I hurried outside and put the phone to my ear. “It’s okay. Jim is here installing carpet. He, uh — well, he has bull-in-a-china-shop tendencies.”
“Speaking of which, did you talk to him about unloading the semi-trailer?”
“Briefly. I’ll follow up.”
“If Verle’s unloading, I’ll have him move the semi, too. Agent Simmons should be finished with it in another half-hour or so.”
“That’s fast.”
“That’s ‘cause Dale already collected anything worth calling evidence. I can safely say every shred of packing material and splintered wood and a couple cockroach legs are now in my storeroom.”
I snorted.
“Tomorrow’s your turn with them. Fair warning.” Sheriff Marge clicked off.
I wrinkled my nose. What did she mean? Probably the list of questions I was supposed to memorize and then deliver to Earl in a casual manner. Yeah, right.
I hadn’t told Sheriff Marge my worries about Ford. But that’s all they were — worries. With no proof — no, I would never cast suspicion on Ford.
I stuffed the phone in my pocket and picked up a tarp corner. Dragging it off the picnic table, I smoothed it on the ground and began folding. Tuppence tried to help by standing in the middle.
“Get off, you silly dog. Go on.” I waved my arms. “You’re stinking up Jim’s nice tarp.” I giggled, then sighed.
One thing — maybe one thing in my life was getting back to normal. But the trailer lurched again, violently, making the door which I’d left unlatched swing open halfway before slamming shut. Muffled variations of several swear words spouted from my bedroom.
I placed the tarp and bungee cords in Jim’s truck and collected the scattered tools into an empty five-gallon bucket. I perched on the picnic bench and tousled Tuppence’s ears. “I think it’d be safer to stay out here for a while.”
The hound snorted.
I inhaled sharply and pulled out my phone. Messages — I hadn’t had a chance to check. There were a couple from Sally and one from Greg reporting on the wood sample testing process. I dialed his number.
“Hey, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Nope. I’m in the library, but nobody’s around. So if I whisper it’ll be okay,” Greg said. “Would you like a reason to visit campus? Dr. Markey wants to use your wood sample to teach his class how to operate a new microscope. He said you’re welcome to observe.”
“There’s been a glitch. They’ll have to go ahead without me.”
“Glitch?”
I couldn’t tell him about the gold — not yet. The murder was turning into a convenient excuse. I cringed — how horrible to think of Ham as an excuse. “You’ve never met him, but you know about my ex-fiancé, right?”
There was a long silence on Greg’s end. “Yeah.”
“He came to visit — unexpectedly — and ended up murdered on the museum grounds Friday night.”
Greg exhaled. “Tell me about you. Are you okay?”
I sniffed. Why did the tears spring up so fast? “Yes. I found him, though, and I’m a suspect because my phone was at the crime scene. It was stolen.”
“Oh man. Meredith, I’m sorry. They’ll have to clear you soon. How are you, really?”
“Confused. Sad. I’m not quite sure what to think.”
“No kidding. I’m going to keep asking. You’ve always been there for me, so don’t think you can get out of this.”
I bit my lip. “Thanks,” I whispered. “Can I change the subject?”
“Not yet. Are there any other leads? I don’t like the idea of a murderer at large.”
“Sheriff Marge is working on the case — I guess it just takes time. Lindsay’s okay. She’s not staying at the museum after dark.” I took a breath. “Lindsay said you’re writing a reference for her college application. I thought maybe — Wazzu is kind of far from OSU.”
“You’re forgetting her home and my internship are in the same town. We’ll be seeing each other quite a lot on weekends.” His smile was evident in his voice. “So now who’s being nosy?”
“Just keeping tabs on you.”
“The door swings both ways. If I’m forthcoming, I expect you to be too.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll be there Thursday night.”
“Okay.” I hung up and leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Sad, grateful — emotions swirled around. I’d pushed people away after Ham’s betrayal, but now people were pushing back into my life. Relief — that’s what the feeling was — relief. Arlene wanted to be my surrogate mom. Greg was already my surrogate brother. And Sheriff Marge? She hovered, dropping in now and then like a what? — a surrogate fairy godmother.
I laughed at the image — a tiny pair of wings beating blurry double-time to keep a tilted, Kevlar-vested Sheriff Marge a few inches off the ground. She pointed her stubby finger instead of a wand.
Then I realized Jim was standing before me, hands on hips.
“Done,” he said.
I rose and followed him back into the trailer.
“Reglued the wallpaper, too,” he said, pointing to the spots on both sides of the room where the wallpaper had partially slipped off the walls. “Unless you look real close, won’t even know it was damaged.”
“It’s perfect.” I removed my shoes and buried my toes in the thick carpet. “The color’s nice. Sandstorm, huh? It’ll hide everything. I won’t have to vacuum more than once a month.”
Jim grinned, his jowls broadening at chin level. He had nice, even teeth. The first time I’d seen him smile.
“I’ll call Verle,” he said.
“I’m going back to the museum now, too. So when you’re ready—”
“Yep.” He was already out the door.
o0o
I spent the next hour in my office, shoving books back on shelves. The arrangement was new, but not organized — there was no time for a thorough overhaul. The office needed to be presentable for the meeting with Earl. I borrowed the feather duster from Lindsay and swooshed it around, flinging a couple years’ worth of dust bunnies into the air. I sneezed.
I pushed the windows open as far as they would go. Maybe the perpetual gorge breeze would finish the task. I quickly scootched my loose papers into a pile and plunked a glass paperweight on top.
My phone rang.
“I’m turning the semi and trailer over to Verle, and Jim has him rigging a sling contraption to one of your crates. Thought you might want to supervise,” Sheriff Marge said in a hoarse whisper.
“Be right there.” I pulled on my coat and dashed downstairs.
I tossed the feather duster on the glass jewelry counter in the gift shop and thanked Lindsay, then trotted to the far end of the parking lot. I arrived, huffing and puffing, at the semi cab where Sheriff Marge was filling out some paperwork. Too many grilled cheese sandwiches, not enough hiking.
“Doesn’t T&T Trucking want their truck back?” I asked.
Sheriff Marge finished writing the VIN number in little boxes before replying. “We’re towing it to Verle’s lot for now — just to get it out of here. T&T’s dispatcher said an insurance adjuster would come have a look at it tomorrow.”
“What about the list Terry made — of the deliveries he’s done for T&T? Anything suspicious?”
Sheriff Marge shrugged. “I gave the list to WSP. Most of the deliveries were up north. This was the only one in Sockeye County. The bow-tie guys in their commercial vehicle division will follow up.”
“Bow-tie?”
“You haven’t heard that before? Washington State Patrol — they’re taller, better-looking and wear bow ties. I’m sure they can handle it.”
A motor started. I knew the sound — a winch. It strained and groaned, then a horrible screech came from the trailer.
I ran to trailer’s back end.
“Steady — got it,” Jim shouted from inside.
A young man, maybe mid-twenties, with shoulder-length dark blond hair and
goatee, was operating a large tow truck’s winch. Slowly, one of my crates slid toward the edge of the trailer then hung suspended under the tow truck’s arm.
The young man switched off the winch and nodded at me. “Name’s Verle. Where do you want them?”
I extended my hand, and Verle shook it. “Meredith. Nice to meet you. How about lined up at the edge of the parking lot, as close to that big tree,” I pointed, “as you can?”
Verle climbed in the cab and eased the tow truck across the long parking lot toward the museum, the crate rocking in its cradle behind. He reversed the winch to let the cable out, and set the crate gently on the pavement.
“Yep. He’s as good as his daddy,” Jim said, leaning against the trailer’s rear doorframe.
After unhooking the harness, Verle returned to the semi-trailer and backed into position for the next crate.
Sheriff Marge handed him the paperwork. “I’m going to pick up Terry and we’ll be back soon. Thanks, Verle.”
I hurried after Sheriff Marge and leaned into the Explorer’s open window. “You’re going to let Terry drive the truck?”
“Yep. The fifth-wheel connection is damaged from the jack-knifing, so either Verle makes two trips or Terry drives the tractor while Verle tows the trailer. It’s time to kick Terry out of jail anyway. He’s getting on my nerves.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with the shipment or the robbery?”
Sheriff Marge shrugged. “I’m not going to get any more out of him. Best to turn him loose but keep an eye out. If he was involved, he’ll make a mistake and we’ll catch him.”
Forty-five minutes later, my statues sat in a neat row and Verle was hooking the semi trailer to his tow truck.
I headed into the museum for peace and quiet and maybe a little work.
CHAPTER 15
I missed the sunset — and to have one at all is a rare occurrence in November when overcast cloud layers block the sun for days on end. I hunched over the keyboard, typing descriptions for a collection of animal wind-up toys from the 1920s. They were well-built and still sturdy enough to survive what they were originally intended for — to be played with by children. Maybe Mac could build a wooden race course for a hands-on display both kids and dads would enjoy.
My desk phone rang, and I felt for the receiver without looking and pulled it to my ear.
“Meredith?” Earl whispered.
I cringed. “Yes?”
“I was just thinking — I mean, is everything alright with my shipment? What size U-Haul do you think I should rent? I’ve been trying to estimate how big the crates are.”
I dove toward the second question, hoping he would forget about the first. “The smallest truck should be fine.”
“Not a trailer? We have a van with a hitch, so I could tow a small cargo trailer.”
“Do you know the total weight and cubic dimensions of your shipment?” I held my breath and reached for Terry’s paperwork. Why hadn’t I thought to check that myself?
Earl fumbled the phone with several bumps. It sounded as if he was opening and closing drawers.
I found the numbers on the bill of lading and did some quick calculations. Gold weight, assuming eight statues per each of the fourteen crates was in the neighborhood of 250 pounds. Crate weight plus the nominal wood statue weight I estimated at 20 pounds per crate, or 280 pounds. The crate I’d opened was beefy — had to be, given its contents. A grand total of approximately 530 pounds. The bill of lading said 523. Reasonable.
“Here it is,” Earl said. “Except I don’t know how to read these things.”
“About one third of the way down the page,” I replied. “There should be a row of boxes with numbers typed in them. Find the ‘net weight’ box.”
“Right. 275. The weight’s not a problem, then — that’s the equivalent of two passengers. But the size—”
Ahh, a CPA — Earl could do fast math in his head too.
“How big is your van? Can you take the back seats out?” I asked.
“That’d be best. If I rent a U-Haul, Mona will find out.” Earl sighed. “For some reason, I thought the shipment would be huge since it was coming through a trucking company. I expected big crates and lots of packing material.”
“They combined shipments. Mine’s the bulky one.” I decided to take a shot in the dark. What motivated Earl? “Doesn’t Mona appreciate art?”
“Not for its own sake. She only likes art if other people are impressed by it. She has no idea of its intrinsic value.”
“Are you starting a gallery? Your secretary thought perhaps you were.”
Earl’s laugh was dry and brittle. “No, nothing like that. I’m working with a small group of like-minded aficionados. Entirely private, just personal interest—” His voice faded. “Well, thank you. I’ll see you Wednesday.” He hung up.
I reviewed my calculations. Why was Earl’s paperwork different from Terry’s? Or did he lie about the weight listed on his copy? The difference between the two was almost exactly my gold weight estimate.
There was something fishy in Earl’s evasiveness about the private collectors. Why couldn’t they be named? Were ugly wood statues really so valuable the new owners’ identities needed to be protected? And the origin of the shipment in England — I should have asked about that.
I sighed. If these questions weren’t on Eyebrows' and Superman’s script, I might ad lib a few of my own.
My phone rang — again.
“I’m about to leave, but Terry’s here,” Lindsay said. “And his mother. He wants to talk to you.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Okay. Send them up. Hey, did you submit your application?”
“All done.” Lindsay’s grin could be heard in her voice.
“It’s dark.”
“My dad’s picking me up tonight. You need to leave too — soon.”
“I’ll walk out with Terry and his mom. We’ll be fine.”
I waited for the gentle hum of the elevator — if Terry’s mom had emphysema as he claimed, she wouldn’t be climbing stairs. Why did I always wonder if what Terry said was true? And why wasn’t I afraid of the at-large murderer the way Lindsay was? My brain seemed to have its fight-or-flight priorities mixed up.
A soft chime sounded, and I stepped into the hall to greet Terry and Mrs. Ambrose.
A scrawny woman leaned on Terry’s arm. I accepted her feeble handshake, then continued holding her hand to guide her into the office and settle her on a folding chair. She perched like a featherless bird — hollow, plucked, weighing far too little even for her diminutive size. Mrs. Ambrose looked as though she might crumple to the floor in a pile of dust and calico print fabric.
She surrendered to a wheezy coughing fit, and pressed a flowered hankie to her mouth with a knobby hand. Terry held a water bottle at the ready.
Mrs. Ambrose’s tightly permed hair retained a touch of the old-lady-beauty-salon lavender plus a tan tobacco tinge. She was the ideal candidate for an anti-smoking ad campaign — the kind that said, “Think cigarettes don’t kill? Think again.”
I pressed my lips together to prevent the thought from flying out.
Terry edged onto a chair next to his mother and watched anxiously until she resumed the rattle that seemed to be her normal breathing.
“Terry tells me you saved his life,” Mrs. Ambrose croaked.
“Just helped. I don’t think he was in mortal danger.” I pressed my lips into a tight smile — nice things, I was supposed to be saying nice things to this very sick old woman. “I’m so pleased you’ve come to visit.”
Mrs. Ambrose patted Terry’s knee. “Terry wanted to say thank you and goodbye.”
“So you drove down today?”
“Terry called to say he could come home, but without his truck—” Mrs. Ambrose hacked for a few seconds and looked at her son, apparently finished speaking.
“I needed a ride,” Terry said. “And Mother’s been worried.” He nodded recognition of my frown. “I’m driving h
er back.”
“I insisted,” the old lady said. “I don’t get out of the house much. And this is such a pretty part of the state. My first husband — Terry’s father — and I came out here on our honeymoon, to Wenatchee.”
I glanced at Terry. Wenatchee was several hours north in central Washington — beautiful, yes; nearby, no.
Terry took his mother’s hand. “It’ll be a late night. We should hit the road.” He helped her stand, then shifted awkwardly, scanning my bookcase-lined walls. “Your delivery — statues, was it? Where are they?”
“You drove right by them — in the parking lot. They’re still in their crates until—”
“Oh, yeah,” Terry mumbled. “I heard. Sorry for your loss.”
I escorted them downstairs and out through the main entrance. The parking lot was pitch black except for a couple buzzing halogen lights. No wonder Terry hadn’t noticed the crates. I shivered.
“Will you let me know how things work out for you, with your employment and—” I hesitated.
“Parole.” Terry nodded. “You’ve been kind. Thanks.”
He eased Mrs. Ambrose into the front passenger seat of a late-1970s Chrysler New Yorker. The springs squeaked as she shifted her slight body on the cushioned bench. Terry gently latched the door.
He turned to me. “I know the sheriff still suspects me.” He sighed. “Maybe you could put in a good word for me.”
“I’d like to, but I don’t — I don’t really know you. I don’t know what happened.”
Terry glared for a brief second, then hung his head. “What I said — that’s what happened. Nobody believes me.”
“Terry, your record—”
“I know. I know.” He waved me off and circled the New Yorker. He sank into the driver’s seat and slid the big car with the quietly thrumming engine into the darkness. I watched his taillights turn left on Highway 14.
I hoped, for both their sakes, that Terry truly was innocent.
o0o
The next morning, the feds were waiting for me in front of the museum. Eyebrows hopped out of the unmarked navy blue van as I pulled into my parking spot.
“We’ll need a small room adjacent to your office.”
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