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that was a very poor idea. Right now there was nothing separating them from Trixie and Ray but a nasty, choking cloud of diesel. Trixie, they knew, was armed—and both of them could be dangerous.
    “Look, they’re pulling into the Benton Beach entrance,” Summer said. “We’ve got ’em now. Do you have any quarters for the parking meter?”
    “We don’t need to park, dear,” Dorothy said. “Let’s just drive around the lot a bit, and wait until we see them get out. It’s a lot safer that way.”
    “Maybe they’re staying here for the night.” Summer pulled up to the guardhouse, gazing warily at the yellow-and-red gate arm poised just above the MINI.
    “I don’t think so.” Dorothy pointed to the sun-beaten sign on the side of the tiny gate house. It clearly prohibited camping, both on the beach and in the parking lot.
    Summer shrugged. “A lot of people do it anyway.”
    Oddly, the gate house was unmanned. Was it too late in the day to collect a parking fee? The town of Milano usually required payment for just about everything, round the clock.
    She frowned but withheld comment as Summer pulled the MINI into the parking space directly next to the Happy Trailways—just as the driver door opened, narrowly missing her own.
    Dorothy braced herself for Ray’s scowl—or worse—but it was a stocky, middle-aged man wearing a banana-yellow shirt, a canvas sunhat, and frayed denim cutoffs who emerged from the camper.
    Well, that was most definitely not Trixie’s friend. Dorothy let out a tiny sigh of relief. It would have been nice if they had found their two suspects, of course—but maybe not this close up.
    Summer hit the daisy-decaled sun visor above her head in frustration. “Rats.”
    Dorothy leaned out the passenger window. “Excuse me, sir?”
    He turned, wiping his face with his arm and flinging the sweat onto the asphalt. “Yeah?” he said, clearly disinterested. Then he spotted Summer, and approached the car. “What can I help you with, ladies?” he asked, placing one distinctly hairy hand on the hood.
    Dorothy tried, unsuccessfully, to summon more than a shred of sympathy for the man as he yelped and jumped away from the scalding metal.
    “My granddaughter and I were admiring your lovely RV,” she said. “Did you buy it here in town? We’re thinking of taking a little trip ourselves.”
    “We want one exactly like it,” Summer added. “You know, with ‘Happy Trailways’ on the side. That’s so cute.”
    The man’s gold wedding ring flashed in the sun as he clutched his other, slightly charred paw. “You wanna tour of the inside? My name’s Louis, by the way.”
    Dorothy detected a quiet gag from the passenger seat beside her. “No, thanks,” Summer said. “We’re good.”
    “It’s a rental.” A freckled woman in a khaki Australian-style hat glared at her husband as she came around the rear of the van, trailed by two children loaded down with brightly colored beach chairs, plastic toys, and swimming floats. A younger set of carrot-topped progeny was just emerging from behind the RV, lugging an enormous red cooler between them and bickering loudly.
    “That’s even better,” Dorothy said. “Which agency did you use?”
    “We just picked it up today. Cinderella Luxury Coaches, off 85,” the woman said. “North Milano, I think. But don’t waste your money, this thing is a piece of junk. It’s already broken down twice.”
    “So sorry to hear that,” Dorothy said. Closer up, the RV did seem worse for the wear, with one semiflat tire and a large dent below the dirty windows. On this side, the worn—or intentionally edited—letters in Happy Trailways read Hoppy Tails.
    “Some dear friends of mine just rented a vehicle and they may have used Cinderella Coaches, also,” Dorothy told the woman. “I do hope they won’t have any trouble. They’re going all the way to Montana.”
    “Montana?” Louis’s wife glanced over her shoulder as he took off after the children,