Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2)

by Jones, Jerusha

“It means, fortunately, we didn’t have to shoot him. In the end, he did it himself.”

  I wanted to fling my arms around Sheriff Marge and squeeze. No wonder she seemed zapped of her usual vitality. She must live with a load of heartache for the people she protects. But she’s not the type of woman you hug.

  “And his wife?”

  “Hysterical. But she’ll get over it. Doesn’t take long to figure out life is better when you’re not married to a man like that.” Sheriff Marge rubbed her forehead. “Back to the matter at hand, I’m arresting Ms. Brown for assault and battery and destruction of property. Mr. Wexler is free to go and seek medical attention if he wants. I had to cuff them both since I’m dealing with this incident by myself and couldn’t trust them to leave each other alone.” She sighed. “I hate domestic disturbances.”

  “Would you like to come for Thanksgiving dinner?” Pete asked.

  My heart swelled at his thoughtfulness, although I thought his timing could have been a little better. Sheriff Marge is a widow, and her grown sons are scattered across the country — too far away to come for weekend holidays.

  “That’s kind of you. But I think I’ll be doing paperwork tomorrow.” Sheriff Marge shrugged and turned toward her prisoner.

  o0o

  The next day, Tuppence and I strolled around the campground while the yams baked. I assumed Pete’s oven would be full, so I wanted to have all my assigned dishes ready to serve when I arrived. And it didn’t hurt to get in a little exercise before the big meal.

  Dark clouds hung low, their bottoms dropping away in filmy mist layers. I shivered and hunched into my coat. Usually thick clouds offered protection from extreme temperatures, but it was bitingly cold. The weather was about to change, for the worse.

  Tuppence felt it too. She sniffed with her nose high in the air and stuck close to my leg.

  I caught a whiff of smoke — campfire smoke. A thin plume rose above the Russian olive grove where the unimproved tent sites are. Tenting in winter in the Columbia Gorge meant the camper was either a diehard with all the necessary equipment or dangerously ignorant.

  I strode through the wet grass with Tuppence on my heels. Spots of pale blue and old lumber appeared between the olive trees’ low branches. I squinted and sped up.

  “Haloo,” I called before pushing through the brush into the clearing. I didn’t want to startle the occupant.

  He leapt out of his lawn chair anyway and crouched slightly. His right hand slid inside the open front of his down vest, his lips pressed into a tight line.

  I held out my empty hands instinctively. My heart thumped fast. The driver of the Datsun pickup who had tailgated me on the way to the hospital. Was it coincidence to encounter him twice in as many days?

  “Sorry to startle you. There just aren’t that many campers here in November, so I thought I’d say hi.”

  The man glared at me, but slowly straightened.

  “I’m Meredith and I live here year-round.” I was about to introduce Tuppence when I noticed she had made a circle around the campsite and stretched in from behind the man to sniff his pant leg. I shifted my gaze quickly back to the man’s face. He seemed the type who might give an inquisitive dog a swift kick. “Are you visiting friends or family in the area?”

  “Looking for work,” the man grunted. “Wind farm.”

  “Oh yeah. I've heard it’s hard work — lots of climbing towers while hauling heavy parts.” Probably not the right thing to say, but it was too late to retreat. I could play a ditsy female if I needed to. He didn’t have a tent set up. “Do you have a way to heat that?” I pointed to the plywood canopy over the pickup’s bed.

  “I’ll be fine.” He scratched his chest and pulled his hand back out of his vest. He looked like any other laborer — plaid shirt under the vest, jeans, boots. The baseball cap shadowed his face. I could only tell that he was swarthy, with dark eyes like holes and a small nose — what you’d call a button nose on a kid, but it wasn’t cute on this guy.

  Tuppence moved on to inspect the Datsun’s rear tires. The man didn’t seem to have any camping equipment other than the lawn chair — unless he hadn’t unpacked yet.

  “Good luck with your job search.” I forced a cheery smile.

  He shrugged.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

  “Ferris.”

  First name or last name? I didn’t dare ask. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  I hightailed out of the clearing, willing Tuppence to come without being called. The hound caught up to me within a few yards.

  “Does he make you nervous, too?” I asked in a low voice.

  Tuppence snorted.

  I knelt outside my RV and tousled Tuppence’s ears. “Want to come to Thanksgiving dinner with me? I don’t think Pete’ll mind. Anyway, he’d better not.”

  o0o

  Tuppence and I walked down the slippery dock to Pete’s tug. It was tied in one of the wide berths at the Port of Platts Landing and exhibited the only signs of life in the vicinity. Golden light from its windows reflected on the wet planks. Everything else was a shade of gray in the early dusk created by the overhanging cloud layer.

  Pete opened the door, took my heavy basket, and held my hand as I stepped over the high threshold. Tuppence clambered after me and followed her nose directly to Pastor Mort Levine’s ankles. He bent to scratch the dog’s back.

  “I hope it’s okay that I brought Tuppence,” I said.

  “She’s as welcome as you are.” Pete’s crinkle-cornered blue eyes just about did me in.

  Sally Levine greeted me with a quick hug. “Smells delicious. What’d you bring?”

  “Yams, salad, pecan pie.” I sniffed appreciatively. “I was going to say the same, though. Have you been cooking all afternoon?”

  “No. Yes.” Sally and Mort said in unison.

  “Well, it doesn’t feel like it,” Sally explained. “Pete did the big stuff — the turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes.”

  “Where are your kids?” I asked, looking around.

  “The youth group had a chance to help feed the homeless in Portland today,” Mort said. “They were excited to go, and it’ll be a good experience for them.”

  “You ready to answer their questions when they get back?”

  “I’m old enough to know I don’t have all the answers.” Mort chuckled. “And I think my kids have figured that out too.”

  I settled on a built-in bench across the table from Mort and watched Pete and Sally work around each other in the tiny galley. The appliances and fixtures were strictly utilitarian and compact, but it also looked as though Pete had everything he needed. It was a couple steps up from a typical bachelor pad. Probably on par with my trailer, if I wanted to be honest. And cozy.

  “Where’s your crew, Pete?” I asked.

  “Carlos and Al hitched a ride with a cousin to their mom’s place in Twin Falls. Bert’s sister lives in Vancouver, so I dropped him off there Tuesday night.”

  “You can run the tug with only three?”

  “We didn’t have a load, so, yeah. Both Carlos and Al can man the engine room. We’re pushing a barge of earth-moving equipment up to Boardman this weekend, so the guys’ll all be back onboard early tomorrow.”

  “What’s the craziest cargo you’ve ever hauled?” Mort asked.

  Pete laughed. “Probably the 1250 head of bison a Montana rancher was moving to Eastern Oregon. They had them loaded in pens on the barge, but the pens were too big which allowed the weight to shift too much. I white-knuckled the whole trip. It was my first live animal load. Now I insist on approving the holding pen size and placement before we leave the dock, regardless of whose barge it is.” He shook his head. “I can’t afford to lose a load, even if it was someone else’s mistake.”

  “You must meet all kinds of interesting people,” Sally said.

  “Oh yeah — mostly real nice folks, but there’ve been a couple nut cases, too. I still worry about the guy who bought the parts
to make three wind turbines. Had a chat with him when I delivered them — he said he wanted to live off the grid, but he also spent quite a lot of time ranting against the government. Those things’ll produce way more power than you need for a household or farm — definitely overkill for one guy and his family. I talked to the U.S. Marshall’s office just to make sure he was on somebody’s radar. They said they were already keeping an eye on him.”

  “If you had one of those turbines, you could probably run a massive year-round marijuana grow without anyone noticing — if your power use is off the grid,” I said. “Wow. Think how much harm a person could do if they had their own large energy source.”

  “I still feel bad,” Pete said, “about reporting him to the authorities.”

  “Sounds like you did the right thing,” Mort said. “You had good reason to be concerned.”

  We crammed together in the dining nook, bumping elbows as we passed mountains of food and heaped our plates.

  “This is worth praying over,” Mort said as he squeezed Sally’s hand. “Lord, again, as always, your grace abounds. Let us never forget to seek you first, above all else. Thank you for this excellent company. Amen.”

  I love Mort’s prayers, as though he’s talking with a good friend — the kind of friend who is comfortable with silences — relaxed and honest.

  I ate slowly and listened to the conversation eddy and bubble with laughter. Pete’s shoulder pressed into mine. I glanced at his chronic three-day stubble. He’d be kind of scratchy to kiss. Maybe I wouldn’t mind.

  “Did you hear about the excitement at Junction General yesterday?” Sally asked.

  My stomach plunged. The thought of Ham ruined my appetite.

  Pete’s warm hand rested on my knee. My fork slipped and clattered on my plate.

  “A domestic disturbance,” he said. “A couple of out-of-towners.”

  “What a pity,” Sally replied. “I heard there was quite a mess.” She looked at Mort. “The store was closed today. Do you think—?”

  “Yes,” Mort said. “Let’s go in the morning and see if Gloria needs help.”

  “Who’s ready for dessert?” Pete asked. He rose to fetch the pies.

  I exhaled. Considering how fast both truth and rumor spread through Platts Landing, I was grateful word of the semi truck break-in hadn’t made it to Mort and Sally. I didn’t feel prepared to fend off questions about the stolen goods and what might or might not have been inside the crates — or inside a toilet tank in the museum.

  Mort checked his watch. “I always have time for dessert. But I’m a little worried about the storm coming in tonight. I hope the kids get home ahead of it.”

  “Storm?” I asked.

  “They’re predicting freezing rain, or sleet — what is the proper term? And high winds.” Sally handed me a plate with slivers of pecan, apple and pumpkin pies on it. “Figured you’d want a sampler.”

  “You got that right.” I grinned.

  “Sleet falls in pellet form, sort of like hail,” Pete said. “Freezing rain is liquid that freezes on contact, and it’s the worst. Working the tug is treacherous in freezing rain. I hope it clears by morning.” He nudged me and pointed at the huge slice of pie on his plate. “Pecan is my all-time favorite.”

  “Really? Well, there’s plenty more where that came from.” I flushed. That might have come out the wrong way. When I caught Sally give Mort a little side-long smile, I knew for sure. Uh-oh. Good thing Pete’s mouth was full, or he might have compounded my embarrassment.

  “You know, sweetie, I hate to rush, but maybe we should head home,” Mort said, “so we’re there when the kids arrive.”

  Sally patted his shoulder. “I’ll just pack up some of this food for Pete.”

  I stayed on my bench, out of the way, since the galley was already a tight squeeze with three moving bodies. Sally heaped leftovers into containers and stacked dishes in the small sink.

  “I’ll help clean up,” I called, “so you two can get going. Thanks so much for all the yummy food.”

  “You make sure to take some of this home, too, Meredith,” Sally said in her kindergarten teacher voice.

  Mort helped Sally into her coat and hoisted their cooler. “Weighs as much as when we came.”

  “Oh, it does not.” Sally gave him a playful smack. “’Night, all.”

  A blast of frigid air from the open door raised goose bumps on my arms. I scooted out of my seat and stood next to Pete to wave goodbye to the Levines. I shivered, and he put an arm around me.

  “Boy, I bet the temperature’s dropped ten degrees in the last couple hours,” he said.

  We stepped back, and he closed the door. “You should leave soon, too. There are extra bunks since the crew’s not onboard, but, uh — well, it wouldn’t—”

  “No. Of course not,” I said. “This town already has enough to talk about.”

  I hurried to the sink and turned on the tap. “I did want to take a couple plates to the jail. I feel sorry for Val — being locked up on Thanksgiving, and a Lean Cuisine frozen dinner just can’t compare to a real home-cooked meal.”

  I wanted a plate for Terry too, but didn’t want to open that subject with Pete. “Sheriff Marge or a deputy are bound to be around as well, so I thought I’d take extra.” I looked at Pete over my shoulder. “If you don’t mind?” I plunged my hands into the hot, soapy water.

  “Sally left enough to feed an army.” Pete came up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. He spoke quietly. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m kicking you out, but I want you to leave right away. The roads are going to be slippery, and since you’re driving to Lupine and back — can you call me when you get home? I need to know you’re safe.”

  I turned to him, hands dripping, and studied his face. His sapphire blue eyes were serious. He handed me a dish towel.

  “Actually, how about if I come with you?” he said.

  What could I say? He’d want to know who Terry was, and I might spill the beans about the gold in the statues. So many bits of research information were swirling around in my head, I was afraid something might pop out at the wrong time. I hated not being able to tell him.

  I glanced down, but Pete was standing so close, all I could see was his shirt front. I was suddenly very warm. “I — I was kind of hoping to have a conversation with Val, um — you know — I just—” I took a deep breath. “I know how hard it is when you find out someone you trusted isn’t trustworthy, and I thought maybe she’d need to talk about it. I don’t know if she’ll want to see me, but I thought I’d try.”

  Pete tipped my chin up. The crinkle-corners were back. “Then let’s get you on the road.”

  We quickly filled plates and wrapped them.

  Pete went first, carrying my basket and truck keys. I followed, gripping the ramp railing with my bare hand as a smattering of rain flew at a forty-five degree angle. I patted my coat pocket. No lump. My gloves were on the top shelf of the closet at home. Tuppence trotted, head down and ears flapping, straight for the open truck door and jumped onto the seat. Pete hurried around to the driver’s side and helped me in.

  “Call me when you get home, no matter how late it is,” he said as a wind gust flipped up his coat collar. “You can always spend the night at the jail if you need to.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious.” He shut my door.

  CHAPTER 7

  On the open highway, gusts buffeted the truck, but very little rain dotted the windshield. I gripped the steering wheel and pressed on the accelerator. The Columbia River Gorge is like a funnel for the large basin east of the Cascades. Cold air rushing through the channel brings several severe storms each winter. Exciting and potentially dangerous.

  I was worried about talking to Val. I’d been so angry at Ham’s duplicity when I’d first discovered it that I’d fled. His mother, Arlene, had helped me pack. She was the only one who’d supported my decision, who’d understood. My mother and step-father told me it wasn’t a big
deal, that these things happen and I should just learn to live with them. At least Arlene admitted to her son’s faults even as she fervently hoped he’d outgrow them.

  But Val had seemed desperate to hang on to Ham. Maybe if she knew what he really was, she wouldn’t feel so betrayed. I jerked the steering wheel against a blast of wind. Poor kid. It was worth a try.

  I figured Sheriff Marge would forgive me if I sped a little, and I raced into Lupine twenty-five minutes later. It felt deserted. Even the tavern parking lots were empty. Yellow light emanated from most houses’ kitchen windows and blue glows shone from the living room windows — televised football games in full swing.

  I pulled into the courthouse parking lot next to a deputy’s cruiser and rolled my window down half an inch, giving Tuppence a tiny crack for fresh air.

  I pushed the intercom buzzer on the secure side door used as the jail entrance and smiled up at the video camera.

  Deputy Archie Lanphier’s scratchy voice came over the speaker. “Hey, Meredith. Is that a picnic basket?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then I guess I’ll let you in.”

  The lock clicked, and I pulled open the door. Down the dingy sloped hallway, the air grew cooler and mustier with each step. The jail was in the basement, and it stank of moldy carpet and fresh paint. I waved at the second camera, and the next door clicked open.

  Archie pulled his feet off the desk, stood and hitched up his gun belt and pants in one motion. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I was hoping to visit your prisoners — well, your prisoner and your guest. I brought them some home-cooking.” I set the basket on the desk and lifted out the loaded plates. “I have an extra plate for you, too. I’m sorry you drew dungeon duty today.”

  “It’s not so bad. We’re splitting half-shifts. Dale took the morning stint, and Owen Hobart covered this afternoon. So I’ve already had my big meal and caught the end of the Steelers’ game.” He inspected a plate. “These dill potato rolls look like they have Sally Levine’s fingerprints on them.”

  “Wow, you’re good.”