Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2)

by Jones, Jerusha

  I slipped in the mucky grass and held my mug out so coffee wouldn’t slosh on my jacket.

  The trench was the darkest thing in sight — and several feet deep. In the dim light, it looked even more like an extra-long, curved version of Bard’s grave. It’s just a hole, I told myself.

  But there was something in the trench — something pale. I squinted and leaned closer, careful not to stand on the very edge lest it crumble under me. A hand? It looked like a white hand.

  Now I picked out the form — legs, torso, one arm stretched out, ending in the hand. All in dark clothing. And where the head should be — dark hair. It — he? — was lying facedown.

  A spot of red caught my eye. A bundle of flowers — roses.

  My stomach dropped.

  Had Ham gone for a walk and fallen in? The roses — were they another attempt to change my mind? Of all the stupid things to do.

  I slid down the bank and nudged him with my toe. “You okay?”

  I knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. As soon as I touched him, I knew.

  “No. No, no, no. What have you done?”

  He was incredibly heavy, but I pulled his shoulder and head up and wrestled his face toward me. His eyes stared back, wide in terror, his mouth open as if he meant to yell.

  I dropped him and let out a muffled whimper.

  Out. I had to get out of the trench.

  This wasn’t real. It didn’t happen. I’d wake up in a minute.

  I scrabbled frantically in the mud, clawing at the trench wall.

  “Whoa. What’s this? You fall in?” Strong hands grabbed my arms and hauled me up.

  Another face — Jim’s — blurred in front of me, but my mind replaced it with Ham’s horrified expression. I shook my head. “Dead. He’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?” Jim held me steady, his frown deepening. He moved me aside and peered into the trench. Casting a worried glance back at me, he eased into the hole and picked up Ham’s hand, feeling for a pulse. He tried to flex Ham’s fingers, and when they wouldn’t move, he set the hand down gently.

  In the increasing light, streaks of color were now visible — a blue stripe on Ham’s jacket, his tan shoes. The red roses stood out in relief.

  I moaned.

  “Okay,” Jim said. He kicked a toehold in the trench wall and hoisted himself out in an instant. He wrapped an arm tight around me.

  He walked me to his truck, opened the passenger door and helped me climb in.

  I stared through the windshield in a daze. Ham of the crooked grin. Ham the obnoxious, persistent, irritating, boyish, handsome—

  Jim settled in the driver’s seat, started the engine and turned on the heater. He leaned across the center console and touched my arm.

  I blinked back tears.

  Jim shook my arm. “Meredith!” he shouted.

  I winced and looked at him.

  “Can you hear me? You’re in shock.”

  I nodded.

  “What’s his name?” Jim started dialing his cell phone.

  “Ham.”

  He stopped and frowned at me.

  “Hamilton Wexler.”

  He finished dialing and held the phone to his ear. A dump truck full of gravel rumbled into the parking lot, the driver downshifting, then the brakes squealing to a stop. The racket drowned Jim’s voice, but I knew he was talking to Sheriff Marge.

  I hunkered in Jim’s truck, bent at the waist, forehead resting on the dash, arms sandwiched against my stomach. I knew what the sheriff’s deputies were there to do, and I didn’t want to see it.

  Jim checked on me a couple times, squeezed my shoulder but didn’t say anything. Good man.

  Rain drops pattered the cab’s roof, and I shivered.

  My thoughts spread like buckshot. I didn’t try to reel them in or force them into coherency. Scenes from my old life, from my ambitious, professional, girlfriend-then-fiancé-of-a-rising-young-deputy-prosecutor life flitted across my mind’s screen. There’d been fun times, even good times. Arlene, Ham’s mother, was a kind woman and made me feel like family. She and I had traipsed through home and garden shows together and visited Portland’s celebrated rose and rhododendron gardens during blooming seasons.

  I groaned. Someone would have to tell Arlene.

  A white Freightliner Sprinter arrived, driven by a medical examiner’s technician. It bumped across the lawn and parked near the trench.

  The dump truck left, still full.

  What had Ham been doing? Why was he at the museum at all? Val had said he was leaving this morning, but he wasn’t normally such an early bird.

  The door opened, letting in a blast of cold air. Sheriff Marge in her clear plastic poncho and hat cover. She heaved a sigh. “Rough day.”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “I need you to tell me when you last saw your cell phone.”

  “When I — why?”

  Sheriff Marge tipped her head. “Humor me.”

  “I think yesterday — when I called the gallery, well, the CPA firm. When you told me to use the museum line instead. I put it in my purse after that, and it’s still there.”

  “No, it’s not.” Sheriff Marge held up a plastic bag containing a muddy cell phone.

  I scowled.

  “This is yours. I checked the number.”

  “But — can I — I just want to look in my purse.”

  Sheriff Marge moved out of the way.

  I hurried to my truck, pulled my purse — a tote bag, really, I carry so much stuff — across the bench seat and rummaged through it, checked the pockets. Then I dumped it out.

  I turned to Sheriff Marge who stood waiting. “It is gone.”

  Sheriff Marge always looked worried, but there was something else — a deeper concern — behind her gray eyes now.

  “Where was it?”

  “Under Ham’s body.”

  “My phone was under Ham’s body?” I repeated, not believing. “Why? How?”

  “Exactly.”

  I swallowed. What did it mean? Someone must have taken my phone. When? Who?

  I swallowed again. “How did he die?”

  “Stabbed. Three slashes, fast and deep, with a hunting knife. The knife was still in him.”

  “I didn’t see—”

  “Down low. The last stab was in his abdomen.” Sheriff Marge paused as Ford joined us.

  His shoulders slumped, and his raincoat bunched around his neck. His hands were wedged deep in his pockets.

  “What’s wrong, Ford?” I asked, then shuddered. Everything was wrong.

  “I’m sorry for ya, Missus Morehouse. Just wanted to say so.”

  “Thanks. I know.”

  He shuffled away, and we watched until he rounded the corner of the museum.

  “What’d you do last night?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  “Uh, I went to Mac’s after work, stayed for maybe an hour. Then I went home and went to bed early — about 9:30 — since I knew it would be a short night and I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  “Yeah, I heard about the ice damage to your trailer. See anyone between leaving Mac’s and this morning?”

  “Just Tuppence.”

  “How about at Mac’s? Who’d you talk to?”

  “Well, Mac, of course. He showed me a new display case prototype, which is why I went in the first place. Ford was there, and Ferris — he’s staying at the campground, too. Then Val came in. I was glad to see her — seems like she’s doing better. That’s it.”

  “Val was still there when you left?”

  “Yeah, they all were. Oh, except Ferris. He left a few minutes before I did.”

  Sheriff Marge nodded. “I know you’ve been having some disagreements with Ham. What was your last interaction like, and when was it?”

  “Yesterday morning, here — in my office, shortly after you left. The conversation was the same from his end — talking without listening, trying to persuade me to consider his proposal. But I told him no — clearly and firmly — for the first time
. I was actually able to say it, and then I told him—” I faltered.

  Sheriff Marge raised her eyebrows.

  I shifted my gaze, stared at a dripping laurel bush without seeing it. “I told him to go away,” I whispered. “That was the last thing I said to him.” I pressed my palms to my eyes.

  “Alright. I’ll have more questions later. We’ve already cordoned off the whole parking lot because we need to take a look at the car.” Sheriff Marge nodded in the Corvette’s direction. “You can go home, but I don’t want you leaving the county.”

  “What? I mean, I don’t plan to — but why?”

  “Because you have motive, means and no alibi.”

  “But I didn’t — I wouldn’t—” I clenched my hands. “Everyone knows I didn’t like him, but I wouldn’t — I don’t own a hunting knife.” I looked straight into Sheriff Marge’s steady gray eyes. “I found him.”

  Sheriff Marge grasped my shoulder. “I put everyone on my suspect list. Then I narrow it down. That’s how I work. Now go on — I’ll come see you later.”

  Numb, I climbed into my truck and went through the motions of driving. At the end of the parking lot, Dale gave me a solemn nod and lifted the yellow crime scene tape. It slid across the windshield as I rolled under it.

  CHAPTER 11

  I nosed the pickup into the short drive in front of my fifth-wheel trailer and slumped in the seat. Rain rivulets meandered down the windshield — merging, separating into new channels, trickling away the minutes. I submerged, lumpish, into a void, an absence of thought.

  Ham’s face — pale, almost translucent skin, dark petrified eyes and mouth stretched wide — wavered inside my eyelids and jolted me out of my stupor. The cab had chilled. My skin was clammy.

  I bolted from the truck and hurried into the trailer, clicking the door firmly closed behind me. My breath came in bursts. I needed a solid, warm dog to hold.

  But Tuppence hadn’t greeted me. She was probably still off on her morning rounds, checking to see if anything had changed in the night.

  Changed in the night. I hung my head. My whole body felt weak, boneless. I dropped to the couch. What I really needed was Pete. He’d just hold me and not talk. I wanted to time my heartbeats with his and be still. But the tug was probably already underway. And I couldn’t even call him because my phone was evidence.

  I burrowed into the cushions and pulled a wad of blankets over my head.

  A soft whining outside woke me. And rustling.

  I got up and opened the door. A blast of eye-watering, searing skunk odor nearly bowled me over.

  “Ughhhh.” I pulled my shirt collar up over my nose and mouth.

  Tuppence wriggled on the welcome mat and whined pitifully. She rubbed her nose with first one paw and then the other.

  I grabbed my keys and hurried down the steps. Tuppence tried to rub on my legs.

  “No, no. Not right now. I’ll be back as soon as I can. That’s a good girl. Just hold on.”

  I sped to Junction General and flew through the store collecting paper towels, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, dish soap and sponges.

  “Tuppence get into a skunk?” Gloria asked when I dumped everything on the counter.

  “You can tell from my purchases?”

  “Yes. But I can smell it too.”

  “Sorry. She barely touched me.”

  Gloria loaded the supplies into a paper bag. “Winter skunk is worse than summer skunk.”

  I handed her a couple bills. “Why is that?”

  “It’s not scientific, just my opinion. Skunks don’t truly hibernate, but they do sleep a lot in the winter. They have to come out at least once to empty their scent sacs. I think the oil — you know, what’s been stored for a month or two — has to be even stronger.”

  “Eeew.”

  “Hey.” Gloria placed a hand on mine. “I heard there was a murder at the museum and that it’s Ham.”

  I nodded and held my breath.

  “He had paid to stay through today, but when his car wasn’t here this morning, I figured he left early. So I went upstairs to clean—” A furrow deepened in Gloria’s forehead. “His things are still here — toothbrush and shaving kit, clothes. His laptop’s on the dining table. I ducked out quickly because I thought maybe he was coming back in a few minutes, but now—”

  I exhaled. The part about my finding Ham’s body apparently hadn’t made the gossip chain yet. “You did right. I’m sure Sheriff Marge will want to have a look around.” I scooped up the sack and hustled toward the exit.

  “I’m really sorry since he was your friend,” Gloria called.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled as I pushed the door open with my behind and spun into the parking lot.

  o0o

  I rolled Tuppence on her back and pinned her down. The skunk had sprayed the dog squarely on the chest, extending under her chin and across her front legs. There was oil on the ends of her ears, too. I dabbed at the concentrated areas with paper towels and tried not to inhale. My eyes streamed.

  Tuppence struggled and whined.

  “I know. Just hold still, okay? Please?”

  I released the dog, and Tuppence slid into the grass and rolled and rolled.

  “No, no, no. You’re spreading it around. Our whole campsite is going to reek.” I groaned.

  Too late.

  “Come here.” I patted my leg.

  Tuppence returned, and I worked the foaming solution of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and dish soap into the hound’s fur. I rubbed the sponge in firm, circular motions until Tuppence’s front half was solid lather. Then I rinsed the dog with the hose.

  Tuppence shook — a spin cycle that started with her nose and ears and worked its way along her lanky frame to the tip of her tail.

  “Okay. Again. This time all of you.”

  I worked the dog over with the scent-diluting solution until Tuppence looked like a poodle. This time she shook before being rinsed and splattered bits of lather all over a ten-foot radius. I sprayed her off, then aimed the soaked dog toward clean grass and let her roll.

  I examined my polka-dotted clothes. They would never smell laundry-fresh again. I didn’t want to wear them inside because the skunk oil would spread to whatever it touched. Glancing around furtively, I sidled to the back end of the trailer — the most sheltered side. No boats in view on the river. The campground seemed to be deserted.

  I stripped off my clothes — all of them. They were soaked through, and the skunk oil would have traveled with the water, all the way to my skin.

  Realizing I had never streaked before — there’s a first time for everything — I darted around the trailer, leapt over the welcome mat, scrambled up the stairs and flung myself inside the trailer. Olympic medal-worthy.

  I beelined for the shower and washed my hair three times. Hot water pelted until my fingertips turned pruny. I toweled off, dressed and pulled a large trash bag from under the kitchen sink. Using only my thumb and forefinger, I collected and dropped my ruined clothing and the welcome mat into the plastic trash bag and tied it closed. Tuppence followed me to the dumpster.

  “Well,” I said. “Have you learned? Are you going to leave skunks alone now?”

  Tuppence snorted.

  “I don’t think I believe you.”

  Sheriff Marge was waiting at the trailer when we returned. She cleared her throat. “Looks like I missed the excitement.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it. I mean, I smell skunk, but how bad is it — really?”

  “Pungent.”

  “I don’t think Tuppence’ll smell quite as bad when she dries.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’m hoping the same.”

  Sheriff Marge chuckled. It started in the middle of her belly and jiggled outward, like ripples spreading from a stone dropped in a puddle. Her Kevlar vest had a dampening effect on her top half.

  “Hahh,” she sighed, removed her hat and plunked it on the Explorer’s hood, then she le
aned over the hood and propped her elbows beside her hat.

  “It’s bad. I know,” I said.

  “The skunk or the murder?”

  “Both. Plus the domestic with the suicide and whatever else you’ve been working on that I don’t know about. Want coffee?”

  Sheriff Marge pushed off the SUV. “Yeah.”

  We didn’t speak again until we were settled across from each other at the dining table with steaming mugs cradled in our hands.

  “Am I still a suspect?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I exhaled and leaned back. “What do you need to know?”

  “Just walk me through your evening again.”

  I complied. It was so uneventful I finished in a couple minutes.

  “Did Ham have enemies?”

  “I’m sure he did. As a deputy prosecutor, he helped put many unsavory characters behind bars. They’d all have a reason not to like him. Did you talk to Val? She’d have a better idea of his recent trials and people he interacted with because of his campaign.”

  “Yeah. She’s on my list too.”

  “Val? Oh, I suppose — soup can, hunting knife.” I chuckled. “I don’t believe it. She’s so tiny, and I thought she was really over him.”

  “She’s strong for her size. If the victim is unsuspecting and doesn’t put up a fight — you just have to get the knife in the right places, which the murderer did.”

  “You mean Ham didn’t fight back?”

  “There are a couple small defensive wounds, but no, he didn’t really. Possibly because it was fast and over quickly.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Between 10 and 11 last night.”

  “While I was sleeping — or trying to sleep.” I motioned toward the couch and rumpled pile of blankets. “I don’t understand why he was on the museum grounds. Even if he wanted to talk to me, he’d know I wasn’t there that time of night.”

  “Because you sent him a text.”

  “What?”

  Sheriff Marge pulled her notebook out of her pocket and flipped it open. “I’ve been thinking about what you said and need to see you. Working late tonight. Meet me in front of the museum.”