Naked Prey, Part One

I’ve faced down vampires, zombies, demons, and giant mutant chickens. But I’d never felt as nervous as I did now.

Rachel slapped my bare butt. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Easy for you to say.” I scanned her up and down. At least no one would be looking at me with Rachel at my side.

She kissed my cheek. “You asked me here, remember?”

“Yeah.” I reached for her hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“Oh, it’ll be fun.” She pulled at the door. “Come on.”

* * *

Amelia Dixon had hired me the day before. “I don’t know what my husband is doing anymore.”

We sat in the kitchen of their Arlington Heights house, sipping coffee. “Lately he’s been going away every weekend. Friday to Sunday. He says it’s business. But I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Good coffee. “How can I help you?”

“Follow him.” She leaned forward across the table. In her fifties, she had long blond hair with black roots, and dark circles under her eyes. “I want to know who he’s meeting with. I don’t care if he’s having an affair. I’m more worried about . . .” She lifted a hand. “This place.”

She and her husband Walter Dixon lived in a suburban castle surrounded by other mansions. All it lacked was a moat, but the nine-foot tall wrought iron fence, complete with a speaker at the heavy front gate, fulfilled that role just as well.

“Walter’s in real estate, but I really don’t know much about his business. He’s got a company called DX Holdings. I’m just worried that he’s involved in a problem.” She poured me more coffee. “I’ve got my lawyer looking into it, but I really want to know what’s with all these weekend trips.”

I nodded. It sounded easy enough—though tailing cars for a long period of time can be tricky and exhausting. I’ve done it often enough as a private detective. But I had tools at home that could help.

“So.” She pulled out a checkbook. “Tom Jurgen?”

“That’s me.” I gave her my standard retainer amount, and she handed over a check.

This was Thursday. At 6 a.m. the next morning I was down the block from the house, watching for Dixon’s black SUV to leave through the gate. I’d driven home and back yesterday to give Amelia Dixon a tracking device to plant on the vehicle. It was tied to the GPS in my phone, so I wouldn’t have to keep Dixon in sight the whole time, wherever he went.

Part of being a P.I. is the fun electronic gear I get to use sometimes.

We headed out. Got on the highway. Got on another highway, then on the toll road to Indiana. The Friday morning rush hour was mostly going in the other direction, so even without the tracking device, I was able to keep Dixon’s SUV in sight almost the whole way. Eventually we were on I-65 in Indiana, where the traffic was light, and I could hang back, flicking between radio stations as the road rolled by.

After close to two hours and one rest stop—Dixon, not me—we reached our destination:

RIDGE HILLS SUN RESORT. I looked at the sign from the far side of the road.

Did that mean what I thought? I watched Walter Dixon’s car stop at the gate. He rolled down his window, flashed a card at the booth, and then pulled through as the gate opened.

I waited by the side of the road for half an hour, just in case Dixon decided he had the wrong address, or he was only here to drop off a package, or something like that.

In the meantime I looked up Ridge Hills on my phone.

Yeah. It was a nudist camp.

“Volleyball, swimming, hiking, fishing, and more!” the website promised. “Plan your visit today!”

After 45 minutes I started my Honda and headed for the nearest town. The app on my phone would alert me if Dixon’s SUV started moving again. In the meantime, I was hungry.

I found an exit and pulled into a diner. Inside, I used the restroom and then sat down to order waffles. And bacon. And coffee. I looked over the Ridge Hills website some more while I waited.

In addition to swimming, volleyball, and something called pickleball, the place offered horseback riding, dance lessons, stargazing walks, and movies under the stars. The circular pool looked huge, filled with bare, laughing bodies. The horses were tall, and the people mounted on them looked like they were having fun.

None of the photos showed anything . . . explicit. You could tell that people were nude, but there was nothing that would have gotten an R rating in a movie theater. A red banner across the “Rules” page advised “NO UNAUTHORIZED PHOTOS.”

I checked the rates and reservations. The daily rate was $62. A weekend membership was $400 for two people. It included a cabin, meals, and a complimentary fruit basket. A yearly membership was $2,000 for a permanently reserved cabin, meals included for the days spent there.

They had some openings for this weekend.

The waitress came with my waffles and filled up my coffee. “Anything else?”

I hid my phone. “Not right now.”

After a few bites, I called my client.
“A nudist camp?” She snorted. “Well, that’s not what I expected.”

“It looked like he had a membership. He showed them a card at the gate.”

She thought for a moment. “Can you go in and find out what he’s up to?”

“Maybe.” I hesitated. “I’d have to buy at least a day membership. If you want me to stay the weekend—assuming he’s staying there until Sunday—I’ll need to get a room. And it would be less suspicious if I had someone with me.”

“Go ahead. Get receipts. I’ve still got my own checking account.”

Great. “All right. I’ll be in touch.”

“Can you get pictures? If he’s banging some naked bimbo?”

“The rules frown on photography. I’ll see what I can do.”

“All right. Call me when you know anything.” She hung up.

I attacked my waffles. No crisis has ever made me lose my appetite. And although this wasn’t exactly a crisis, it sure wasn’t something they’d covered in the private eye manual I’d bought from the bargain table at Kroch’s and Brentano’s 20 years ago.

I paid and went back to my car, trying to think about how to sell this to Rachel.

Her phone buzzed once. Twice. “Hi, jerk.” It’s one of her pet names for me, along with “idiot” and “asshole.” I’d gotten used to it over the years. “Where are you?”

“Indiana. Hey, you wouldn’t want to come down for the weekend, would you?” I braced myself.

“Doing what?” She sounded suspicious.

“It’s a nudist colony. I tailed my client’s husband here. She wants to know—”

“Hah!” Rachel’s laugh almost split my eardrum. “I am so there! This should be good. Send me the address.”

            I thought I’d have to talk her into it. This was even more disturbing. “Okay. It’s a few hours. Bring me my toothbrush and my laptop. And a change of clothes.”

            “For a nudist camp?” She laughed again. “This is gonna be good.”

            We hung up. I texted her the address. Then I wondered what I was going to do in my car until she got here.

I pulled up to the gate, Rachel beside me. She’d parked her Prius in a lot at the next town.

            I rolled down my window. “Hi. We’d like two weekend passes?”

            The guard—dressed, thank god—checked a screen and nodded. “We’ve got some vacancies. Park up there and then go to the office.”

            I spotted Dixon’s SUV in the lot. We parked, Rachel grabbed her overnight bag from the back seat, and I locked the car.

            “Thanks for coming,” I said again.

            She punched me. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

            Rachel has red hair and wide hazelnut eyes. She’s my upstairs neighbor, kind of psychic, and also my girlfriend. I hadn’t really expected her to be so enthusiastic about this. I held her hand as we walked through the door into the office.

            A man stood up behind a reception desk. Dressed appropriately for a nudist camp. By which I mean, completely undressed. He was in his fifties, with a beard and a bit of a pot belly. “Welcome to Ridge Hills! I’m Perry. How can I help you?”

            “We . . .” I focused on his face. “We’re hoping to get a weekend membership.”

            “Sure thing.” He tapped at a computer. “We have a nice cabin available. Your names?”

            “Tom Jurgen. Rachel Dunn.”

            After a few minutes and a credit card transaction, I signed a sheet of paper and we got two temporary membership cards. Perry handed us room cards and a list of rules: No photography, no sexual conduct out in the open, absolutely no harassment of any kind, and carry a towel to sit on.

            He turned to find a chart of the resort on a desk behind him, and I noticed a square bandage on his bare back, three inches wide. “Ouch. What happened there?”

            “What? Oh, that.” He looked over his shoulder. “Scraped my butt on a fence. Stung like hell.” He laughed, then pointed out the resort’s feature—hiking, tennis and volleyball, swimming, horseback riding, and even croquet. “You’d be surprised, but lots of people like croquet.” He smiled. “Try it.”

            “Thanks.” I shoved the keys and membership cards in my pocket. Then I wondered how I’d carry them later without any clothes.

            We walked outside to look for our cabin.

            A man and a woman threw a Frisbee on a wide green lawn next to the office. Two men sat cross-legged on the grass, sharing a newspaper.

A slim woman walked by, listening to music on the phone strapped to her arm. She nodded to us, singing under her breath.

            All of them were nude. None of them were supermodels or porn stars, although the guys reading the newspapers were . . . fit. I saw Rachel checking them out as we passed. And the woman throwing the Frisbee looked as if she worked out more than her partner.

            Four elderly people sat at a table in front of a cabin playing cards. A young man lugged a 12-pack of beer under one arm, talking on his phone. Rachel checked him out too.

            Finally we found our cabin. Rachel tossed her bag on the bed. “Okay. We’re here. Now what?”

            I shrugged. “Now we go looking for my target.” I showed Rachel the photos Amelia Dixon had given me. “Memorize that face. It’s all we’ll have to go on.”

            She smirked. “This is going to be different.”

            “Yeah.” I kicked off my shoes.

            Rachel pulled off her shirt. “Try not to get too distracted out there.”