Stray Narrow (An Imogene Museum Mystery Book 7)

by Jerusha Jones

  “No cameras?” Pete asked.

  Owen shook his head. “Not in their budget yet. The higher crime areas around the dormitories are covered because drunk students do stupid stuff, but they haven’t had much problem in the admin parking lot, so coverage there was back-burnered until more funds can be earmarked.”

  “And the owner of the pickup?” Frankie asked.

  I smiled grimly as I tipped my forehead against the cold glass of the window. My batch of loved ones was doing a good job of holding our own in the interrogation department.

  “Not a suspect. He was at work all day; came out to find his truck gone. Got a ride home from a coworker, filed a stolen vehicle report immediately, and is a research coordinator of good standing with the university. Sheriff McNary knows him personally and says he’s meeker than a church mouse. No vitriol in that guy.”

  “And you believe him?” Frankie pushed.

  Owen nodded. “We have to. It’s his turf.”

  “But a research coordinator,” I murmured to the window and the incongruously peaceful setting beyond. That wasn’t quite true—the setting inside was also peaceful enough, a bunch of friends sharing coffee while seated on uncomfortable chairs. It was the content that was disturbing.

  My words must’ve bounced off the glass, because Owen answered as though he’d heard them clearly. “Yeah, this is where it starts to get interesting. I called Cassidy’s dissertation adviser, and we had a lengthy chat about her research. She was big on wheat, meticulous in her attention to detail. He couldn’t say enough good things about her. She was pioneering the use of a special meter affixed to a drone for measuring the molecular composition of the air at various elevations above the crop. Apparently the rate at which the plants expire oxygen and uptake carbon dioxide indicates the quality of their photosynthesis, and all that can be measured in order to evaluate the density and health of the crop.” Owen plunked his elbows on the table. “A little over my head, frankly.”

  “Do doctoral students get grants for their research?” I asked. “This sounds expensive. Who was footing the bill? Surely not Cassidy. The university?” I know how hard it is to get a grant, having applied for several and having received an almost equal number of rejections.

  Owen shifted in his seat to fix me with a steady gaze. “SeedGenix.”

  Pete blew out a breath and slumped back in his chair. “Oh boy.”

  “Wait,” said Henry. “Does that make everyone who complained about the nonexistent rebates at the party last night a suspect? Is that why you were asking?”

  “Indirectly, yeah, until we narrow it down,” Owen admitted. “But practically, no—it’s a really long shot. Meredith’s right, though. We have to continue following the money.”

  “So, are you saying,” I spouted, desperately needing clarification, “that Cassidy was our up-and-coming third-party verification source for germination rate, but that in reality she also was being paid by SeedGenix?”

  “Yes.” Owen stretched out an arm and squeezed the back of his neck while shaking his head slowly from side to side. He looked like he ached all over too—and needed about thirty hours of sleep. “Complicated. But I’m given to understand that these very close ties and intertwined payment structures are normal between companies and research universities. What’s good for one tends to be good for the other.”

  “Until it isn’t,” Pete muttered. He was standing now too, and began pacing back and forth on the black and white tiles.

  But Henry, the retired army helicopter mechanic and experimental pilot in his own right, was still worried about a practical matter. “Was the drone equipped with a camera as well as the air-content meter thing?”

  Owen nodded.

  “So the real question might be,” Henry continued, almost under his breath, “what did she see with that drone? I assume there was footage, a recording?”

  “Gone.” Owen got to his feet as well, and leaned on the back of his chair, his hands gripping the rim so hard his knuckles were white. “Cassidy’s equipment disappeared along with her, and hasn’t resurfaced, unlike her, uh…her body. But if she did see something, or record something sensitive, I don’t think she realized it. Because she never reported anything untoward to her adviser, and Burke’s description of her behavior on the day of her murder was that she was happy, cheerful, even eager, up until the very instant the noose was slipped over her head.”

  We had a moment—a fraction of a moment, really—of warning. Enough time to not fill the sickly silence that had followed Owen’s words, but not enough time to readjust our expressions into something less horrified, less appalled, less confused.

  So when Rupert and a small boy trotted headlong into the room, we were rooted in position like queasy statues. Rupert took one look at our collective trepidation and immediately began to backpedal, causing Burke to bump into him, hard.

  “Ooof,” Rupert grunted, bracing himself against the door frame and squinting apologetically at us. “Sorry, so sorry. We figured you’d be in here, needing a break and whatnot, from all the cleanup. And we have…well, we’ve found what we were looking for.”

  Burke was in Rupert’s lee, a small and immediately hesitant shadow. The delighted and enthusiastic expression on his little face had faded to hollow concern in a transition so fast it nearly broke my heart. Once again, those huge eyes missed nothing.

  So I tried to smile at him. “Let’s see.” I held out my hand.

  He shuffled into the kitchen and thrust a jumbled assortment of three-dimensional items at me. We fumbled them for a moment in the space between us, and I giggled.

  Burke’s big eyes flashed up to me in hopefulness, and I realized that he assumed we’d been talking about him—which had definitely been the case. But underlying that, there was a worry, an uncertainty, that maybe somehow he’d disappointed us.

  I had to squat down to hold all the items securely, and that also gave me a chance to wrap an arm around his thin back and pull him closer. “Tell me what these are,” I murmured.

  “Badges,” he complied, pointing. “Rupert says these were for hats.” He picked up two of the badges and turned them over, revealing both the screw mounts and the engraved numbers matched to each of the long-gone Pinkerton detectives on the backs. His soft voice was tinged with a little bit of awe and a lot of eagerness. “And here’s a flat shield badge that would’ve been pinned on the agent’s chest. It’s from the Canada department—see the maple leaves?” His handling of the treasured bit of history was both confident and delicate.

  The final item was a very small, pearl-grip revolver. It was old and nicked but had originally been rather showy. I thought it might’ve been a stage prop until Burke showed me the inscription. A presentation handgun to a lieutenant in the Pennsylvania state militia for helping quell the Homestead Riots in 1892. In a case where the National Guard had been called in because the Pinkerton agents had failed. From the reverential way Burke was holding the gun, I guessed that Rupert had told him the history. Men on both sides of the labor dispute had died unnecessarily.

  I suffered a sudden, gut-wrenching wave of grief for the child before me—again. Would it never stop? For him or for me?

  “Do you like it?” I whispered.

  He nodded, those eyes magnificent in the fading silver light from the snowstorm outside.

  “We’ll find the perfect way to display it, and you can help me write the description that we’ll post next to it, okay?”

  More nodding.

  “Show me that it’s empty?”

  And he did, expertly to my uninitiated way of viewing, clicking the barrel to the side and revealing the empty chambers where the bullets would’ve fit. The kid knew too much—far, far too much.

  Every test I put in front of him, he passed, with flying colors. I would’ve preferred a little more normalcy, a little more uncertainty, a little more averageness on the bell curve, a little more childishness.

  Except for the gagging this morning. That little scenario w
as looking more and more like comic relief in the grand scale of his overall situation.

  We had a rapt audience. This dawned on me abruptly, and I stood. “Thank you,” I said to Rupert. “They’re perfect.”

  He nodded knowingly. “I thought they’d fit the theme.”

  The powwow was over. Owen drained the last of the cold coffee in his cup and left the room without speaking.

  Frankie collected the dirty cups and swiped a sponge over the tabletop. “Just a few more things to tidy, then we’re out of here. Are you going to do a walk-through?” she added in a lower tone as she brushed by me.

  After I nodded—she knew me well—she said more brightly, “Then perhaps Pete and Burke would like a ride with us? We’ll drop you two at the farmhouse, and Meredith can catch up later.”

  Pete gave me a smile and a squeeze—he knew me well, too—and they all trooped out.

  Peace. Quiet. I needed both. My deep well of solitude was clamoring for replenishment. Being married doesn’t obliterate introversion. Temporary and unexpected motherhood even less so.

  And I love this old museum. She’s my girl. And she needed an inspection to make sure she was ready for visitors. The last thing we wanted was for a tourist to find a leftover plate with the ant-eaten remains of a piece of wedding cake wedged behind the stuffed and mounted cougar in the library or someone’s forgotten—and very modern—gloves dropped in the middle of the Victorian ball gown display. Besides, there was the sitting room to measure off for the new exhibit.

  oOo

  All was as it should be, much to my relief and satisfaction. The Imogene was in her usual, if slightly derelict, state and clean as a whistle. We try our best to spruce her up, but she’s expensive to maintain. Ideas for the sitting room display sequence were now percolating in my mind. It was good to have something to focus on.

  I worked backward through the museum, locking the front doors and checking the windows. Most are painted shut, but you never know if some slightly inebriated and flushed wedding guest might’ve tried to jimmy one open anyway, and with a peculiar persistence due to the celebratory proceedings.

  In the kitchen I tied up the trash bag from under the sink and flipped it over my shoulder like a hobo. Then it was down the stairs to the basement for a quick perusal. The public weren’t allowed below, so I wasn’t expecting anything to be amiss, but I feel better when I’ve checked every corner.

  Miss Racy Fishnet Stockings was still decently covered, and I grinned at her shroud. History really is a matter of curation, unfortunately. How much have we lost over the years due to cultural gatekeepers putting the kibosh on unpleasant or embarrassing facts? Our human experience has been highly edited for content. And I play a part in that. For good, or for bad? Sometimes I wonder.

  And I was getting maudlin in my isolation. So it was time to go.

  I poked the alarm key code for all zones into the touchpad, bumped open the basement door with my hip, flipped the lever to lock it, and let it swing closed behind me and my burden. I scuffed up the ramp in heavy, wet snow that came up to the middle of my shins.

  We don’t usually have so much accumulation, the Columbia River Gorge preferring her winter precipitation in the form of rain and, on rough days, ice. Snow was a treat—until it wasn’t. But the kids would enjoy being absolved from school. Which reminded me that at some point we’d need to enroll Burke. Perhaps Hester Maxwell, the social worker, would have suggestions about easing him into that standard practice of childhood—one of many he’d missed out on. For good, or for bad?—I couldn’t draw a firm conclusion on that topic, either. He already knew too much.

  A gray Acura sedan was parked next to the dumpster, wedged backward into the very narrow space on the north end. I flung the trash bag with my very best discus-throw technique over the top rim of the dumpster and went to check on the vehicle. It had a skim of snow on the windshield, and I brushed open a peephole.

  Empty.

  That was the most important thing. As long as there wasn’t someone inside, shivering while waiting for a tow truck. It’s not uncommon for vehicles to be left for a day or two in the main parking lot, just a consequence of the lot’s proximity to State Route 14, really. It’s a convenient and out-of-the-way place to seek shelter if someone’s having mechanical difficulties.

  But around back behind the museum is a different matter. However, given the number of guests we’d had at the wedding reception, I was certain some of them would’ve had to avail themselves of the more remote spaces to park. To still be here, though, was concerning.

  Nothing seemed obviously amiss with the vehicle, and the tire tracks where it had backed into the spot were almost refilled to level with the falling snow. Footprints—if there had been any—were long gone. Washington plates.

  I breathed a quiet sigh of relief that the museum’s new alarm system was finally installed and fully—and reliably—operational. We hadn’t had any of those buggy false-alarm triggers with this new system. The old one had been so hair-trigger prone to overassumptions that Rupert had insisted we stop using it so we didn’t drive Sheriff Marge and her deputies crazy. Which had left our artifacts at risk, especially the Bronze Age collection tucked away in the laundry room in the basement that no one was supposed to know about until the FBI secured its safe return to its Middle Eastern country of origin. Since that process would likely require decades of negotiations, our insurance company had helped foot the bill for the necessary new, robust, and hopefully infallible alarm system. The Imogene was like Fort Knox now.

  So I contentedly tromped through snow drifts in the landscaping around the mansion to the main parking lot where my pickup waited, cold and a little balky on the starter. But on the third try her engine roared to life with that strong and steady thump that makes everything—including me on the bench seat—rattle. I love being surrounded by the old, the faithful, and the familiar.

  But don’t tell Pete that. He might not take it as a compliment.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Surely was docked in port for scheduled maintenance. Winter’s a slow time for Pete, and he loves to make sure her two big marine diesel engines purr like…I don’t know…not a kitten, because that would just be ridiculous. Maybe like the biggest, hungriest saber-toothed tiger you’ve never seen. The Surely is small for her class, but she’s mighty, and she can maneuver loads into and out of the tightest spots, making her much in demand during the other three seasons. This is due entirely to the skill of her master. Not that I’m biased or anything.

  But she gets pampered in the winter to make up for her hard work during the rest of the year, and Pete offered to take Burke along for a little grease-monkey action since they’d be stationary for the day, and I was glad of the break. Besides, what boy doesn’t need to know how to replenish the oil in a V12 7200 horsepower motor? The noise of those babies running—singly, let alone in tandem—is enough to knock you off your feet.

  So I spent the morning humming quietly to myself while scritching masking tape across the floor in the Imogene’s former sitting room. The new exhibit, complete with interactive displays, although still in its developmental stage, was coming along nicely.

  Frankie nearly scared the hooey out of me when she came up behind me in her soft-soled therapeutic loafers.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped, clutching at my chest. The museum is closed on Mondays, and the staff—all two of us—are supposed to take the day off.

  “Same thing you are, I reckon.”

  I squinted at her. “Which is?”

  “Keeping busy so you don’t fret as much. Is it working?”

  “No.” I slid the three empty masking tape rolls I’d been wearing as bracelets off my forearm and let them clatter to the floor. The way things were going, I’d need to run to the store to pick up more supplies. “I wish police work—detecting—wasn’t so tedious. So slow.”

  “It’s been, what, four days since Cassidy’s body was found? Just a week since Burke appeared in your—o
ur—lives?” As always, Frankie was the voice of reason. I suspected it had to do with her helmet hair—perhaps that layer of shellac forced her brain into pragmatic thoughts.

  “Something like that,” I mumbled. So I decided to turn the tables on her. “You did make a copy of Darcy’s phone number, didn’t you? Just in case our swamped-with-work deputy forgets?”

  Frankie smacked her rear jeans pocket with a wink. “Available at a moment’s notice.”

  “You’re incorrigible.” I couldn’t help grinning at her.

  “Right back at you, honey.” Frankie waggled a finger at the maze I’d created on the floor with the masking tape. “Make a list of what you need. I’ll do your shopping for you.”

  Was I really that obvious? Clearly, the answer was yes. I squeezed her shoulders in appreciation and resumed measuring and diagramming.

  Until the rapid thudding of rubber sneakers on the parquet oak floor interrupted me—Burke, face shining underneath a smattering of grease smears, who was followed more sedately by my incredibly hunky husband. I will never get tired of looking at that man, no matter how smudged and worn his jeans are or how much black grime is embedded under his fingernails. He works hard, and I love him for it—among other reasons.

  “That was fast,” I said, straightening and wincing while the cricks in my back readjusted themselves. I, also, would never complain about not having a desk job—never in a million years—and not even when my morning consists of waddling while bent in half with my fingertips within sticking distance of the floor. It’s not graceful, but it gets the job done.

  “We covered the basics,” Pete said, “but I got a call from Delbert Mason, out in Arlington. He wants me to consult on a project he’s thinking about.”

  I frowned. This isn’t unusual—farmers soliciting Pete’s help in solving logistical problems. It goes with the territory. But usually the requests are last-minute, when the technique they’d been trying fails miserably, borderline catastrophically, and they call Pete more for a rescue than for an assist.