Fear of Frying

Shelley, who had gone as pale as vanilla pudding.
    “I don’t like wild animals,“ Shelley said in a very small voice.
    “Ah! A chink in the armor,“ Jane said with a laugh. “Just imagine them as school principals or bank managers or any of the people you regularly terrorize.“
    “Can’t,“ Shelley said. “They have fur.“
    “Then imagine them bald,“ Jane said briskly.
    Shelley shuddered. “A bald raccoon? Yuck!”
    As they stepped onto the porch, Jane said, “Actually, that grocery store manager who didn’t want to let you use expired coupons looked a bit raccoonish, and you didn’t have a bit of trouble bullying him.”
    Jane pushed open the front door and they were enveloped in warmth, light, and the delicious odors of dinner. A fire crackled in a big central fireplace in the lobby, adding a hint of woodsmoke to the mix.
    “Ah! You must be Mrs. Jeffry and Mrs. Nowack,“ a voice boomed. “I’m sorry we weren’t here to greet you.”
    The speaker was a tall, lanky man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. He was wearing a red-and-black-checked flannel shirt, jeans, and suspenders with Santa Claus faces. He looked a bit Santaish himself, in spite of being thin. He had long, thick gray hair and a fluffy beard. “I’m Benson Titus. My wife, Allison, and I own the resort.“
    “Glad to meet you, Benson. I’m Jane and this is Shelley. This is a wonderful place,“ Jane said. “We were a bit surprised by the bathroom in our cabin.”
    He laughed, showing a spectacular mouthful of capped teeth, all of which were a bit too white. “We like our own comforts, Allison and I do, so we figured the guests would, too. Studied up on it and discovered that in most families, the wife picks the place to stay, and women tend to place a high value on good bathrooms. Cost the earth for all that fancy plumbing, but it did wonders for business.“
    “But isn’t it going to be... well, sort of wasted on a bunch of high-school kids?“ Shelley asked, mindful of their purpose in being there.
    “Oh, the kids won’t stay in those cabins. There are only ten of them and they’re too remote to keep a close eye on. The kids will stay in the dorms. The cabins will be for the staff. I’ll show you around the whole place in the morning. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes, right through there,“ he added, pointing to large double French doors across the lobby. “Look around, make yourselves at home.”
    The dining room was enormous, with a high, wood-beamed ceiling and long, sturdy wooden picnic-type tables, laid with crisp blue-and-white-checkered oilcloths. There were wooden benches with low backs rather than chairs. Another big fireplace was on the left wall, and the right and back walls, like the far wall in their cabin, were solid windows, with, they later discovered, a view over the lake and woods.
    Only one table was set and occupied, that nearest the fireplace. A burly man with blond hair going to gray and in clothing that might have made him look like a lumberjack, had it not been so obviously newly purchased, was sitting at one end. The woman at the table was sitting as far from him as she could. She’d even turned away and had her legs stretched out to the fire. She was reading a battered paperback book, holding it very close to her face.
    The man stood up as Jane and Shelley approached. “Well, I thought Marge and I were going to have to eat by ourselves. I’m John Claypool—Claypool Motors—and this is my brother Sam’s wife, Marge. I usually call her Midge, ‘cause she’s such a cute little thing.”
    Marge turned around, put down her book, and gave a weak smile that seemed to indicate that she’d heard this line several hundred times and never once enjoyed it.
    “Marge and I know each other,“ Shelley said, then introduced herself and Jane. “Are we the only ones here?“
    “My husband’s on his way,“ Marge said. “He just had a couple business calls to make first. And two cars passed me on the road as I was walking down here.“ She had a very soft, sweet voice with the slightest hint of southern accent. She was a very pretty woman in an innocuous way. Blond-going-to gray hair swept back from her face and held with old-fashioned hair clips, perfect, fair skin, very little makeup, and neutral-colored clothing—khaki slacks, white sweater and blouse, pale green scarf. Jane thought the one word that described her best was “clean.“ Or maybe “tidy.“ It was a