Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2)

by Jones, Jerusha

  Jim’s white utility pickup and small trailer blocked my drive. Two porta-potties in the trailer made the connection in my mind — the same Jim that Ford said would not be happy about picking up the damaged porta-potty at the museum. No wonder he was crabby. I found the tarp and bungee cords behind the passenger seat and handed them up to Jim.

  “Not the cords.” He tossed them back down.

  Jim wrestled with the tarp, flipping the edges off the front and both sides of the fifth-wheel’s high section. He clomped down the ladder and hooked bungee cords through the tarp’s grommets and attached them underneath the overhang. He emerged, huffing, and set his fists on his hips.

  “What I thought. Water leaked under the seal and lifted it when it froze last night. Gotta dry before I can fix it.”

  Jim was an Eeyore-faced man, narrow at the forehead and jowly about the chin. A yellow Caterpillar baseball hat rested on prominent ears.

  “But you can fix it?” I asked.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I want to apologize for the porta-potty accident at the Imogene a few days ago. I’m the museum curator.”

  Jim grunted.

  “Would you like some coffee? It was kind of you to come so early.”

  Jim patted his overall bib in the vicinity of his stomach. “Alright.”

  He followed me into the trailer and sat heavily on a dining chair. Tuppence ambled over to inspect. He stroked the dog’s head.

  I set a steaming mug in front of him. “Milk? Sugar?”

  Jim waved his hand and slurped the scalding liquid.

  “Bagel with cream cheese?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  I popped a split bagel in the toaster, leaned against the counter and tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t offend him. “Mac MacDougal recommended you.”

  More slurping.

  “He said you’re the best handyman around. You must have tons of experience. What are your specialties?”

  “This ‘n that. Appliance repair, remodeling, excavating, hauling — got the latrine servicing business on the side, and U-Haul rentals.”

  “Excavating?” I perked up. “We have several large statues that need to be installed on the museum’s grounds. Would you be interested?” I realized I hadn’t even seen the Wind in the Willows statues yet — they were still impounded in Terry’s damaged semi trailer. I hoped the crates and packing material protected them during the truck’s slide and near collision.

  “Ground’s saturated. I’ll take a look.”

  “I’d really appreciate that.” I slid a plate onto the table.

  Jim crammed a huge bite of bagel in his mouth. He stood and stomped up the steps to my bedroom. I cringed and tried to remember if there was anything personal lying about.

  “Carpet’s gotta come out.”

  I followed him up the stairs.

  Jim was already kneeling in a corner, pulling the carpet off the tack strips. He jerked a large section up, creating a miniature tidal wave toward the stairs.

  “Hang on — hang on.” I dashed for the kitchen and my roasting pan. I shoved the pan under the lip of the top step. “Okay. Ready.” I wadded towels around the pan.

  Jim had the carpet and pad out and rolled up in his pickup’s bed in fifteen minutes. He hauled in two heavy-duty fans and set them in the corners of the bedroom.

  “Be back in a couple days,” he shouted over the din. “What color?” He pointed to the floor.

  Everything in the RV is a shade of brown with wood stain. A mechanical engineer’s idea of decorating, meant to hide wear and tear from road travel. “Uh, a neutral? Tan, beige — something like that.”

  Jim scooped up the remaining bagel and left, letting the door bang.

  I shook my head. Not the friendliest fellow, but I couldn’t complain about his response time. What a mess.

  I dragged a bath towel across the kitchen floor to mop up the water trail left by the soggy carpet. Tuppence nosed around and got in the way.

  “Should we live in a regular place, Tupp? Would you like that better? We could live in Gloria’s new apartment once Ham’s gone.”

  The dog did a full-body shake, her long ears slapping under her chin and over her head.

  I waited until she finished. “Are you sure?”

  Tuppence snorted.

  “I guess we both need our freedom, huh?”

  o0o

  When I arrived at the museum, Lindsay flagged me down with a sheaf of papers. “Could you look over my application? And write a reference for me?”

  I veered into the gift shop. “So you’re ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” Lindsay sighed. “If a college application is this hard, what are classes going to be like?”

  “It feels like a test, doesn’t it?” I laughed. “But you’re going to do just fine. I know it.”

  Lindsay flipped her blond hair behind her shoulder. “I’m hoping to finalize the essay this weekend and submit the whole thing on Monday. The reference needs to arrive by December 1st.”

  “No problem. Who are your other references?”

  “Greg said he’d write one, and I thought I’d ask Sheriff Marge.”

  “Having the county sheriff as a reference will look good.”

  “I hope she writes more than ‘haven’t had to arrest her yet.’”

  I chuckled. “Nah, your letters are going to be effusively positive. I’ll give you a copy of mine.” I climbed the stairs.

  I stopped in mid-stride at my office door, pivoted and tiptoed back down one flight of stairs to the chamber pot display room. Looking quickly both directions, I entered and nudged the door closed behind me. I slipped into the bathroom, peeked in the toilet tank, counted, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  I had forgotten to ask Lindsay if there were any visitors in the museum. Anxious that one or several might appear any moment, I hurried back to my third-floor sanctuary and slid into the lumpy, leather-covered chair. Whew.

  It took a while for my heartbeat to stop pounding in my ears. The sooner the gold was someplace safe, the better. But Sheriff Marge had a lot going on, so I decided to give her some time before I called to nag her — like maybe ten minutes.

  I spread out the pages of Lindsay’s application. It was surprisingly well done. Lindsay is a little ditsy sometimes, but she’d put a lot of thought into her answers. Good job, kiddo. I grinned. After all my careful prodding, it was satisfying to see Lindsay develop a goal and really go after it. The fledgling was going to leave the nest, provided she was accepted at Washington State.

  I typed an honest letter extolling Lindsay’s virtues. I mentioned reliability, work ethic and unflagging cheerfulness. And the fact that Lindsay was a football encyclopedia with a knack for explaining the game to the uninitiated in clear and simple terms. In other words, she’d make a great sports broadcaster or coach. Plus, she was cheerleader cute, but I didn’t step outside politically correct bounds in my note. The sports management program chair would find that out when Lindsay went for preview weekend.

  I skimmed for typos, then hit print. The ancient printer started into its ten-minute warm-up exercises. Maybe Rupert would buy me a new printer if I put it on my Christmas list. But if I had to decide between a new printer and whatever Rupert was scrounging at the Les Puces flea market, I’d take the flea market find any day.

  Someone rapped on the doorframe.

  I spun around. “Hi. I was just thinking about you.”

  Sheriff Marge skirted a filing cabinet and leaned against a bookshelf, arms folded across her midsection. I thought she might be offended if I offered her the only chair in the room — the one I was sitting on — so I stayed put.

  “How was your Thanksgiving?”

  “Hectic. Archie told me you stopped by the jail and brought food for everyone. Thanks for doing that.”

  “Glad to. So is Val getting released?”

  “Yep. Already done — first thing this morning.” Sheriff Marge shook
her head. “When you have two domestics in one day — one ending in a suicide and the other involving a repentant hurler of soup cans, well then your perspective changes. Your friend Ham had a chat with the PA — one prosecuting attorney to another, and they agreed.”

  “He’s not my friend. What about damages?”

  “He’s paying for everything. Even spent yesterday helping Gloria clean up. That sure smoothed things over.”

  “He is smooth.” I pressed my lips together.

  “Uh-huh.” Sheriff Marge sighed. “Now about our other situation.” She reached out and pushed the door shut. “Got calls back from a couple interested agencies this morning. Treasury and the FBI. They don’t agree with each other about whose domain this problem might fall under. They’re both sending an agent, but with the holiday and their incredibly heavy workloads—” Sheriff Marge sniffed, “—it’ll be a day or two before they get here.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Uh-huh. Have you tried contacting the gallery the crate was addressed to?”

  “No. Was I supposed to?”

  Sheriff Marge shrugged. “No, but I’m curious.”

  I pulled over my copies of Terry’s bills of lading and picked up my cell phone.

  Sheriff Marge tapped my arm. “Use the museum line. Let’s keep it a call from one art institution to another.”

  I found the Rittenour Gallery’s phone number on Terry’s paperwork and dialed. I hit the speaker button, and we both listened to the buzzing tone.

  A woman answered after the sixth ring. “Crosley & Associates. How may I help you?”

  “O-oh.” I said. “I thought I was calling the Rittenour Gallery.”

  “No gallery. Just a bunch of bean-counters.” The woman laughed. “The office is closed for the holiday, but I have a ton of stuff to catch up on, so here I am. Answered the phone out of habit. We get lots of calls for an aquarium supply company. I guess they had our number before we did. We do have a Rittenour here — Earl Rittenour — one of the CPAs, but no gallery. What number did you dial?”

  I took a breath — because the woman didn’t seem to — and read the phone number off the bill of lading.

  “That’s our number all right. I bet you want to talk to Earl. He collects art — if you can call it that. Horrible little wood carvings from Africa. They’re just grotesque, but he seems to like them. I wonder if he’s thinking of starting a gallery? I bet Mona doesn’t know. She’s the bossiest, clingiest wife I’ve ever met. That’s probably why he had you call here. Just a minute — I think—” The woman’s voice faded. Then she was back. “Here it is. He’s on vacation for a few days, and I don’t want to give you his home phone number just in case he’s hiding something from Mona — that would be terrible, wouldn’t it? So here’s his cell phone number. Ready, hon?”

  I gulped and grabbed a pen. “Yep.”

  I scribbled Earl’s personal number on the bill of lading. “Thanks so much.”

  “Any time. You have a great day. And remember Crosley & Associates for all your accounting needs.”

  Sheriff Marge and I enjoyed a few moments of silence.

  “Whew,” Sheriff Marge finally said. “If only it was always so easy.”

  “Call his cell phone?” I asked.

  “Might as well. Let’s hope Mona doesn’t answer.”

  No one answered.

  After the generic voice mail instructions and beep, I said, “Uh, hi. This is Meredith Morehouse from the Imogene Museum in Platts Landing, Washington. There was a little mix-up in a delivery on Wednesday, and we ended up with a crate addressed to you — or, uh, to the Rittenour Gallery, I guess. Anyway, the secretary at your office gave me this number. I was wondering if you’d like to make arrangements—” I lifted my eyebrows at Sheriff Marge, who circled her finger in the air. Keep going, keep going. “Uh — to pick up the crate, or let me know what you want done with it. Thanks.” I recited the museum’s phone number and hung up.

  “Sheesh. Trying to tell the truth, but not the whole truth, is hard.” I exhaled. “Did I sound too phony?”

  “Good enough. We’ll see what happens.”

  “What about the, uh — the contents of the crate?”

  “You have them squirreled away?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s leave them where they are for now. I’m sure the feds will have an opinion about what to do. In the meantime, the fewer people who know about them, the better.”

  CHAPTER 9

  After Sheriff Marge left, I began a landscape plan for the children’s garden. I wanted it placed in the sloping lawn between the museum and the river where the view was spectacular. Several large shade trees dotting the area would give picnickers options.

  I cut out five small bits of paper, labeled them Mole, Ratty, Toad, Badger and Otter and pushed them into different configurations. Having an odd number was good, but who should go in the middle? Toad, of course. Or maybe placing them in a circle would be better. But wouldn’t they all want to see the river? A semicircle. Ah-ha. It would be so fun to add props — a rowboat with a luncheon basket tucked under the seat, a horse and cart, an old jalopy for the motorcar — but I was getting carried away.

  Maybe it’d be better to forgo formal landscaping and instead encourage native wildflowers to fill in around the statues — camas lilies, lupine, pink phlox, yellow arrow-leaf balsamroot, asters. I made a list. Someone from the Washington Native Plant Society could give me more ideas.

  “Do you always work so hard?”

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing. Ham. I should have told Lindsay to bar him from the museum, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he would return.

  “I just wanted to apologize for that little misunderstanding the other night.” Ham sat on the edge of my desk and reached for my hand.

  I tucked my hands into my lap, under the desk, and frowned at him. His right eye was surrounded by deep purple shadow.

  He looked around. “Hey, you got rid of those horrible wood statues. I’m glad. Those things gave me the willies.”

  My eyes widened — I had to change the subject, fast. “I heard you convinced the PA to drop the charges against Val, and you helped Gloria clean up the store. That was nice of you. Thanks.”

  Ham shrugged. “Least I could do. It was partly my fault. I should have been more clear about my plans with Val.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He leaned toward me. “About my plans to propose to you. You will, won’t you? Marry me? You know we’re great together.” He slid closer.

  I pushed with my foot, and my chair rolled back, bumping to a stop against a box of Native American stone fishing weights. “No.”

  I almost cheered. I’d said it! Clearly, distinctly and unequivocally. Ham no longer held me tongue-tied.

  “Meredith, I know my record’s not flawless. I’ve made mistakes. But I’m going to show you that I’ve changed. I’m a new man, compassionate and sensitive.”

  “You’re running for office.”

  “Yes!” Ham’s crooked grin widened. “Fundraising banquets, press conferences — we’ll make a great team. And once I’m on the bench, I’ll be invited to lecture at law schools, and you can go with me. Your background in the management of a cultural institution will be very impressive. Maybe they’d let you lecture too — for arts programs or something.”

  “You pretty much have to reach the Supreme Court level before anyone’s interested in listening to lectures.”

  Ham waved dismissively. “I’ll get there.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No. I’m the right age to start this process. Experienced and mature, but still early in my career. I have a real shot at it.”

  I snorted.

  A look of consternation crossed Ham’s face, and he opened his mouth. The ringing phone cut off whatever he was going to say.

  I scooted my chair to the desk and answered. “Hello?”

  “Jim Carter’s here,” Lindsay said. “And he
wants to know where you want the holes.” There was a scratchy sound, and then Lindsay asked in a muffled voice, “What’s that mean?”

  “He’s going to install the new statues — outside.”

  “Oh, good. The way he said it, I thought he brought a wrecking ball and was ready to start swinging it.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  God bless Jim Carter and his impeccable timing.

  I stood. “The answer’s no. It will always be no. I realize this is difficult for you to comprehend, but I can assure you I will never change my mind. Go away — shoo.” I made flapping motions toward the door.

  Ham flushed. Little beads of sweat popped out on his temples. “You need to hear me out.”

  “No.” I wheeled and strode out of my office, leaving Ham and his thick skull behind.

  Jim stood in the gift shop entrance, hands stuffed in his pockets, elbows protruding and feet spread wide. I peered around him, at Lindsay who shrugged an ‘I didn’t know what to do with him’ motion, palms up.

  “Let’s go outside.” I tucked a hand inside his elbow and led him along the muddy footprint trail he’d deposited on his way in.

  A small rusty dump truck pulling a trailer with an even smaller, rustier backhoe on it sprawled lengthwise across several parking spots, blocking in Ham’s shiny red Corvette.

  “Oh. First thing — you need to move your truck so that car can leave,” I said.

  Put a dent or two in it for my sake, I thought, but held my tongue.

  Jim moved his truck and rejoined me on the lawn, shovel in hand. We strolled toward an Oregon white oak. Since it wasn’t crowded by other trees, the branches arched in a perfect dome close to sixty feet across.

  “I don’t want the digging to interfere with any root systems, so can the statues go on the south edge of this tree? In a semicircle, facing the river?”

  Jim checked the oak’s canopy, took fifty paces out from the drip line and stabbed his shovel in the ground. “Tree’s not full height yet. Here?”

  I moved beside him and looked out over the river. Sunlight found a few gaps in the clouds and sparkled on the choppy gray surface. Rolling, green velvet hills flanked the Oregon side, dwarfing a mile-long train that looked like a toy chugging east on tracks just above the waterline. “Perfect.”