Stray Narrow (An Imogene Museum Mystery Book 7)

by Jerusha Jones

  Because there was the sprightly female half of the pair of twins standing on the steps to the back porch with my ecstatic hound wriggling an enthusiastic figure eight around her legs.

  “Harriet,” I called, hopping out of my truck. “It’s freezing out here. You could’ve let yourself in.”

  “Didn’t want to intrude,” she announced cheerfully, in absolute defiance of all her previous behavior. “Besides, Tuppence needed a rubdown. I thought your handsome husband would be here since the Army Corps of Engineers has all the locks closed for maintenance.” She forced a mock frown underneath those bright blue eyes.

  “He’s pushing a dredge barge into position at the Port of Bingen today,” I explained. “But he’ll be home for supper.” One of the great joys of the limited traffic mobility on the Columbia River during the winter maintenance season was seeing a lot more of Pete. But I still couldn’t possibly get enough of that man, and it seemed the condition might be contagious.

  “Do you need something?” I asked, concern edging into my pleased surprise at Harriet’s visit. The twins had been adjusting to their new environment at Edgewater Retirement Village reasonably well. For Herb, his day-to-day life was much quieter and less physically demanding—which he’d needed. But for Harriet, her social life had kicked up another few notches—also just the way she liked it, I’d assumed.

  Tuppence was taking the opportunity to sniff my jeans legs for clues as to what I’d been doing all day, and I absently stretched down to tousle her ears while Harriet fidgeted, rubbing her colorful Fair Isle woolen mittens together in uncharacteristic reserve.

  “Well, um, I was wondering…” she started, then quit sheepishly, looking like a lost little girl with a silvery ponytail poking out from beneath her fuzzy knit cap.

  “Hmmm. Sounds like this is going to need a cup of coffee behind it.” I tipped my head toward the door with an encouraging grin. “Come inside.”

  “That’s just it,” Harriet muttered as we stamped our feet on the worn floorboards of the porch and shed our outermost layers.

  I flicked on the light switch inside the kitchen and made a beeline for the sink and Harriet’s old-fashioned percolator coffee pot.

  “I’ve turned into a wishy-washy giver,” she continued, standing next to the large farm table and gazing about.

  Along with the house and property, the Tinsley twins had also given us the vast majority of the house’s contents. Pete and I hadn’t only moved into a furnished home, we’d moved in amongst several generations’ worth of accumulation. It was, frankly, like living in a working museum. And I didn’t mind one bit. Why wouldn’t I want to merge my personal and professional lives since I loved them both so much?

  But I’d made a few changes, and Harriet seemed to be assessing them—with an expression of timid nostalgia on her face—so very unlike her usual pert and frank curiosity. My stomach knotted a bit on her behalf. How uncomfortable it must be to see someone else come in and modify the setting that had encompassed your whole life. The Tinsley twins had been born in this house.

  I tapped the back of one of the chairs ringing the table. “Want to sit?” I asked softly.

  But Harriet shook her head briskly. “No. I just want to get my rude request over with. Will you give me back my can opener? Please?”

  I nearly burst out laughing. But managed to bite it back in the nick of time. Oh, for goodness’ sake. “Yes. Yes, of course. Um, what does it look like?”

  While Harriet was still mentally sharp—regularly fleecing her new friends at pinochle, according to the latest report from Sally Levine, the pastor’s wife who’d been around to visit and was privy to such information—I’d found distinct signs of clever coping mechanisms for a mild degree of memory loss, particularly in the kitchen. This generally involved duplicates. There’d been no fewer than four can openers in various drawers, plus another one hanging from a hook next to the refrigerator. Seven Bundt cake pans, fourteen packages of muffin papers, three rolling pins, about thirty million washed and stacked plastic margarine tubs. You get the idea, and I’d only scratched the surface.

  So I was at a bit of a loss to know which can opener she meant. It didn’t matter. They were her can openers, and she could have them all. Except I suspected she might be embarrassed to find out she’d had so many.

  “Herb and I enjoy the occasional can of soup when we don’t feel like traipsing all the way down to the dining room for lunch,” Harriet continued explaining. “The opener is old, a bit rusty, but it has that ergonomic handle. I paid eight dollars for it,” she added hesitantly.

  An exorbitant amount, indeed. And I knew exactly which one she meant. I’d been using it exclusively since Pete and I had moved in—precisely because of that lovely ergonomic handle.

  I pulled open the drawer where I’d consolidated the most-used kitchen gadgets and handed the desired item to her with a flourish. “You certainly have good taste.”

  Harriet burst into tinkly laughter and dropped into the seat she’d refused earlier, hurdle apparently cleared. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this thing. Crazy, isn’t it?”

  “Nope. Practical.” I poured coffee into mugs and joined her at the table. “Are you missing anything else?”

  Harriet blew across her mug, her gaze turning thoughtful. “Not really. I never really planned to be old, you know? I guess I thought I’d die out in the orchard by falling off a ladder at ninety-something the way my mother did. But this move to the retirement center gave Herb and me something to look forward to. Like a new adventure. Like summer camp.”

  “Are you sure?” I whispered. “It’s a rather permanent form of camp.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” Harriet flapped her hand. “The heating system in the advanced care building has been acting up. Herb’s been lending the custodian a hand in getting that balky thing up and running again.”

  Of course he was. But I appreciated what Harriet was telling me under the surface. As long as Herb was useful, he was happy. And as long as Harriet was surrounded by friends, she’d be happy too.

  Tuppence scraped her nails on the kitchen door and whined. I scowled at her.

  She has nearly impeccable manners, and intentionally scratching painted woodwork isn’t in her usual repertoire. Not that the farmhouse wasn’t worn, but still.

  “Tupp!” I said sharply.

  She cast a worried glance over her shoulder and wedged her nose against the crack between the door and the frame, her back end wiggling.

  “She was a little preoccupied when Myrna dropped me off,” Harriet said. “I just spotted the white tip of her tail in the tall grass next to your new pole barn, but she came when I called.”

  Tuppence is a hound, and she does follow her nose—sometimes to the blissful oblivion of all else. Except treats. Which Harriet is known for.

  “Probably found a gopher,” I muttered, “or a nest of field mice.” Even though I didn’t quite believe the excuse myself. “I think we displaced quite a few little creatures when we had the concrete slab for the barn poured.” But Harriet and I were still studying my dog’s back end while she made engrossed snorty noises into the crack.

  When I glanced back at Harriet, she quirked a brow at me, and I nodded. Tuppence isn’t usually given to false alarms, either.

  “Got your slingshot?” Harriet asked, already rising from her chair.

  “I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” I replied, retrieving the aforementioned item from an old wall-mounted mailbox on the way out and passing it off to her. “You know my aim’s terrible.”

  “Not for lack of good instruction.” She had a point. But I’d been remiss in practicing—what with being newly married and all.

  Harriet and I reversed the process of warm layers and trudged down the porch steps. Tuppence was off like a shot, heading directly for the new barn. An arsonist had torched the Tinsleys’ old barn, and I could almost feel Harriet tense beside me as we loped through the wet grass.

  “It can’t be anythin
g too serious,” I panted. “That’s over and done with. Maybe a skunk.”

  In spite of being eighty-one years old and trotting along at a good clip, Harriet had the breath to argue with me. “Tuppence is a smart dog. She knows the difference. Has Sheriff Marge talked to you? There’s been a rash of vandalism and thefts lately.”

  That put a kick in my step. Pete had been working hard on finishing the interior of the barn after our friends and neighbors had helped us raise the walls and roof in record time—before the winter rains set in. If anyone trashed the fruits of his diligent work, I’d personally pound them to a pulp.

  But Tuppence’s interest wasn’t in the barn. She rounded the corner, and I lost sight of her. The only thing behind the barn, besides a mighty rushing river, several acres of unmown grass and some trees, was the fifth-wheel trailer I’d lived in before Pete and I had married, before we’d moved into a ready-made home.

  By the time Harriet and I arrived, wheezing, at the trailer, Tuppence had set up camp at the base of the steps leading up to the door. And I didn’t think it was from nostalgia. She enjoyed the far less cramped style of farmhouse living as much as I did. Her tail was swaying with tentative friendliness, her gaze focused, her whiskers working overtime.

  “Looks like you have a squatter. I’ll cover you,” Harriet hissed. She crouched and anchored her elbows on her knees, forming a sturdy base for the slingshot she held at the ready. Somewhere along the way, she’d picked up a small stone, which she had pinched in the pouch. A fierce little white-haired Amazon warrior—that’s my former landlady and benefactor.

  Which would’ve been funny under other circumstances, since I would completely fill the doorway once I’d climbed the steps. Cover what, exactly? My backside?

  I wondered if I should knock on the door to my own trailer and perhaps roust out the uninvited inhabitant. Or try stealth? It was a tossup, so I went for nonchalance and clumped up the steps and flung open the door.

  To a dim and chilly interior that didn’t appear to have changed since the last time I’d come out to retrieve a roll of parchment paper. It’s weird the things you think you don’t need and then, suddenly, do. But a quick foray in the trailer had beat a mad restocking dash to Junction General in the heat of a cookie-baking moment.

  Tuppence was hard on my heels, and she wedged past my legs, her tail swishing madly. I took that as an excellent sign and followed her as she immediately banked to the right and climbed the few more steps to the bedroom portion of the trailer.

  And there, in the middle of the queen-size bed, was a huddled lump.

  CHAPTER 3

  A huddled lump with rat’s-nest hair, a dirt-streaked face, and the biggest, scaredest eyes I’d ever seen.

  “She doesn’t bite.” The words flew out of my mouth before I even considered them, as Tuppence launched into an invasive bout of sniffing, poking her nose into all the folds and crannies of the duvet the child had heaped over himself. If it was possible, her tail was swishing even more violently now, in mad clockwise circles.

  At least, I thought it was a boy. But the hair was long and shaggy and utterly unstyled, except by dirt and sweat and, most likely, rain squalls.

  “Well, I never,” said Harriet from close behind me, all promises of covering forgotten. “A stray.”

  “Tuppence winkles them out like nobody’s business.” It wasn’t the first time she’d latched onto a creature in need.

  Then it dawned on me that the object of our brief discussion was trembling, the soft mound of downy warmth vibrating slightly. I dropped into a squat to be closer to his level.

  “My name’s Meredith, and I live in that farmhouse.” I made a pointing gesture in the right direction. “Are you alone?”

  More soulful, fearful staring.

  “Are you hungry?” Always a good bet.

  The question struck a chord—I could see it in the shift of his gaze, just a flicker really. But he still didn’t answer, not even with a dip of his chin. I’d cleaned all the perishables out of the trailer months ago, so there’d been nothing edible for him to forage.

  By now, Tuppence had clambered up on the bed. She and her muddy feet aren’t allowed on furniture, but this wasn’t the time for a reprimand. Her hot, inquisitive breath in the boy’s ear made him flinch, and he hunkered down deeper into the protection of the padded duvet as though it was a cocoon.

  “Grilled cheese sandwiches,” I offered. They’re kid food, right? And also my own staple in the comfort food department, particularly when pressed for time and the refrigerator’s nearly empty. “I could probably rustle up some cookies too. Something hot to drink?”

  “Peach pie,” Harriet added. She elbowed me. “I left several in the freezer, unless you’ve eaten them already?”

  See what I mean about the amazing inheritance?

  But the tag-team shtick was working. The boy’s shoulders lost a bit of their tension. His gaze was moving now, bouncing from Harriet to me to Tuppence and back.

  Tuppence sealed the deal by flopping on her side next to him and resting her head on the duvet over his knee. She emitted a gigantic, tongue-curling yawn as if this whole episode was just par for her doggy course—mission accomplished and time for a nap.

  See? No threat.

  Except tires crunched on the gravel drive outside, and the boy immediately tucked deeper into a protective curl. From what little I could see, he was painfully skinny under there.

  “Myrna,” Harriet breathed. “Fetching me. As much as I hate to leave this party, I’d better go.” She grasped my forearm and tugged me down to whisper in my ear. “This one”—she tipped her head toward the huddled figure on the bed—“seems to need privacy. And you know how Myrna likes to talk,” said one of the most thoroughly informed residents of Sockeye County. One of the main distributors on the rumor chain.

  But she was right. As a talker, Myrna Bodwich just might trump all among very heavy competition.

  “You’ll need to put in an appearance, or she’ll come looking for you. You know how it is,” Harriet continued.

  Indeed, I did. As the newest newlyweds in Sockeye County, Pete and I had had no shortage of drop-in visitors. Everyone seemed to take a vested—and persistent—interest in how we were getting on. Privacy had definitely been in short supply.

  I laid a hand on the duvet over where I thought the boy’s shoulder was. “Tuppence will keep you company. She’s an excellent guard dog,” I fudged. “You don’t have anything to be afraid of. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Then I scooted out of the trailer after Harriet.

  oOo

  Pete and I were soon to be supplanted in the newlywed department by Mac and Val. Hallelujah. Frankly, the day could not come soon enough as far as I was concerned.

  But I responded to Myrna’s well-intentioned quizzing as best I could under the circumstances. For some reason, the matrons of Sockeye County assumed that once a woman was married, she was suddenly starved for the detailed instructions of fourth-generation family recipes.

  Secret recipes? Oh, no. They’re open for dissection by all and sundry. Myrna spent ten minutes on the precise steps one must follow in order to faithfully reproduce her infamous caper-dill salmon-radish mousse canapés, starting with sending one’s husband out to catch the fish before marinating it in brine and then smoking it. My eyes may have crossed at some point during the narrative. It was a far cry from a grilled cheese sandwich.

  But I bundled my two friends off, satisfied that they’d done their duty by me. Harriet gave me a knowing squint over the top of the open car door as she climbed inside, and I knew I was on the hook to let her know how things progressed with our stray.

  Then I placed a quick phone call and returned to the trailer to hone my persuasive skills. Or to drag the kid bodily into the warm farmhouse. He was a scrawny thing, and I was thinking that if I scooped him up, duvet and all, he wouldn’t be able to claw his way out before I had him deposited in a far more accommodating—and nourishing—place. If only Tuppenc
e could open the intervening doors for me.

  oOo

  Pete strode through the door at ten minutes after six—exactly on time. And engulfed me in a bear hug, all chilly dampness and stiff leather from the short ride on his Harley from the port where his tugboat, the Surely, is docked.

  His lips, however, were searingly insistent. Pete kisses with a focused intensity that makes me weak-kneed. There is nothing wishy-washy about Pete’s kisses. Or Pete’s anything, for that matter. I was, indeed, a very happy woman.

  But, a happy woman with a problem.

  “Are we being watched?” he murmured, his stubble rasping on my neck.

  I’m a sucker for blue eyes. Sapphire blue, specifically. With crinkles at the corners. I got a full dose of them when Pete pulled back a few inches and fixed me with a quizzical stare. Then darted his gaze to the left where two other sets of eyes returned the favor.

  One pair of placid brown eyes—Tuppence is accustomed to Pete’s and my shenanigans about the house and is routinely unimpressed. But Burke’s wide eyes were more like a keen version of the Mediterranean on a sunny day with that greenish underhue that makes you think of mineral deposits. And they missed nothing.

  “Yes, we’re in the presence of a juvenile,” I whispered. “Careful where you put your hands.”

  Pete grunted and squeezed me tighter, but those strong hands stayed safely pressed into my back.

  Louder, I said, “This is Burke. He’s been bunking in the fifth-wheel trailer for a couple days.”

  The greasy crumbs from two grilled cheese sandwiches were scattered over the empty plate and tabletop in front of him. Apparently leaving the boy alone for those few minutes, while I’d seen Myrna and Harriet off, had provided the emotional space he’d required to consider the compelling needs of his stomach. He’d said very little—other than his first name when I’d pressed the issue—but he’d meekly accompanied me into the house of his own accord.

  Tuppence had trotted at his heels the whole way and not left his side since. And it wasn’t because he’d shared his snack with her—he’d gobbled both sandwiches all by himself, and in record time.