Jim pulled a couple flag markers out of his bib pocket and poked the wires into the ground. “I’ll dig a semicircle then lay a good foundation before placing the statues. Gonna make a mess of the grass, but I’ll reseed.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Statues?”
“In the semi trailer.” I pointed.
Jim started walking, and I trotted to catch up.
The trailer’s sides rippled and bulged in spots, as though the cargo had been sloshed back and forth. Chunks of the open rear door hung from the roll-up mechanism — the thieves’ handiwork exacerbated by the near-collision.
Jim climbed in and sized up a crate. He tried to lift a corner, grunting, but couldn’t budge it.
“Don’t have a loading dock, do you?”
“At the museum? No. It was built in 1902 as a private residence, so no loading dock.”
Jim lifted his hat, scratched and resettled the hat. “We’ll need Verle’s tow truck.”
“You sure?”
Jim heaved a sigh.
“Right. Okay. Should I unpack the statues so they’re not as heavy?”
“Nope. Don’t want to break them. Easier to put straps around the crates.”
“When can you start?”
“Now.” He squatted at the edge of the trailer and swung his feet to the ground.
I fell into step beside him on the trek across the parking lot.
“My wife left me a few years ago,” Jim said.
My breath caught, but I kept looking straight ahead. Did he want me to say something? What?
“I guess I’m not that exciting. She always wanted to go do stuff, and there’s not much to do around here. You seem like the type who’s content to stay home.”
I am the type who prefers to stay home. One of the many reasons Ham’s offer was so unappealing. But should I admit it? What was Jim driving at? My stomach twinged nervously.
“I, uh — I was wondering.” Jim took off his hat and scratched again. “Uh, sometimes I drive up in the hills to pump latrines at wind farm construction sites. It’s a real pretty drive. Maybe, uh, you’d like to go with me sometime.”
Shoot. It probably was a gorgeous drive. Shoot. “Uh,” I said. “Can I think about it? The museum keeps me pretty busy.”
“Yep.” Jim put his hat back on. “Let me know. I go out regular.”
We’d reached his dump truck and trailer. He unhooked the chains securing the backhoe, clanked down the ramps and climbed into the backhoe’s cab. The engine rattled to life, coughing gritty black smoke out the exhaust pipe. Jim looked over his shoulder and started inching the machine backward. I decided it was time to get out of the way.
I replayed our conversation while trudging upstairs to my office. Should I have done something differently, said something else? Did I lead him on? I’d only met him this morning. Of course, he’d already been in my bedroom. Good grief.
I’m always surprised by these displays of male interest. Am I missing clues somewhere along the way or do they truly come out of the blue? It could be the men are just lonely — really lonely. Jim was right about there not being much to do out here — unless you are a die-hard fan of hunting, fishing, hiking or windsurfing. And even those have seasons — times of year when prudence or the law dictate abstinence.
I settled into my chair, happy to be alone with my thoughts — happy to be alone at all. Ham was gone — his car was not in the parking lot when Jim and I returned from examining the statue crates. I soon became absorbed in documenting items.
Rupert, at the board of directors’ behest, has been scouting for years to build up a museum-worthy collection. His tastes are a little eccentric, but the museum now has a native animal taxidermy collection, a sizable group of Victorian ball gowns with accessories, a farming implements display, a chamber pots through history timeline exhibit, and a meager assortment of Native American artifacts. There are tons more items that have not yet been documented or grouped into coherent displays — that’s my job. I’ve managed, in my two years as curator, to photograph maybe twenty percent of the undocumented items so far.
I opened a folder of digital photos — a series of unmarked Limoges snuff boxes — and assigned ID numbers and typed descriptions into the record. I sighed. There was so much to research. If I put the boxes on display now, their placards would read ‘Limoges snuff box. Date unknown. Manufacturer unknown.’ I could write a display description about their general history, manufacturing techniques, and what other purposes the little boxes were used for, but that was it.
Maybe someday — if I catalog faster than Rupert buys — someday I’ll catch up with him. I shook my head and grinned. Rupert is my godsend — giving me a job when I most needed one. And, on top of that, giving me a job I love more than I ever dreamed. When I left my hectic management position at Nike, I had no idea what museum curators did or that it was even a legitimate occupation.
And Ham wanted me to go back — back to the insane world where people who claimed to be your friends competed with you, climbed over you, in pursuit of more prestigious jobs and more impressive stuff. Or more prestigious and impressive spouses, as the case may be. Yuck.
Nope. Never, never, never again. I’d stay right here in Platts Landing, where I got asked out by the porta-potty man.
Speaking of which — I hurried to the window. The lawn past the white oak was scalped. A neat semicircle trench had been dug in the middle of the scarred area.
It reminded me of the last deep hole I’d seen — at the family cemetery on Julian’s ranch — for his son, Bard. I frowned. I should go check on Julian, see how he was holding up.
Jim was hosing off the backhoe bucket.
I shut down the laptop, grabbed my coat and purse and dashed downstairs.
“See you later.” I waved when Lindsay turned from restocking the custom printed coffee mugs in the gift shop.
I picked careful steps across the shredded lawn and met Jim halfway as he wound up the hose.
“Wow, you’re fast.”
He shrugged. “This slope has good drainage. Gravel’ll be here in the morning.”
“Gravel?”
“To keep the statues from settling. We’ll pour the concrete bases on top of the gravel.”
“Oh. Right. So you work Saturdays?”
“I work when there’s work to do.”
“Well, thanks. I’m pretty excited about these statues. It’ll be great to see them in place.”
“What’re they?”
“The statues? They’re characters from the children’s book Wind in the Willows. There should be a rat, a mole, a toad, a badger, and an otter.”
Jim’s eyebrows pulled together. “Rodents.”
“But they’re cute, and they talk. Well, at least in the book they do.”
“Huh. Learn something new every day.”
“So I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Yep. 7:30.”
I wrinkled my nose. I didn’t want to miss the excitement of a gravel truck, but 7:30 a.m. on a Saturday? Oh well, I’d probably be awake anyway since I’d be sleeping on a couch in the same room as a snoring dog.
I drove to Mac’s Sidetrack Tavern — a brick red building — a box really, with antennas and satellite dishes all over the flat roof. Mac had a healthy business, mainly because he guaranteed every NFL and college football game could be seen on one of his big screens.
Friday night and the parking lot was half full. In another hour, it would be packed and dirty pickups raised on knobby tires would be parked along the edges of the road outside the entrance as well. I better hurry so I wouldn’t take Mac away from his duties at his peak time.
I tucked my purse under my arm, skirted a couple puddles in the gravel parking lot and pulled open the heavy wood door. Blinking while my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I strolled toward the bar. Mac, knit cap on his head and towel flung over his shoulder, was slicing something behind the counter.
I leaned over to peek and sni
ffed appreciatively — lemons.
“Hi, Meredith. Arnold Palmer?” Mac asked.
“Hi, Missus Morehouse,” Ford called loudly.
Several men straddled stools along the bar, but I spotted Ford at the far end. He grinned and sucked on a straw in a Dr. Pepper can. I waved, then squinted. Next to Ford sat Ferris, the driver of the blue Datsun pickup who I’d seen at the hospital and in the campground. He nodded curtly. I gave a tight smile and turned to Mac.
“Nothing for me, thanks. I just came to see your new display case prototype, but it looks like you’re busy already. Have you talked to that man sitting next to Ford?”
“A little. I can spare a few minutes. You want to come back to the shop?”
“You sure?”
“Yep.” Mac signaled a waitress to come take his place and lifted the hinged counter for me to pass through. “Jim taking care of your leak problem?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Mac led me into a back room piled high with kegs and boxes then down a short corridor to the rear exit. A few steps across an alley stood Mac’s pole barn workshop. He lived in the loft and tinkered with woodworking tools on the main floor in his spare time.
When Mac opened the door, the scent of sawdust and sweet pitch surged into the cold air. He flipped on a bank of light switches, and the large open room flickered into view. I saw the case immediately.
“Oh, wow. It’s beautiful.” A clear acrylic box topped a rectangular base covered in a highly polished burl veneer.
Mac grinned. “Thought you’d like it. And look at this.”
He opened a panel in the base and pulled a handle hidden inside. The wood floor of the acrylic box dropped out of sight.
“What’s that for?”
“In case you have a particularly valuable item you don’t want in public view for some reason, you can lower it into the base. I haven’t figured out the electronics yet, but I think this could be rigged with a timer to secure the item when the museum closes.”
“I don’t think we have anything that valuable,” I said. “But then again, I never know what Rupert’s going to send.”
“Ford was talking about some statues you just got — African or something, and really heavy. He said they’re scary ugly, which means they’re valuable, right?” Mac laughed.
My stomach dropped. Ford had been talking about the statues? I hadn’t thought to warn him not to — I’d forgotten he’d helped take them to my office. Oh boy.
Mac was still talking. “I could install little spotlights to highlight the items inside, too. That way you can put the case anywhere and not have to worry about whether or not the overhead lighting is good enough.”
“Terrific,” I murmured.
Mac looked at me quizzically.
“I love it,” I said, louder. “Really love it. Rupert’s scavenging at the Paris flea market, so I’ll let you know if he finds something that would be right for this case.”
I moved toward the door, then spun back. “Actually, I could use three right now. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I just documented Limoges snuff boxes today, and they’d be perfect in cases like this.” I placed my hand on the case and peered into the open bottom. “Yeah. How long will it take you to make two more?”
Mac whistled and exhaled. “Maybe a month? They’re pretty detailed.”
“That’s fine. That’ll give me time to do the research.” I nodded, mind racing. “I think I’ll have an Arnold Palmer after all.”
Mac rubbed his hands together, grinning, and escorted me back to the bar.
I slid onto an empty stool next to Ferris and leaned across him to speak to Ford. “Jim Carter dug a trench today for the new statues. You know, the ones Terry delivered Wednesday.” Maybe I could divert Ford’s interest from the wood African statues to the much larger, as yet unseen, Wind in the Willows statues. “A gravel truck’s coming tomorrow at 7:30 in the morning. I was going to go out and watch. You interested?”
“Sure,” Ford said. He jerked his thumb toward Ferris. “This is Ferris.”
“We’ve met.” I shook Ferris’s proffered hand. It was calloused but spongy. “Any luck?”
Mac set my tea and lemonade mix on the counter. A maraschino cherry floated in the ice.
Ferris shrugged. “Talked to a couple foremen. They said the real money’s in construction, not maintenance.”
“There are several wind farms being built upriver.” I took a sip.
The subject of statues seemed to be over. I couldn’t undo what Ford had said, and to bring it up again would just make a lasting impression in people’s minds. No — better to let the topic pass and hope no one paid it any more attention.
I was glad to see Ferris being sociable. Maybe I’d caught him at a bad moment at the campground.
“Do you enjoy rural living?” I asked. “Wind farms aren’t usually near civilization.”
“Yeah, you could say that. You from around here, originally?”
“No. Lived in Vancouver and worked in Portland up until two years ago.”
“Any of your friends come visit you up here?”
“Not really. They’re city people. Wouldn’t know what to do with themselves without a Starbucks and yoga classes,” I replied.
Mac was back at our end of the bar and heard my comment. “I thought that guy driving the red Corvette was a friend of yours — the one who’s staying at Gloria’s place.” He leaned on his palms on the counter, way too interested for my taste.
I gritted my teeth. “He’s not a friend. Just an acquaintance.”
“Must know you pretty well to come all the way out here,” Ferris said.
Mac hurried away to swap a full glass for an empty one farther down the bar.
“Yeah, well, he’s leaving.”
Ferris twirled his glass in its condensation ring.
“Hey, Meredith.” Val — once again pink and sparkly — slid onto the stool next to me.
“Val! I’m so glad. I heard — well, anyway — I heard.” I didn’t want to mention Val’s imprisonment and release in front of everyone.
“Yeah,” Val nodded. “Sheriff Marge was real nice. And Ham, too, in his way. He’s arranging for a few repairs at the store. We’re leaving in the morning.”
“Together?”
“Oh, no. Definitely not. I could go now — I just wasn’t up to facing my parents yet. I’ll bite the bullet tomorrow. At least Rosie will understand.”
“Your dog?”
Val’s forehead wrinkled. “Yeah. My parents thought Ham was a sure thing for me. They won’t be happy to find out what I did, and that he’s not in the picture anymore.”
“I know what that’s like.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. He had — still has — my mother and step-father bamboozled. They think the sun rises and sets with him and just don’t understand why I wouldn’t want to date a two-timing schmoozer.”
Val giggled.
“Where are you staying?”
“With Betty Jenkins. Sheriff Marge arranged it.”
“Betty’s a sweetheart. Greg, my intern, stays with her when he’s working at the museum. Has she baked cookies for you yet?”
Ferris tossed a few bills on the counter, nodded to us and left.
“Snickerdoodles and apricot bars.”
Mac was making the rounds and skidded to a stop in front of us.
I pounced on the moment. “Val, you should meet Mac MacDougal — owner of this establishment and master woodworker. He builds the most gorgeous display cases for the museum.”
Mac, clearly smitten, stood with his mouth open.
Val stuck out her hand. “Valerie Brown, lately incarcerated for hitting my ex-boyfriend with a soup can.”
Mac revived enough to grasp her fingers. “Wow.” He beamed.
“And it’s good-night for me,” I said. I patted Ford’s arm. “See you in the morning.”
I glanced over my shoulder before pushing through the front door. Va
l was talking, fluttering her hands in the air, while Mac gazed at her, riveted. I grinned.
CHAPTER 10
Clutching an insulated mug of coffee and milk sweetened with brown sugar in one hand — my Chevy Cheyenne pickup came off the assembly line before cup holders were invented — I spun the steering wheel toward the Imogene’s access road with my free hand. Living sling-less felt so good.
The overcast cloud layer was just beginning to lighten in the east. It would be another fine day of drizzle. Better than ice, though. I’d slept very little with the thrumming racket of the fans vibrating the RV last night. Hence the need for an extra-large dose of caffeine.
Intentionally early, I was hoping to wrap up a few loose ends and check if Mr. Rittenour had returned my call before the gravel truck arrived. But a shiny, red Corvette waited in the parking lot.
I muttered under my breath. Why wouldn’t he just go away? Marvin K. Mooney, Will You Please Go Now! — the Dr. Seuss title popped into my head. That was exactly how I felt about Ham. Except in the end, Mr. Mooney got the point. Ham still hadn’t.
I pulled in next to the Corvette and noticed it was empty. Ham wasn’t a nature lover. Why would he be wandering the grounds, and at this time of day?
I slid out of the truck and pulled my jacket snug. The breeze rippled my hair. Maybe another storm was blowing in.
I scanned the park — the grey-green lawn and dark trees, the silvery river, the looming, boxy mansion. No sign of a man walking. Unless he was on the far side of the museum, but why would he go there? I leaned against the truck and sipped my coffee. Well, if Ham wanted to try his persuasive charms again, he could find me. But his efforts would return void — guaranteed.
Mud, river water, maybe a little algae and rotting leaves — the wind mingled the hints and notes, and I inhaled. Even rain has an odor — fresh or astringent, depending on what it dampens. This combination — it’s my scent of freedom. And I’d never give that up.
Jim would arrive in a few minutes, so I decided to skip getting a head start on my work and instead ambled toward the new excavation. It was a good thing the gravel was going in today — it would help keep the mud to a minimum with more rain coming. I hoped the edges of the trench hadn’t caved in overnight.
Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Page 9