Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4)

by Jones, Jerusha

  “Looks like the cleaning crew missed the kitchen again,” Frankie huffed. “That makes the third time in two months.”

  I grinned, so grateful she kept on top of the mundane aspects of running a museum. I hadn’t noticed the sandwich droppings. They were probably mine — Muenster and pastrami on sourdough a few days ago.

  Frankie rinsed her rag and squeezed it tight. Her knuckles popped white in her plump hands. She carefully folded the rag and balanced it on the edge of the sink then turned to me. “Will you help me shop for a new vehicle? I mean not new — used probably — but new to me. I don’t know how to do it here.”

  There are no car dealerships in Sockeye County. If you want a new car, you have to drive to The Dalles, Hood River, Vancouver or Portland. Hard to do if your car is waterlogged and you’re relying on a loaner from a friend.

  “Sure. Let’s go to the Sidetrack tonight and check the bulletin board.” I pursed my lips. “Probably only pickups available, though.”

  Frankie smiled weakly. “Well, then I’ll fit right in, won’t I?” She fiddled with the rings on her right hand. “You sure you have time? I know you’re busy with the trial and the new exhibit and—”

  “Absolutely,” I interrupted. “Pete’s going a little crazy sitting still this long, not working. He was mentioning needing to catch up on his invoicing. I’ll tell him he has the night off from babysitting me. We’ll have a girls’ night out and do a little truck shopping on the side.”

  Frankie beamed.

  It was good to see her sparkle return.

  oOo

  When the museum closed, I made arrangements with Frankie to pick her up at Junction General in an hour and hurried home to drop off Tuppence and get a grilled cheese sandwich in my stomach. I was going to need sustenance. I hadn’t been on a real girls’ night out in years. I might have been a little giddy at the prospect.

  If I was giddy, Frankie was a bundle of nerves. She was waiting at the foot of the outside staircase that led to her studio apartment above the store, shifting her weight from one high-heeled boot to the other. She wore a pair of tight stretch jeans with bling on the back pockets and a little lime green blazer. A necklace of enormous gold beads hung — well, rested, actually — on her generous bosom, and she’d done something to her hair. It was softer and wavier than usual. Pale pink lipstick. She looked ten years younger.

  My eyes about fell out of my head. “Wow.” I didn’t want to say something insulting like, “Why don’t you dress like this all the time?” but it almost slipped out. I opted for “You look amazing.”

  Frankie bit her lip. “Are you sure? I could change.”

  “No.” I shoved her into my passenger seat before she could chicken out. “We’re going to have a great time.”

  I hadn’t changed clothes. I wrinkled my nose at my khaki capris and blue blouse and cute leopard print ballet flats. At least my blouse had little ruffles around the collar. I grinned and shook my head. Tonight was for Frankie — she needed distraction and fun. And if I knew the Sidetrack, she was going to get a generous helping of both in that outfit.

  Friday night and the Sidetrack’s parking lot was packed to overflowing. No doubt the out-of-towners visiting for the trial and the fair were seeking adult libations and the chance to wallow in gossip with the local yokels. The Sidetrack pulls customers from a wide territory because Mac MacDougal, the proprietor, has invested heavily in antennas and satellite dishes. If you want to watch a sporting event — of any genre — your best bet is the Sidetrack.

  I pulled open the heavy wood door and held it for Frankie. She hesitated on the threshold. I poked her in the back, and she completed her entrance.

  Three different baseball games were playing on the big screens, along with a NASCAR Camping World truck race. I elbowed Frankie. “That’s what you need.” I pointed to the trucks barreling down straightaways and around left-hand curves at 160 miles per hour.

  “Oh my.” Frankie looked a little overwhelmed. Her head was on a swivel, taking in the crowded bar and sea of small tables with three, four, and five people hunched around each one. The nasal twang of a country western song about a cheating husband wailed from a corner jukebox.

  A few shaggy-haired guys with bar towels tied around their waists in lieu of aprons shimmied between chair backs balancing beer bottles on cork covered trays. Mac can never find enough women to waitress during his busy times, so he relies heavily on a cadre of male cousins. The guys are pretty good eggs about serving and bussing tables, saving up enough in the summers to pay for their community college classes.

  The air conditioners were working hard, but with this many warm bodies crammed together, the room was only nominally cooler than outside. Sweat trickled from my hairline to my brow. I wiped it away.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s check the bulletin board first, then ask Mac. He knows who keeps their vehicles in good shape and who doesn’t.”

  I forged a path through much taller, masculine bodies. I’d never seen the Sidetrack so full. I wondered what the fire marshal would have to say about the sardine conditions. He was probably in here somewhere.

  Frankie and I got a little breathing room in the hallway leading to the restrooms, directly in front of the huge community bulletin board. We got several “Hey, Babe” comments and under the breath whistles, but nothing too overt. We pretended that we were concentrating on reading every single notice pinned to the board.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Frankie whispered.

  “I forgot it was Friday and county fair weekend,” I murmured back. “But we’re here now, so let’s do this.” I snatched all the vehicle-for-sale ads I could find off the board.

  Raucous cheering erupted in the big room. Sounded as though the Mariners’ designated hitter had powered a line drive out of the park.

  I squeezed behind the row of men on stools pressed up to the bar, Frankie hard on my heels. I might have felt an ill-placed pinch on my backside, but I chose to ignore it.

  Frankie, though, squealed, “Oooo,” and started flailing her shiny silver purse around by the handle.

  I whirled and jabbed my index finger at the possible culprit, my eyes narrow. “Watch it, buster.”

  He held up both hands in mock innocence, a smirk on his stubbly face. It was the fire marshal.

  I grabbed Frankie’s arm and pulled her to the hinged counter section that acted as a gate for the servers. We ducked under and escaped to the relative calm behind the bar.

  “Meredith.” Mac flashed a lopsided smiled. “Can I help you ladies?”

  I thrust the fistful of ads toward him. “I’m sorry. I know you’re incredibly busy. Any suggestions as to which of these we should look at? Frankie’s in the market—” I pointed to her. “For a pickup — I mean a truck.”

  “Frankie.” Mac held out his hand, and Frankie shook it. “Welcome to my humble establishment. You girls feel free to stay back here as long as you like, out of the fray.” He winked at us and spread the papers on the counter.

  “Mmhmm,” he said and shuffled the pages into order, setting three aside. “These’ll do. In fact—” Mac waved his arm toward the end of the bar and hollered, “Zane!”

  A mild-faced man, nearly bald, in a snug red t-shirt sporting the Massey Ferguson logo, looked up. He nodded, eased off his stool and moved our direction.

  “This here’s Zane Johnson,” Mac said. “Owner of the Ford F-150.” Mac handed the ad to Frankie. “Your best bet, probably,” he whispered. “But don’t tell anyone I said so.”

  Then louder, Mac said, “Zane, this pretty lady here is looking to buy a pickup. Yours still for sale?”

  “That so?” Zane had a musical baritone voice and thick, farmer-muscled arms.

  I grinned and glanced at Frankie. Her mouth hung open in a little o, her eyes wide. She was still clutching her purse in front of her like a barricade. Uh-huh.

  “It’s in the lot.” Zane tipped his head toward the door. “Want to see it?”

  “
I guess so,” Frankie squeaked.

  Through some invisible means, the news had spread that we were vehicle shopping, and a group of curious onlookers gathered as Zane opened the driver’s door of his truck and helped Frankie climb in.

  It was a nice pickup, no more than three or four years old. Zane fiddled with knobs and levers, adjusting the seat until Frankie could reach the pedals.

  “How’s that for ya?” he asked, leaning way into the cab, his hand on the back of the headrest.

  “Fine,” Frankie piped. “I think I can see.” She stretched to lift her chin over the top of the steering wheel.

  Zane pressed more buttons, and the seat slowly tipped up, elevating Frankie into a comfortable driving position.

  “All these gadgets,” she said, almost giggling.

  Zane was spending a long time explaining the dashboard controls. I stepped back and bumped into a solid mass behind me.

  “Hey there,” he said, his hand resting lightly on my elbow. “You looking for a pickup too?”

  “Nope. Just my friend.”

  “Thought maybe you’d want to take me for a test drive.”

  “Not on your life.”

  He shrugged. “Was worth a shot.” He ambled away.

  Another man sidled up to me. “I got a truck for sale.”

  I pointed to Frankie. “She’s making the decision.”

  The man nodded, and I realized there was a sort of queue of men waiting to show Frankie their pickups. I had a feeling several more trucks than had been posted on the bulletin board were suddenly for sale.

  Frankie seemed to be holding her own, asking about engine capacity and towing power. I had no idea what she planned to tow, but I wasn’t worried about her ability to manage the situation anymore.

  I retreated to Mac’s office and spent a couple hours with my feet propped on his desk, sketching display case design ideas. I wanted a permanent flip stand for the WWII photography exhibit once it moved from the featured spot in the ballroom to our archive room.

  Mac is a master woodworker in his spare time and builds all the custom cabinets for the museum in his shop behind the tavern. He popped in every once in a while to refill my lemonade and give me rough estimates of costs for each design.

  Apparently, a girls’ night out isn’t quite as glamorous and exciting as I remember. When I caught myself dozing for the third time, I stretched and ventured out into the tavern. I rousted Frankie from the jukebox corner where she was holding court.

  “Sorry, fellas. Her carriage awaits,” I said.

  “’Bye, all.” Frankie wiggled her fingers in a flirty wave and dimpled as men scrambled out of the way.

  Once we’d climbed into my pickup and were headed toward Junction General, I asked, “See anything you liked?”

  “Oh my, yes,” Frankie gushed. “Zane’s going to stop by the museum at lunchtime tomorrow so I can take a spin in his truck. Maybe a couple other options too, but I like the Ford best.”

  I grinned in the dark. “Sounds like a plan.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Saturday was an inordinately productive day at the museum — which I desperately needed. I whipped the photography exhibit into shape, cataloged the Indonesian pottery and unearthed the scarred wood surface of my desk from stacks and stacks of paperwork.

  True, I just shoved the papers into my filing cabinet, but if I can cross a task off my list, it counts.

  I covered the gift shop so Frankie could have her test drive with Zane. She returned giggling, flushed and with a limp bouquet of flowers.

  “I’ll just put these in water,” she called, hurrying toward the kitchen.

  Her eyes were still sparkling when she set the vase on the counter by the cash register. Frankie’s a recent divorcée — just finalized in the last year — and she’d never shared the sordid details with me. But I’d gleaned from her sparse comments that her husband had suffered a mid-life crisis of epic proportions and taken up with the twenty-something daughter of an associate. It was good to see her happy.

  “So,” I said, “how was it?”

  “Zane’s soooo nice.” Frankie clasped her hands together.

  “And the truck?”

  She giggled. “Um, I guess it works okay. We didn’t go very far. He packed a picnic. Tailgating, he called it.”

  “The most important feature of a pickup. Sounds like Zane knows what he’s doing.”

  Frankie blushed. “He has a farm — about an hour east of here — and he’s going to show me around tomorrow. He has bottle-fed calves.”

  I gave Frankie a quick side hug. “Flowers and baby animals. Mmhmm. You’re in good hands.”

  “Oh, shush.” Frankie shoved me away, still beaming. “Get back to work.”

  oOo

  Late Saturday afternoon, Otto called.

  “I hate to tell you this, Meredith, but I think you’re going to be recalled to the stand on Monday. Alden’s pulled a few nasty — albeit legitimate — tricks and convinced Judge Lumpkin he needs clarification about your cell phone being found under Mr. Wexler’s body.”

  I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Now, now,” Otto said. “The judge has restricted him to clarification only. He won’t be allowed to open any new questions.”

  I fell into my office chair.

  “We have a few housekeeping things to do Monday morning. I’m not sure what time you’ll be called. Probably best if you stay available. Judge’ll declare a recess to give you time to drive to the courthouse when we’re ready.”

  I rubbed my forehead. I suddenly had a pounding headache.

  “Meredith?” Otto sounded worried. “You’ll do fine. Just like the first time. Straight and steady answers, that’s all.”

  “Okay,” I croaked.

  I spent a few minutes breathing, giving myself a pep talk. Just like before. You lived through that. It’ll be over soon.

  I dialed Sheriff Marge.

  “Yep,” she answered.

  “How’s George?”

  “Same. They’re monitoring his fluid levels. Apparently burn victims lose lots of fluids and salts and need more calories than normal in order to heal. Sounds like they have things under control.”

  “But he’s still unable to talk?”

  “Right.” Sheriff Marge sounded tense, her voice clipped.

  “You know I have to testify again on Monday?”

  “I heard. I don’t think I’ll be able to spare a deputy since we’re guarding George. Can you get to the courthouse by yourself?”

  I bristled. I’m not incompetent. Then I remembered Archie’s help in sneaking me past the crowds. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You can still use the jail entrance. They’ll be ready for you.” Sheriff Marge sighed. “Hard part’s just starting. We have to secure the jury while they’re deliberating.”

  “Are they being sequestered?”

  “Judge Lumpkin’s considering it. We don’t want anything to jeopardize the outcome.”

  “Wow,” I whispered. And I thought I had problems. “Take care.”

  oOo

  Pete was coming for dinner. I figured it was the least I could do considering he’d been feeding me the past few days.

  He arrived in a roar and rocked the bike up on its stand. He pulled off his helmet, revealing a wide grin. His snug black t-shirt wasn’t bad either.

  Those crinkle-cornered blue eyes get me every single time. I grinned back. “You’re just like a little boy with that thing.”

  He swung off the bike and grabbed me around the waist. “You like it too.” He nuzzled my cheek with his three-day stubble.

  I wriggled, but he held me fast. Have I mentioned Pete’s the best cuddler, hands down — or up — ever?

  “I don’t get you all to myself very often,” he murmured.

  Warm tingles flooded over me. He pulled me tight against him — I certainly wasn’t able to stand on my own at that moment.

  “Yoohoo.” Harriet’s cheery voice sounded from the far
side of the RV.

  Pete froze mid-squeeze.

  “Babe,” he muttered, “you have the nosiest neighbors.”

  I sighed and rested my forehead against his chest. “I know.”

  Pete slowly released me. Harriet popped around the corner of the fifth-wheel, a plastic bag dangling from her elbow and a covered dish in her hands. Herb, carrying a long rifle, lagged behind.

  “We were just sitting down to dinner when we saw Pete drive in. Thought we’d come share a meal with you, potluck style.” Harriet plunked her dish on the picnic table next to the salad I’d prepared.

  Herb had a pained look on his face, and I knew the idea had been all Harriet’s. He laid the rifle across the end of the picnic table, cleared his throat and stuck out his right hand. “Pete.”

  “Herb.” They shook hands stiffly.

  “Well, isn’t this nice.” Harriet stood, fists on hips, and smiled brightly at each of us in turn.

  I ducked my head and chuckled. “I have potato skins in the oven. I’ll be right back.”

  From inside the trailer, I heard Pete and Herb discussing the cougar threat. Herb said he wasn’t going anywhere without his rifle until the big cat was caught or Fish & Wildlife confirmed it had moved on. I plucked potato skins off the foil-lined baking sheet and piled them on a platter.

  “Hand me the silverware,” Harriet called from the bottom of the steps. “And napkins. I’ll set the table.”

  I wrinkled my nose and did as instructed. In spite of her busybody tendencies, Harriet’s more of a grandmother to me than the remote, snobby woman I can still claim biologically. I really do adore Harriet and ended up sliding in beside her on the picnic bench.

  “Honey,” she put an arm around my shoulders, “we got your note. Tell us about your cougar sighting yesterday. How close did it come?” Worry furrows ridged her brow.

  Herb scooped pulled pork onto his plate. “Think it was the same one?”

  A furry body brushed my legs. I gasped then realized it was Tuppence on her way over to Herb. He’s been known to slip her a nibble or two under the table. She sits at his feet whenever we eat together.