He had traveled up the gorge on a regular basis in the early to mid-1940s, stopping at factories, canneries, farms and ports documenting industry and daily life. Along the way, he also happened to capture the scenic beauty of white water rapids, plunging cliffs, waterfalls and rolling hills covered with coniferous forests.
Rupert had sat next to Whitaker’s great-nephew on a flight to Boston last spring. By the time the plane landed, he’d agreed to provide a permanent home for the negatives, slides and photographs the nephew had inherited and didn’t know what to do with. I think both men were immensely happy with the arrangement. I know I was. I got lost for hours pouring over the images which I’d scanned into the museum’s database.
Tuppence snoozed under the picnic table while I clicked through the pictures, grouping them into storyboards for the exhibit. I was trying to decide if chronological or thematic was the best presentation when my phone rang.
“George’s asking for you,” Sheriff Marge said when I answered.
“Be right there.”
“Take your time. He’s woozy and not entirely coherent yet. The hospital staff will waive visiting curfew for you.”
I hung up. No matter what Sheriff Marge said, I couldn’t get to the hospital fast enough. I bundled the laptop into the trailer, filled Tuppence’s food bowl and dug a pair of sandals out of the bottom of my closet.
The skin on my legs crinkled as I bent to buckle the straps, and the rough stubble from not shaving for a couple days crumbled under my touch. I ran a hand up my calf and winced at the sting of contact. The hair was singed to black frizzle. I squeezed my eyes shut. What was George suffering?
I cranked down the pickup’s windows and drove the one-way winding route through the campground observing the 10 mph limit. The campground was near capacity, a summer phenomenon. Mobs of kids were out enjoying their freedom, darting between tents and swerving down paved paths on training-wheel enhanced bicycles.
At the campground entrance, I waved to a slump-shouldered, white-haired man riding a lawn mower. Herb Tinsley and his twin sister Harriet own the campground. They’d added water, electric and sewer hookups, fire pits and paved parking pads in an effort to make what had once been the family farm earn some income and pay the taxes. I was their only year-round tenant.
Herb waved back, and I turned east on Highway 14 toward Lupine, the county seat and location of the small hospital that served the entire county plus the near halves of the three bordering counties.
oOo
I parked, tried to push my hair into a symmetrical tangled mess, and strode through the double sliding glass doors into the hospital’s main entrance. At the nurse’s station, the shift supervisor pointed me down a dim, quietly carpeted hallway.
Number 114 was on the left. I tapped and pushed the heavy door, widening the opening until I could peer in.
George, dark and surprisingly small, lay in the center of a white bed with the sheets smooth up to his waist. Surgical tape crisscrossed his bare chest, holding gauze pads that encased his left shoulder. A tube ran from an IV shunt in the back of his hand to a bag of fluid suspended on a pole. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and regular.
Vinyl creaked as Sheriff Marge shifted in the squat visitor’s chair, motioning me into the room. “I called you too soon,” she whispered hoarsely. “He mumbled your name a few times then went back to sleep. Hasn’t stirred since.”
I gingerly slid the other chair, trying to keep it quiet on the linoleum tile, near hers and settled into it. “How is he?”
“Doc says it’s as though a flash fire or heat wave skimmed over him, burning the high points as he lay on his side — his left shoulder, left hip’s the worst, some on his feet and lower legs. They put him under while tending the wounds, just to help with the pain, but Doc doesn’t think he’ll need skin grafts.”
“That’s good.” I exhaled and rubbed my eyes. A tension headache throbbed behind them.
“Why were you at George’s today?”
“Just visiting. I try to every few months, keeping tabs on him, making sure he’s okay. I know he doesn’t have close family. Is there anyone to notify?”
Sheriff Marge nodded. “Took a while to piece things together, but one of his neighbors remembered George mentioning that a cousin was expecting her third child. Umatilla Nation. So I called a community liaison, and they figured it out. They’re sending someone to tell her.”
“What are they saying?”
“Terrible accident, but that George is expected to recover.” Sheriff Marge leaned forward and looked at my sandaled feet. “Why were you wearing sneakers? Your toes would have been burned like George’s hip if you hadn’t been wearing them.”
“Was it an accident?” I still wanted to know what the huddled conference of law enforcement and first responders at the campground was about.
Sheriff Marge ran her hand through her short gray hair, making it stand on end. “Answer my question first.”
I wrinkled my nose — the truth was embarrassing. At least it damaged the idea I’d like to have of myself that I’m not prejudiced. “It’s the same reason I won’t take Tuppence when I visit. There’s a lot of junk lying around the campground — rusty metal bits, fish hooks, parts of old cars, who knows — and I want protection in case I stub my foot against something.” I shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t bother the residents, and George’s place is clean, but—”
Sheriff Marge turned toward me, her khaki uniform straining over the Kevlar vest that sheathed her torso. The uniform company must have a special size for her — somewhere between XL and XXL but eight to ten inches shorter than the pants and shirts they make for their standard male customers.
“The firefighters found some not-so-rusty metal bits and wires and what could be a timing device. There might have been a couple rigged together.”
“A couple—?” I choked on the words and lowered my voice. “You mean pipe bombs?”
“Who knew you were going to George’s?”
I straightened in surprise. “I told Sally at church yesterday.” I squinted, trying to remember. “And I said something at Junction General on Saturday because Gloria mentioned that a package of mesquite chips George had special ordered had come in. Saved him the drive since I was going out anyway.”
“In other words, the whole town of Platts Landing knew.”
I raised my hands, palms up. “Does it matter? I don’t think George has any enemies.”
“But you might.”
“What?”
“You’re the key witness in the biggest trial in this county’s recent memory.”
“But Sally and Gloria wouldn’t—”
“No. But someone who overheard an innocent conversation might.”
“They could get to me any number of ways.”
“Exactly.”
“No, I mean — why at George’s?”
“Because a stranger poking around George’s trailer would raise a lot fewer eyebrows than one lurking at Riverside.”
She had a point. But still. The testimony I’d give at the trial was already public knowledge — like everything else in Platts Landing, apparently. If I became incapacitated before the trial, the prosecutor could just submit my sworn statement recounting finding my rigor-mortised ex-fiancé face down in a pit, couldn’t he?
Sheriff Marge rubbed the spot between her eyebrows. “I’m grasping at straws here. Maybe those parts were George’s alarm clock and chunks of kitchen sink drain pipe that blew up along with everything else — we won’t know for a couple days. Just be careful, okay? Providing security for this trial has me on edge. Not to mention the defense attorney’s crazy demands.”
I studied her out of the corner of my eye. “I haven’t met him.”
“Count your blessings. You will soon enough.” Sheriff Marge exhaled loudly. “There are very few people I truly dislike, and he’s turning out to be one of them.”
A white-clad nurse slipped into the room on rubber-soled shoes. Sh
e was a throwback to the ‘60s, or maybe a convent — starched A-line skirt, thick white stockings, pressed blouse, and a brunette bouffant with perfectly scooped ends that skimmed her shoulders with hairsprayed precision. She wore burgundy-framed cat’s eye glasses that magnified her pale green eyes to about three times their actual size.
I wondered what it would be like to wake from a coma with this nurse leaning over you. It might make for an extended recovery period, or a relapse. The huge, nearly round, blinking eyes reminded me of early alien movies — which I won’t admit to watching when I was in high school.
She checked George’s IV bag. “Alright, girls. It appears Mr. Longshoe will be sleeping through the night. Maybe he’ll feel like chatting tomorrow.”
I stood and slid my hand under George’s which lay limp and heavy on the white sheet. He continued breathing rhythmically without even an eyelid flicker.
“It’s the morphine, hon. Better let him rest.” The nurse patted my arm.
oOo
I drove home into the sunset. Not the romantic notion of a cowboy on his steed. More like a squinty, sweaty, vibrating furnace ride. I gulped in the hot wind gushing through the open windows and wished, once again, for air conditioning. I could’ve slept on the cool floor in George’s hospital room and been quite happy. My old truck is good for many things, but it’s lacking in creature comforts and cup holders.
A dry haze of wildfire smoke and harvest dust turned the horizon the color of rosy peach fuzz. Highway 14 was a black, glistening line — the asphalt having liquefied on the sticky surface — running parallel with the railroad tracks and smooth cobalt river. It was as though everything lay still and faintly panting, conserving lifesaving moisture.
A pipe bomb — maybe. Or a horrible accident. George’s campground was the type of place to give a safety inspector the heebie-jeebies. But unlike his neighbors, George was a careful, intentional man — exhibited in so many ways from his precise diction to the alphabetized by author then by title books lined flush with the front edges of his bookshelves to the neat stacks of canned goods in the open cupboards above his empty sink. He never let dirty cups or plates accumulate. Yet his trailer had born the brunt of the blast — even I could see that. I prayed George would heal quickly — rapidly, miraculously — and be able to talk to me tomorrow.
I turned off the highway into Riverside’s verdant lushness, courtesy of the Tinsley twins’ vigilant irrigation. Herb flagged me down as I passed the campground’s check-in booth. I pulled into a parking spot by the garbage dumpsters and hopped out.
Herb shuffled over, the setting sun backlighting his wispy white hair and giving him a halo effect. As a pair, the twins talk as much as any two people, but that’s because Harriet makes up for Herb’s taciturnity. My communication with Herb is usually limited to nods, waves and monosyllables.
“Found fresh cougar prints,” Herb said. “Big.”
I frowned. “Close by?”
His bright blue eyes settled on the playground where a couple kids were flying high on the swings. “In mud near a broken sprinkler head. In the B loop.”
The sound of squeaking swing chains punctuated the time it took for the threat to sink into my mind. A big cat with sharp claws and teeth roaming near flimsy nylon tents and little people.
“Keep Tuppence in nights and an eye on her during daylight.” Worry creases lined Herb’s forehead.
“I need to work—”
“Harriet’ll be glad of the company.”
“It wouldn’t take a child, would it?”
“Wouldn’t know not to, if it was hungry enough.”
A little girl squealed as an older brother doused her with a Super Soaker, then she turned to chase him, her orange flip flops flashing in the fading light.
Herb rubbed the enlarged knuckles of his left hand with his right thumb. “I’ve made the rounds, warning folks, and posted notices.”
“Can you trap it?”
“That’s Fish & Wildlife’s call.” The muscles in his jaw tightened. “Maybe it’ll move on. Could be a young male looking for new territory.”
Cougars usually avoid humans, disturbed by our noise and unpredictability.
“It’s hungry — to be this close,” I said.
“Yep.”
CHAPTER 3
The next morning, I packed a can of dog food, dry kibbles and a rawhide chew toy and led Tuppence to the plain but sturdy farmhouse where Herb and Harriet live. We wove through the remnants of old orchards that provide shade for the campsites and peaches, apples and pears for cobblers and jam in the fall.
Tuppence’s back half wriggled with delight when Harriet exclaimed over her and invited her into the big farm kitchen. Doggy daycare at its finest.
“We’ll have a good time. Don’t you worry.” Harriet’s blue eyes — a match to Herb’s — sparkled. Her voice lilted like a youngster’s with a new friend, anticipating a day of paper dolls and mud pies. She was dressed for adventure in knee-length denim shorts and an old button-down shirt blotched with various paint colors.
“Are you going to the courthouse today?” she continued. “Are you nervous? I’ve been called for jury duty a few times, and I got butterflies in my stomach listening to all those stern lectures about doing my duty as a citizen. And I always knew beforehand if the person was guilty or not. Take that Jackson Heath who was arrested for shoplifting. Why, his mother told me what she found in his pockets when she did the laundry, and so I let Judge Lumpkin know—”
“Harriet,” I interrupted. “Just a normal day at the museum for me. The prosecutor said he’d call when I need to go in. I think they’re still doing jury selection.”
Harriet squeezed my arm. “I wish I was on this jury. Then I could be there for you and listen to everything you have to say. It must be so hard.” She sighed dramatically.
“You’re doing me a wonderful favor by caring for Tuppence.”
“Oh, yes.” Harriet clasped her hands together. “I think we’ll spend the morning in the garden. Matlock comes on at 11:30. Would she like a bath? It’s so hot.”
“If you happen to squirt her a few times with the hose, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” I grinned.
“Ah, sneaky.” Harriet shooed me off the porch. “Get along with you before I talk your ear off.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as I strode across the lawn back to my fifth-wheel. At least the news of George’s trailer explosion hadn’t reached Harriet yet. Maybe the state line formed a invisible barrier against the rapid spread of rumor — and truth. Probably not. I’d be willing to bet the Tinsleys would know by the end of the day.
In the meantime, they had enough to worry about. The campground was coming to life slowly, with subdued voices and the accompanying odors of bacon frying and coffee brewing. Sweat dribbled between my shoulder blades. It was going to be another scorcher.
I called the hospital, but the nurse in charge didn’t care to share details. She said George was resting comfortably. I left a message with Sheriff Marge to see if she had more information about George’s condition and the investigation.
oOo
My phone chimed on the drive to the Imogene museum. I pulled it out of my tote bag and thumbed a quick peek at the screen. A text from my favorite DHL delivery guy.
I pressed on the accelerator and sped down the access road to the large parking lot shared by the Imogene, the county park and marina. Instead of parking out front as I normally do, I zipped around to the back side of the mansion where we hide the garbage dumpsters — and where we accept large deliveries. A bright yellow van idled near the ramp to the museum’s basement, its rear doors open.
I skidded to a stop and hopped out of my truck. “What do you have?”
Derek was already stacking wood crates on his hand truck. “Panunjak, Lombok.”
“Huh?”
Derek laughed. “Somewhere in Indonesia. Twenty-three crates.”
I stood with my fists on my hips. I must have been scowling because Der
ek asked, “Not expecting them?”
I snorted. “I thought Rupert was in Australia.”
“Well, it’s not too far. Same hemisphere.”
It was my turn to laugh. I unlocked the basement door and held it open as Derek wheeled the first load into the long dark room where we store and document our enormous backlog of curiosities Rupert’s plucked from the world’s flea markets and art galleries.
I wish I could keep better track of that man. As museum director and the sole remaining member of the prominent Hagg family, Rupert’s in charge of fulfilling the family trust’s mission to expand Sockeye County’s knowledge of local history and worldwide culture. That’s a mouthful. But he takes the responsibility very seriously, if spasmodically and tangentially. I love him even though his surprise acquisitions have thrown my plans into upheaval more than once.
I bent over Derek’s digital clipboard to shade it from the sun’s glare and signed for the shipment. Then I returned to the basement and flipped the lights on.
It was refreshingly cool. I considered spending the day hibernating down here under the stone walls and three stories of ancient mansion turned into diamond-in-the-rough cultural institution. The Imogene, circa 1902, is far too old for centralized air conditioning. My office, on the third floor, was probably already baking from heat accumulated in the attic over a weekend of scorching temps.
I’d stay until I could visit George, that is. I checked my phone in case I’d missed a call from Sheriff Marge — nope.
I might as well see what was in the crates. The bill of lading noted the contents as pottery. The people who fill out international shipment forms are singularly lacking in imagination.
Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4) Page 2