Betty’s eyes widened. “No.”
“I wondered if they originally came in matched sets, and you just confirmed it. I’m being very bold, Betty, but how would you feel about lending your wash basin and pitcher to the museum for the display?”
“I’d be delighted. It’s not like I use them anymore. I just put them in Greg’s room for decoration.” Betty jumped up and hurried down the hall, her voice trailing after her. “I have some newspaper. I’ll wrap them up for you.”
I stepped off Betty’s porch with two neatly masking-taped bundles in my arms, smearing newsprint all over my jacket. “I’ll get you an official receipt.”
“Of course, dear. There’s no hurry.”
“The exhibit opens tomorrow, so please come visit your treasures.”
“I will, sweetie.” Betty waved until I turned onto Highway 14.
Adding Betty’s wash basin and pitcher meant I had to rearrange two and a half display cases, but I was able to give the matched set the entire eye-level shelf in the third case. I printed “courtesy of Mrs. Elizabeth Jenkins” cards to prop next to the two loaned pieces and also made Betty’s receipt while I was thinking of it. I didn’t want to risk having Betty’s family heirlooms lost in the jumble should we ever dismantle the display. Cataloging had definitely improved during my tenure as curator, but there was still a huge backlog of older items needing identification numbers and descriptions. I might have to shuffle displays as more of the items in storage became available for exhibit.
I lugged the ancient resident Hoover with the frayed cloth-covered cord upstairs. The beast weighed a ton but still sucked up anything and everything without regard to race, creed or insurance value, including floor rugs and beaded slippers if the operator wasn’t careful. The exhibit of Victorian-era ball gowns had narrowly escaped an incident with the Hoover.
After banishing all dust balls and cobwebs, I smoothed the comforter on the bed and fine-tuned the furniture arrangement. I stood in the doorway and surveyed my work. The exhibit looked good, especially with the bright yellow potty chair in the bottom corner of the last case to draw visitors’ attention.
What was I going to tell the kids during the tour tomorrow? I usually worked up spiels in my head that covered the most interesting facts but left flexibility for answering questions. But I couldn’t focus, not with worry about Greg gnawing at the back of my mind. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed Sheriff Marge.
“Meredith, I’m glad you called. We got a tip. It’s a long shot, but I’m organizing a search anyway. Maybe it will keep people from interrupting me.”
I winced. “Where?”
“Just this side of the bluff past milepost 134 on Highway 14. You can park off the highway there, then walk to the west of the bluff. A long-haul truck driver reported ‘one of those little hybrid things, silver-colored’ parked there on Sunday with the hood up. Dale’s been over the site and not found any distinguishable tire marks. No sign of a car going down the embankment, but we’ll have a look anyway.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can, probably half an hour,” I replied to dead air.
I dashed downstairs to the gift shop. “Lindsay, I’m going out. There’s a search up the highway where someone might have seen Greg’s car.”
“I’m coming with you.” Lindsay grabbed her purse and coat.
I stopped mid-stride.
“It’s okay, isn’t it? Only forty minutes until closing time, and no one’s in the building right now. Visitors, I mean.”
“Yeah. Let’s go.” I locked the big front doors behind us. “I’ll drive, but I’m going to stop and pick up Tuppence. I have this probably fruitless hope her nose might be useful. And she expects the window seat, so you’ll have to sit in the middle. Do you mind?”
“No problem.”
o0o
Lindsay held the door open, and Tuppence jumped in while the truck was still rolling, like a touch and go landing. I threw it into gear and roared out of the campground. There were already half a dozen vehicles at the parking site Sheriff Marge had described. I pulled in behind Mac’s step van.
I grabbed a leash from the glove box and snapped it onto Tuppence’s collar. People usually drove 80 on straight stretches of Highway 14 even though the posted limit was 60. We clung to the edge of the gravel as we walked around the bluff to a large, marshy area full of cattails and tall grass that spread for about forty acres. The cattails had exploded into what looked like giant hairballs, the kind of fluff that collected on sheep ranchers’ barbed wire fences.
Deputy Dale Larson stood at the top of the embankment with a clipboard under his arm.
“Meredith, Lindsay — great. You can join the east end of the line.” He pointed. Dots of brightly colored hats and jackets were scattered over the field — other searchers. But the farthest right section was empty.
“His car’s not here. There’s no way it could get far in this muck. So, you’re looking for small stuff — wallet, sunglasses, items of clothing, shoes, anything that might indicate Greg has been or still is in the marsh. Okay?” Dale looked at our feet. “Did you bring waders, rubber boots?”
“We didn’t take the time. I’ll be fine,” I said.
Lindsay nodded. “Me too.”
Dale frowned and turned to the open trunk of his cruiser. He handed us each a fistful of florescent orange nylon strips. “If you find something that looks new, within the last week or so, tie one of these to the nearest cattail. If you find anything you are certain belongs to Greg, let me know immediately — holler and wave your arms.”
Dale pointed in the opposite direction. “About twenty yards this way is a pile of gravel the highway department must have left. It’s the easiest way to get down to the marsh. You just sort of slide. I’ll help direct you to your places in line. Once you’re in the tall grass, it’s hard to get your bearings.”
We trotted to the gravel ramp and slid down, then jogged parallel to the embankment until we were directly below Dale. He did the tomahawk chop to line us up, and I plunged in. Within a few steps, my sneakers were soaked through, cold and gritty. Tuppence was lighter on her feet and scrabbled over the clumps of cattail roots.
“Good thing I’m not a girlie girl,” Lindsay said from a couple yards away.
I had thought that was exactly what she was — unknown facets. I stumbled and slowed, carefully scanning the ground from side to side.
Tuppence led like a pointer, stretched out in a straight line from nose to tail tip, plodding resolutely between the tall stalks. I let her pull me along and held an arm aloft to shield my face from the razor-sharp edges of the grass blades. I couldn’t feel my toes anymore.
The ground rose slightly as we headed toward the tree line, and soon I was walking on firmer mud populated by fewer cattails but denser grass. I stooped to examine a cracked Bic lighter. Greg didn’t smoke, but sometimes non-smokers carried lighters for other purposes. What other purposes I couldn’t quite recall. Attending rock concerts, maybe, although didn’t people just flash their cell phones these days?
I didn’t think it was worth a marker. Greg liked old jazz and blues, not rock. I remembered the lengthy discourse he’d given on the scratchy vinyl record sounds that were the backdrop to, in his opinion, the best Billie Holiday tracks. “They shouldn’t be cleaned up too much,” he’d said. “Those sounds give the feel of the smoke and scotch in her first venues — speakeasies.”
I had laughed. “You were born a couple generations too late.”
Tuppence veered left and pounced on a gigantic bullfrog.
“Ooop, leave him alone.” I pulled on the leash. “He’s just trying to get back to the water. Come on.”
No time for dilly-dallying. I stepped right out of my sneaker and pitched forward onto my hands and knees, wrist-deep in the frigid muck.
“Ugh. Graceful.”
Tuppence came back to see if she could help and got tangled in the leash. I pushed myself up and hopped around on the shoed foot looking fo
r the missing sneaker.
It was vacuum-packed in mud a couple paces back. I groaned and gingerly set my stockinged foot down in the ooze. There was no other way. I had to stand on both feet to get the leverage needed.
I scooped my fingers under the heel and pried the sneaker out. It came with a long slurping sound. I didn’t have anything to scrape the mud off my sock, so I jammed the extricated sneaker back on my foot. Some women paid good money for spa treatments that weren’t much different. Warmer maybe, with fluffy towels and cucumber slices.
A Skoal tin, several crushed beer cans, a clear plastic Gatorade bottle half full of yellowish liquid, a woman’s red knit glove that was growing moss and a soggy matchbook later, I looked up to see where we were. We had reached the edge of the forest. Douglas firs the size of Christmas trees grown for suburban homes stood like toddlers next to their giant parents. I spotted the top of Lindsay’s hood bobbing several yards away.
I stepped a few feet to my right, turned around and headed back toward the highway, retracing a parallel track, double-checking. An eyeball stared up at me.
“No way.” I blinked.
Tuppence nosed over it, and I pulled her aside. I stooped for a better look and had the eerie feeling I was standing on the chest of a cyclops buried in the mud.
I tapped the iris with my fingernail — it was hard — and pulled the eye out. After wiping it off on my jeans, I balanced it in my palm. The eye wasn’t round, or even oval — more like a simple amoeba shape. The blue-gray iris had faint striations, exactly the color of my mother’s eyes. I shivered and rolled the eye over — no markings.
Maybe it was a theatrical prop or part of a costume. I’d never seen a glass eye in person before. But it definitely wasn’t Greg’s. I dropped it into my pocket.
“Okay, folks. Come on in. It’ll be dark in twenty minutes,” Dale yelled on a bullhorn. I trudged a beeline to the embankment and met Lindsay in the cluster of other searchers at the gravel slide.
I was grateful to see so many — Mac, Pastor Mort, several people I recognized from the Sunday potlucks including the husband and father of the migrant worker family.
“Thank you for helping,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Jesus Hernandez. I think, what if it was one of my kids missing? So, I come.”
“Alright everyone,” Dale announced from above. “The gravel’s tricky, so we’ll have to team up. Mac, can you give people a boost? Grab my hands, and I’ll pull from up here. Ladies first.”
Mac had his arm around my shoulders before I even knew what was happening. “Just doing what the deputy asked me to.” He winked at me and then placed two firm hands on my behind and lifted.
“Woooaah,” I yelped. Then Dale had a grip on my arm and hauled me up.
“You okay?”
“Yes.” I tried to regain some dignity. Tuppence scrambled up the gravel slope.
Lindsay popped up right behind her. The first thing she did upon gaining her footing was brush off the seat of her jeans. “Mac is enjoying that way too much,” she muttered.
The men clambered up the side in a more ungainly fashion, but also less personally invasive. They preferred not to grasp hands let alone any other body parts.
I realized I hadn’t heard anyone shout for Dale’s attention while they were searching. I caught up with him. “Anything?”
“Nope.” He squeezed my arm. “We’re not going to give up. The right tip will come in. We just have to wait.”
Waiting. We were waiting to find Greg while he was waiting to be found. Pressure built in my chest. I wanted to scream, to rage against the waiting, against my own ineffectiveness. I should know where he went — I should know. The pressure faded, and I went suddenly numb. I’d already racked my brain so many times. Nothing.
“Oh. I found this.” I handed Dale the glass eye.
“What the —” He clicked on his flashlight and held the eye in its beam. It stared back, its surface glistening.
My stomach lurched. The thing was too real-looking.
“I wonder —” Dale murmured.
“What?”
“Probably nothing.” He slipped the eye into a plastic bag and sealed it. “Thanks, though. You just never know what you’ll find during searches like this.”
My joints creaked as Lindsay and I strolled to the pickup, cold and bone-weary. The mud in my shoe doubled for a gel insert, cushioning and gooshing around my toes. They were my favorite sneakers, and I’d probably have to throw them away. The cell phone in my pocket rang.
“Meredith? It’s Clyde. I’m checking into my hotel. I got a bit of a late start today, but I was hoping I could take you out to dinner. Greg speaks very highly of you.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Uh, okay. I need some time. We’ve just been searching a site where Greg might have been spotted.”
“Find anything?”
“No.”
“When should I pick you up? I made a reservation for 7:30 at a little winery near you, the Willow Oaks. The website says they have a wood-fired oven.”
I sighed. The Willow Oaks is Dennis Durante’s place, and the best thing about it is the website. He’d hired a photographer who’s great at taking shots that made things appear bigger and more glamorous than they really are. Lots of pictures of ripe grapes on vines and blue sky over the river. They forgot to show that the cafe is in a lean-to tacked onto a pole barn. There was certainly no need for a reservation.
Dennis is trying hard, but the town of Platts Landing just isn’t trendy enough, let alone populated enough, to support a small artisan winery and wanna-be farm-fresh bistro. The spot is quaint in daylight, but after dark on a cold night? I hoped Dennis wouldn’t mind if I asked to sit right next to the oven, even if that meant sitting in the kitchen.
“In an hour.”
“Where?”
I gave him directions to the Riverview RV Ranch.
“Spot C-17? What does that mean?”
“I live in an RV. It’s the only one in the campground right now, so it’ll be easy to find.” I chuckled after hanging up. Clyde was in for a little culture shock.
“Greg’s adviser?” Lindsay asked.
“Yeah. I guess he’s trying to help.”
CHAPTER 9
I dropped Lindsay off at her car in the museum parking lot, then hurried home to shower and dress. Tuppence needed a good rubbing down, too, and a large dinner and rawhide treat. I dabbed on some makeup. I tried lip gloss, but that lasted all of five seconds. I’m a compulsive lip-licker when I know there’s something on them besides ChapStick. Oh well. Clyde could either like me as is, or not — his call.
Tuppence woofed and looked at the door. There was a hesitant knock. I grabbed my coat and opened the door.
Clyde Elroy, dressed in slim dark jeans, untucked black button-up shirt and black leather motorcycle jacket looked the shocking antithesis of professorial. His longish hair, thinning and swept back from his forehead, could best be described as taupe. Hazel eyes, diminutive nose and chin. Middle height, probably, although I was gazing at him from the RV doorway, about eighteen inches off the ground. A hint of a paunch about his middle. The clothes and the man seemed to be at odds with each other.
He stepped forward and offered his right hand. “Meredith?”
“Hello, Clyde.” I shook his hand and nearly hit him in the face because he was trying to kiss the back of my hand. Whoops. “I’m ready.”
I hurried down the stairs and closed the door before Clyde could be subjected to hound inspection. No need to unnerve him so soon.
Clyde opened the passenger door of his black Cadillac sedan, and I slid in and bundled the coat on my lap. The car was warm inside.
“Interesting living arrangements,” Clyde said when he was buckled in. “I take it the museum doesn’t provide a housing stipend.”
“Why should they?”
“Well, this far out, I thought …”
“I have the best river view anyone could hope for.”
“Ahh. The compensation of nature.” Clyde’s smile was papery thin. He followed the instructions of the GPS’s female voice to turn left out of the campground.
“Have you spoken to Greg’s mother again?”
“No. I told her I’d call when I had news. And since there’s been no news, I haven’t called. Unpleasant woman.”
“What about his sisters? Have you talked to them?”
“Does he have sisters? I expect his mother will inform the necessary family members.”
I squinted out the windshield as the headlights bore though blank darkness. “I suppose she will let Angie know, then, as well.”
“Angie?”
“His girlfriend, on a dig in Turkey. I don’t know her last name.”
“Angie Marshall? He can’t possibly be dating Angie Marshall.”
“Like I said, I don’t know her last name.”
The GPS woman interrupted to instruct Clyde to turn off Highway 14 onto Dennis’s road.
Dennis was waiting for us, long apron tied around his middle, menu cards in hand. Little beads of sweat glistened on his forehead as he led us to a small table under a propane heater hood. I pulled on my coat.
Dennis laid the menu cards in front of us and then read them out loud. “The specials today are stuffed salmon fillet on a bed of wild rice risotto with sautéed vegetables and roast Cornish game hen on a bed of wild rice risotto with sautéed vegetables.”
“Do you have any appetizers?” Clyde asked.
I quickly laid a hand on his arm. “You know, I’m exhausted from the search today. I wonder if we could skip straight to the entrée?” Not to mention that my feet were freezing on the concrete patio where the heater couldn’t reach them.
Clyde grunted.
I smiled up at Dennis. “The specials sound wonderful, but I’m afraid I couldn’t do them justice tonight. I know you have some great cheeses on hand. Think you could make me a grilled cheese sandwich?”
Dennis bobbed his head. “Absolutely. And you, sir?”
“I was really hoping for something from the wood-fired oven,” Clyde grumbled.
Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) Page 7