shot a couple of looks over toward John and Adele, and when they’d distanced enough, they began muttering to each other beneath their breaths. The third girl joined them and seemed to receive a silent berating from her friends.
Still, Adele turned and gestured at John.
“Locker room gossip?” John said, glancing at Adele.
“Maybe,” she said. “Some mountain man. Gave the girls in the campsite the creepy crawlies. Apparently Mr. Rosenbaum, the owner, knows about him.”
John nodded. Together, they approached the small, single-story wooden cabin without a porch. John reached out, knocking on the glass door.
The window rattled in its wooden fixture. A pause, then a voice called, “You can open the door yourselves.”
John raised an eyebrow at Adele, who said, “He says open the door.”
John grumbled, twisting the doorknob.
“You should start taking German lessons,” Adele muttered. “At this rate you’re more of a liability than anything.”
John snorted. “Liability my ass.” Then he pushed through the door, stepping into the cabin.
It was a quaint space with well-lit portions of bright, vibrant lamps, shaped like overturned rose petals, glinting orange throughout the wooden structure. A soft pull rug covered half the room. But the floor closest to the door was bare, and scuff marks led from the front door to the front of the desk.
A beefy man with three chins was sitting behind the desk. An open door behind him suggested it led to living quarters in the back. Adele just barely glimpsed the edge of a TV and a couch.
Clearly, the cottage was larger than it first looked.
The man leaned back in his chair, his large belly protruding past his hands, which were clasped over it. His eyes were fixed on a small black-and-white TV screen, displaying a soccer match. Adele had never been one for organized sports. She preferred swimming and running. But the man seemed riveted. His eyes didn’t flick in their direction, his gaze glued to the screen. One of his pudgy hands bunched around the front of his belly, and he pounded himself, jiggling and screaming, “Come on, pass, pass, you idiot!”
Adele glanced at John and saw a note of recognition on his face. For the first time, someone was speaking a language he understood. John nodded, waiting patiently, as if respecting the solemnity of the moment and not wanting to interrupt.
Adele rolled her eyes. “Excuse me, are you Mr. Rosenbaum?”
The man didn’t respond; he didn’t look over. A large hand, though, pointed toward a plaque on his desk. It read Osman Rosenbaum. Though, perhaps calling it a desk was a stretch. It was more like a partition, or a sort of counter serving as a barrier between one side of the cottage and the other.
On one end, she spotted a glass cabinet filled with keys. On another, she spotted a rack with three metal shelves, each of them carrying a small bag filled with what looked like tent poles. She spotted sleeping bags and a small array of candy and trail mix, with the price tags displayed on a shelf on top of the desk.
A couple of fishing rods dangled over the back portion of the doorway, and a single red canoe, with a paddle attached to the wall, covered the entire right side of the cabin, next to the racks of tents.
Mr. Rosenbaum let out a whooping curse and shook his fist at the air, slamming his hand against the desk this time. “Dammit, fire him! Ref—what the hell!”
Adele cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Rosenbaum, I’m with Interpol. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
It was like she flipped a light switch. The owner of the campground swiveled in his seat, staring, his eyes bugged. His eyes seemed almost lidless, like a fish. They bulged in his head as he stared at them.
The TV, for the moment, was entirely forgotten. “Interpol?” he said. “You can speak to my lawyer. I’m calling him now.” He reached for a landline resting on the desk beneath the old, outdated TV. He began dialing, but Adele quickly said, “I’m not here about your business.”
Mr. Rosenbaum’s large hand hovered over the phone; he worked an eyebrow above a bulging eye. “What do you want?”
“I’m just here to ask about a, ah,” she cleared her throat, “Stinkeye. At least, that’s what the campers called him.”
Mr. Rosenbaum’s hand moved, only a few inches though, still hovering over the desk.
“He’s not welcome here; he’s never been welcome here. Whatever he did, I’m not complicit. Been on the phone to the police about him