“Sorry, sir. That’s a summer feature.”
“I’ll take the game hen.” Clyde tossed the menu card against Dennis’s apron-clad front. “What about a wine list?”
“The new ones aren’t printed —”
Clyde gave an exaggerated sigh. “A bottle of your best red — merlot.”
Dennis fled to the kitchen.
“Well, we’ll just have to make the best of it, then, shall we?” Clyde said.
“Of course.” I gritted my teeth. “What’s your research area?”
By the time my sandwich arrived, I knew, without a doubt, that Clyde, regardless of how urbane he might consider himself to be and how interesting his subject matter could have been, was also self-absorbed and fatally boring. He was a cultural anthropologist for one — himself.
Dennis rescued me. He set a plate of golden, crunchy toast oozing cheese like a slow lava flow on the table. “Muenster on sourdough. I took the liberty of adding thinly sliced Granny Smith apple and chopped toasted walnuts. I hope it’s alright.”
“Dennis, you’re a saint.”
He ducked shyly and darted away.
“Absentminded galoot,” Clyde said. “He still hasn’t brought the wine.”
“I’m sure you don’t mind if I dig in. So, what’s your next book about?”
I sent out a secret thank-you over the airwaves to Dennis for forgetting the wine. There are no taxis out here, so I needed Clyde sober enough to drive me home. Although at this point, I wouldn’t mind punching him in the chops to get his keys. Maybe he’d stop talking. I tuned him out and savored every bite.
Fortunately, Clyde was oblivious to my lack of attention. I had cleaned my plate and started to doze, then got a second wind worrying about Greg. The blue propane flames flickered and hissed overhead.
I closed my eyes and pictured a map, the route from Platts Landing to Corvallis that Greg would likely take. All state and interstate highways — well-traveled roads. Someone must have spotted him. I hoped that person or persons remembered seeing Greg and made the connection with the TV news segment seeking information.
The game hen arrived ten minutes after I’d finished my sandwich. Clyde forked up a mouthful of risotto, grimaced, examined his cloth napkin, reconsidered and swallowed. I absently watched the lump move down his lengthy esophagus.
“Completely uncooked.” Clyde cleared his throat.
He went at the bird with a knife and fork and sawed and sawed without gaining traction on the rubbery appendages. He sighed and set down the silverware. “Also uncooked, I’m afraid. This is inexcusable. Let’s go.” He laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “That’ll cover your sandwich.” He ushered me to the Cadillac.
He insisted on walking me to my door. I turned to thank him for dinner. He wasn’t that much taller. I’m not sure how he got the angle, but there he was, lips mashed against mine, tongue poking around. He tasted like lettuce.
I backed up and bumped my head on the awning brace. I really wanted to spit, pull an old Amos Stanley right then and there.
“That is not — professional,” I spluttered. I held up a warning finger and prepared to knee him if he came any closer. “And completely uncalled for.” My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
“You’re clearly distressed.” Clyde retreated. “I just wanted to comfort you.”
I snorted and fixed an evil-eye glare on him. Like I’d believe that.
I watched his tail lights until they were safely out on Highway 14. He was the type who might sneak back around to see if I’d changed my mind. I blew out a big breath. Between Mac and Clyde, I was feeling a bit manhandled.
I brushed my teeth — twice — and gargled.
On a hunch, I pulled up a professor rating website. Eighty percent of the comments on Dr. Clyde Elroy were some variation on the ‘booooring — drones on and on’ theme. Tell me about it.
“Don’t go to class,” one poster noted. “Just attend the study sessions run by the TAs. They basically give you the test answers.”
I kept skimming. A few other comments stood out:
“Got a little too friendly during office hours. I buzzed out of there and didn’t go back. Aced the course anyway.”
“Has his favorite graduate teaching assistants (I was not one of them) and gives them the best projects. But then they’re doing his research for him, so not sure it’s worth the extra attention.”
“Kinda creeped me out. Kept watching me during lectures. Offered special office hours since I showed interest in the class, but I did NOT take him up on that.”
The comments were all anonymous, but I had a pretty good idea of the gender of the office hours commenters. The first one really struck a chord. I’d had an information systems professor make a pass at me once — in the empty hallway outside his office. I’d pretended to be so naive I didn’t know what he was suggesting. And then I’d skipped the rest of his classes that quarter except the final. He gave me an A.
There always seemed to be a few girls who found that kind of attention exhilarating — something about older men and the necessary clandestine nature of the affair. I figured those professors and those girls were pretty good at spotting each other.
Clyde impressed me as a coward — socially awkward but opportunistic, and apparently doing enough to keep afloat professionally. He’d written a couple books, which universities liked to see from their professors. Maybe there was a streak of brilliance somewhere in that mind of his. Hard to tell. Greg had said Angie liked working for him.
I stretched and exhaled. No point in wasting time thinking about Clyde.
Still no sign of Greg. The end of Day Four. Too many days. The odds of his survival were decreasing rapidly. Greg was smart, though — practical. He’d keep his wits about him.
I fell asleep praying for Greg. God’s forte is dealing with overwhelming odds, right?
CHAPTER 10
"Tell me what I can do,” I begged.
“Nothing,” Sheriff Marge replied.
Tuppence watched me pace from the kitchen island to the fireplace, back and forth.
“What about his cell phone? Does it have a GPS locater?”
“We tried that first thing. It didn’t respond to pings, and the phone company can’t triangulate it. Either the battery’s dead or it’s somewhere the signals can’t reach.”
“What kind of places?”
“Bank vaults, wells and the bottom of rivers if the battery shorted out.”
“Do you think —”
“No. I shouldn’t have said that. Look, Meredith, there just haven’t been any valid tips, no confirmed sightings, no CCTV video — nothing. I can’t think of when we’ve had an adult missing person case with so little to go on. Usually the car turns up, stolen or something.”
“The search yesterday? Dale said —”
“Nothing. I figured that going in, but, since we had the manpower, we checked it out anyway. Clearly, the car wasn’t there, and we really need to find Greg’s car. That would give us clues at least. It was busywork, Meredith. Sorry.”
I sighed. It was hard to be angry. We were all looking for something to do, some way to feel useful — some way not to go crazy with worry. Besides, anger wasted precious gray cells. Greg hadn’t left clues, so I was going to have to figure out what he had been planning. From nothing. And fast. I just needed something — a spark, a flash of creative inspiration, a sudden psychological insight — something.
“Go to the museum. Do your job. And don’t you dare hole up in your RV. You need to be around people right now. Tuppence doesn’t count.”
I looked at the dog stretched out on the floor. “She’d beg to differ. Anyway, I have school tours today, so you needn’t worry. Take care.” I hung up.
Tuppence raised her head.
“Yeah, yeah. Breakfast. I didn’t forget.”
I let Tuppence out then followed and filled her bowl with kibbles. I dumped out the ice-skimmed puddle in her water dish and refilled it.
&nb
sp; Every grass blade was coated with white frost, sparkling in the weak sunlight. A wisp of fog along the river bank was quickly burning off. Cold, but it would be beautiful today. I tipped my head back and let out puffs of breath steam like smoke signals.
If Greg was exposed, last night would have been hard to live through. He was so skinny, no built-in insulation. I hugged myself and rubbed my upper arms.
Tuppence stood on the steps and waited for me to open the door and let her back into the warm trailer.
“Right behind you, old girl.”
o0o
At the museum, I strolled through the quiet halls, planning the route I’d take with the kids. This would be the five-year-olds’ first school visit to the museum. They would tour each year through the sixth grade. I tried to spread out what I showed each grade so the tours wouldn’t be an exact repeat of the prior year.
Kindergartners were always fun — spunky, inquisitive and easily bored. They also tended to bump into things, climb on things and get lost in the odd nooks and crannies of the old building. Sally would perform many head counts during their visit.
I went to my office and stared out the window. A square of sunshine fell over my shoulders. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the warmth as it slowly sank in. I wanted to fall asleep and not wake up unless a happy ending was guaranteed. The pinprick nap that lasted a thousand years. I didn’t need true love’s kiss — I’d be satisfied with Greg’s safe return.
The single buzz of an internal call interrupted my reverie.
“A school bus just pulled into the parking lot,” Lindsay said.
“Be right down.”
I indulged in the luxury of descending the grand staircase then waded into the tide of little people surging through the front doors. Pink-cheeked kids in primary-colored puffy coats bounced off each other like pinballs. A few hats were already off and getting trampled on the floor. Static-y hair recently released from the hats stood on end.
I thought Fisher-Price got it right when they designed the little pull-along bus with indentations for toy people inside. I’d dragged that bus everywhere as a toddler — upstairs, downstairs, and cried when I wasn’t allowed to read to my friends at nap time. This was better. I grinned at my living swarm of miniature people.
A few adults ringed the periphery — chaperon parents. I waved to the graphic designer mom I’d met at the potluck. She had the baby strapped into a carrier on her back.
Sally bustled over. “Well, here we are.” She gave me a quick hug and whispered, “I’m so sorry about Greg. Mort told me you were out helping search last night. We’re sure praying he’ll be found — soon and safe.”
I squeezed her back. “I know. Thank you.”
Sally clapped her hands. “Find your partner. Line up right here in front of me.” The children shuffled into a crooked line, holding hands, and looked up expectantly. “This is Ms. Morehouse, and she is the curator here at the museum. Who knows what a curator does?”
Several hands shot up. Sally pointed to a runny-nosed boy.
“You know how old stuff is and where it came from.”
I grinned. “That’s right. I make sure all the really neat things are on display so people can learn about them. Do you want to know what it was like to live one hundred years ago?”
While most nodded, one stubborn child in the back shook her head in an emphatic ‘no.’ I ignored her.
“How about two hundred years ago?” More vigorous nodding except the dissenter in the back.
“My grandpa is really old,” another little girl offered.
“Well, we have some things that are even older than he is. Ready to go find them?” A hand waved mid-pack.
“Yes, Quentin,” Sally said.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh dear. Maybe that should be our first stop?” She raised her eyebrows in my direction.
“Of course.” I chuckled and led the way.
After all the kindergartners gained expert knowledge of the museum’s restroom facilities, I walked them through the more tactile exhibits, keeping the pace up and encouraging questions. The early appliances room was a hit, especially when the kids took turns cranking the handle on the British mangle. The rug room was appropriately vilified for its musty odor, complete with nose pinching.
The taxidermy room with moth-eaten specimens of black bear, elk, cougar, mountain goat, beaver, opossum, golden eagle and one sadly flaking rattlesnake generated awe and perhaps a little apprehension. Sally liked to have her class go through the exhibit because it prompted energetic discussion later, once the kids had a chance to recover.
I saved the chamber pot display for last. I stopped at the door to the bedroom and waited for the stragglers to catch up.
“This room used to be a bedroom, back when the Hagg family lived here. It was probably Bernice Hagg’s room. She was the sister of the man who built the house, and she lived here for many years.” She had also died during a grand mal seizure in the kitchen where she’d been instructing the cook how to make floating islands, but I didn’t tell the kids that. “Do you remember the bathroom downstairs?”
Lots of nodding.
“This house is fancy, so it always had bathrooms. But not everyone had a bathroom in their house back then. And if they didn’t have a bathroom, they would dig a big hole in the ground and put a little building over the hole for privacy, and use that to go to the bathroom. Has anyone used an outhouse before?”
A sea of waving hands. I pointed at one of them.
“When we go camping, we use an outhouse,” the boy said. “It’s smelly and there are bugs and spiders in there.”
“You don’t have to flush,” another kid announced.
“Yep, they’re not always very nice, are they? What happens if you live in a house that doesn’t have a bathroom — and it’s the middle of the night — and it’s snowing outside — and you have to go to the bathroom? What do you do?” I had their full attention.
“You hold it?” a girl said, her eyes wide.
“What if you can’t hold it?”
“Then you wet your bed,” the first boy said matter-of-factly. “Or wear a diaper.”
This was met with guffaws.
“Diapers are for babies,” said another voice.
“That’s right.” I tried to grab control. “How many of you have younger brothers or sisters who are being potty trained?”
About half of them raised their hands.
“That’s so gross.”
“He gets M&Ms if he goes.”
“Eeeww. My brother still wears diapers.”
“Do any of them use a potty chair?” I shouted over the melee.
“Oh, yeah.”
“One time it tipped over in the car.”
“Well, guess what people used at night when they didn’t have a bathroom in their house?” I said.
Their eyes swiveled back to me, riveted.
“Potty chairs. Except they were called chamber pots. Some were big, some were small.” I moved my hands with the sizes. “Some were fancy, some were plain. And everybody used them, even grown-ups. Do you want to see them?”
There was a general pushing and elbowing as they crowded into the room.
Sally caught up with me just outside the door. “This is so great,” she murmured. “They’re fascinated by the basics of life, especially bodily functions.”
“I can’t believe we paid good money to look at potty chairs,” Quentin said as he craned his neck to see over the kid in front of him.
Sally whirled away, shoulders quaking. When she came back, she said in a strangled voice, “His father’s the mayor. I’ll have to tell him admission is free for school groups.”
Giggling erupted in the bedroom.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” a child announced indignantly.
“I just wanted to see.” The little voice ended in a whimper.
Sally frowned. “That —”
But I didn’t wait for he
r to finish. I moved children out of the way and headed toward the two girls and one boy who were bent over the bedside chamber pot. I peered through the space between their heads to find that one of the girls was actually sitting in the chamber pot — fully clothed, but stuck.
She wriggled, her rubber-toed sneakers skidding on the floor without gaining traction. Her brown eyes filled with tears, and they dribbled down her flushed cheeks. She started shifting from side to side, rocking the chamber pot — the Dutch windmill chamber pot.
“Whoa, whoa, honey.” I grabbed her under the arms and lifted her up — pot and all — and set her gently on the bed. “We’ll get you out. It’s okay.”
The little girl’s lower lip trembled.
“Paulina!” The graphic designer mom rushed over. She glanced at me, apologetic. “She’s mine.”
Paulina succumbed to deep, hiccupy bawling.
I realized the room behind me was silent and turned. Twenty-three pairs of saucer eyes stared back from frightened little faces. The faster I could diffuse the situation, the less traumatic for everyone.
“Everything will be alright,” I announced loudly over Paulina’s wails.
I leaned toward the mother. “Let’s get her coat off. Too much padding.”
I tugged on the coat’s hem which was wedged inside the pot’s rim while the mother pulled on the sleeves, raising Paulina’s arms over her head. With a soft phffft, the coat came free. Paulina calmed to jerky sniffing.
“Okay, now Paulina, I want you to lie on your side and touch your toes. Everyone can do this, right? Like Simon Says.” I looked over my shoulder and caught Sally’s eye. Did kids still play that game?
Sally nodded. “That’s right, class. Simon says, ‘Touch your toes.’”
A rustle filled the room as twenty-three children moved, most dangling their fingers in the vicinity of their toes. A couple hopped on one foot. One fell over.
Paulina slowly stretched, and I hovered. As the little body lengthened and thinned, I got a firm hold on the pot.
The mother rubbed Paulina’s back. “Keep stretching, munchkin.”
Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) Page 8