back to her mom.
Stevie,
My name is Carson Buchwald, and I am the owner and founder of Box Box (you’ve probably heard of it). I also own a summer camp in western Massachusetts called Camp Sunny Pines.
I read an article about what you did at Ellingham Academy, and I thought it was incredible. How would you like to come and work here this summer? You could be a counselor. I think it would be great to have someone like you on our staff! Our camp is in some beautiful woods. We have a swimming lake, falls, and a great little town nearby with some of the best ice cream in the country. It’s a fantastic place with great kids!
You are welcome to bring friends, if that sweetens the deal.
If you’re interested, get back in touch with me. I hope to hear from you.
Carson Buchwald
CEO and founder, Box Box
“It’s what’s inside that counts!”
“This sounds great,” her mom said. “Wouldn’t you rather do this than work in a supermarket and read books about murder dollhouses?”
“That seems like a lot of outside,” Stevie said.
“Outside is good. You could use some sun.”
“Skin cancer,” Stevie said. “Besides, I want to get a lot of reading done this summer, and there’s a free online course in forensic pathology starting in a week. . . .”
“Stevie,” her mom said. “Don’t you want to be social? Wouldn’t you like to be with your friends?”
Stevie made a show of considering this point.
“I guess,” she said after a long moment. “I’ll think about it.”
This little piece of magic had been achieved with relative ease.
She had recently been reading about Charles Manson, who used many popular persuasion techniques in order to form his murderous cult. One tip he had picked up from a popular self-help book was “Make the other guy think the idea is his.” Stevie wanted nothing to do with Charles Manson’s personal philosophy, but this passed-along tidbit was very useful and, it appeared, effective. (The only thing worse than saying “I want to go work at a murder camp” was probably “I have been studying the persuasive techniques of Charles Manson.” So this was one she was keeping to herself.)
The new email from Carson was real. She had written back to him immediately the night before.
Carson,
I am very interested. But I can promise you this—my parents are never going to let me go if they think this is about investigating a murder. Could you write another note about how this is all about camping and doing healthy outdoor stuff?
Stevie
She had no idea if he’d go for it, but it turned out he did. The squeaky-clean new email had arrived with astonishing speed. All Stevie had to do then was prop herself up with her murder dollhouse book in the morning and wait. By midafternoon, the matter was settled. Stevie Bell was going to be a camp counselor at the most notorious camp in America.
More important, she was back on a case.
July 7, 1978
7:30 a.m.
SUSAN MARKS WAS PROUD OF HER CLIPBOARD WALL.
There were twenty-six clipboards in all, hung from little screw-in hooks that she had put in herself five years ago, when she started running the camp. From this command center she made order out of chaos, organized hundreds of children and dozens of teenagers. There was a section for everything. Clipboards for every bunk, listing campers, counselors, contact numbers, known allergies. Another line of clipboards listed the activities for every week of the camp, which led to a different section of clipboards that broke down activities for every day.
For most of the year, Susan Marks ran the physical education and health department at Liberty High. During the summer, she ran the camp, and the job suited her very well. She woke early, when the camp was still asleep, and took a quick seven-mile run. She began on the camp side, running around the lake, then crossing over the dirt road that separated Camp Wonder Falls from the public campground on the other side. She continued her way around the lake there, where the paths were more rugged and rocky and the incline steeper. She went quietly past the tents full of sleeping tourists and waved to the fishermen setting out in their little boats. Up, up, up, working hard now as she ascended the hill at the far end of the lake. Here, the path left the lake edge and wound through the trees. Once she made it to the top, at the far end, she would pause at Arrowhead Point to catch her breath. The spot was so named because it resembled an arrowhead of dark stone, jutting seventy feet above the lake.
It was the best view you could ever hope to see. Below, Lake Wonder Falls stretched out, reflecting back the early sun. There was nothing like seeing dawn break from up here. After this moment of reflection, it was an easy trip downhill and back over to her cabin at Camp Wonder Falls for a quick (cold) shower. At seven thirty exactly, she picked up the clipboard with that day’s activities and switched on the loudspeaker.
“Good morning, Camp Wonder Falls!” she said. “Welcome to another beautiful day!”
She meant it, too. The runner’s high stayed with her for a while.
“This morning we have”—a quick glance at the clipboard that read “menus”—“pancakes in the dining pavilion, and it’s softball day, so everyone let’s get up and at ’em!”
She switched off the loudspeaker and ticked “announcement” off the daily to-do checklist. Even if you knew your routine like the back of your hand, a checklist was still important.