Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4)

by Jones, Jerusha

  “It was all a bit of a blur,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  Pete paused, his loaded fork in mid-air. I realized I’d forgotten to tell him I’d used his slingshot to scare the cat off. He was studying me with somber eyes.

  I plowed ahead with the details — well, I left out the part about only being in my underwear, and maybe most of the yelling too — that didn’t seem essential to the plot. I wondered now if I should have let the cougar catch and eat the raccoon. Maybe the cougar would stop prowling around the campground if it wasn’t hungry. Was one raccoon enough to satiate the big cat?

  “I only hit the cougar because it moved into the stone’s flight path,” I said and cringed inside when I saw Pete’s face — I hate to make him worry.

  “You need target practice,” Harriet said. As if better aim would solve everything.

  “I also heard you and Frankie caused quite a commotion at the Sidetrack last night,” Harriet chirped, elbowing me in the ribs.

  Pete quirked an eyebrow and frowned, his lips pressed in a tight line.

  Oh boy.

  “Not really,” I said. “But Frankie does have a couple leads on a replacement vehicle. Do you know Zane Johnson?”

  Herb grunted. “Farmer. Plus a good-sized cattle spread east of Lupine.”

  “Oh, and his wife died a few years ago,” Harriet said, as if that was a positive thing. “Pancreatic cancer. I heard her death hit him really hard — he’s not been the same since. He’s a good age for Frankie.” She nodded enthusiastically.

  Pete rolled his eyes.

  “All I know is he has a nice truck for sale.” I slipped my shoe off and stretched my leg under the table until I found something solid — Pete’s shin — at least I hoped it was. I wiggled my toes against his jeans leg until a little smile played across his lips.

  He reached down and grabbed my ankle. Then he ran a fingernail up the sole of my foot. I shivered violently. I cannot stand to be tickled.

  “You cold, honey?” Harriet scooted closer as if to share some of her body heat.

  Pete smirked and dropped my foot.

  “Just a chill.” I shoved the potato skins platter toward him with a fake scowl.

  Harriet clucked. “It’s just terrible about Frankie’s cute little car.”

  “Yeah.” Pete’s voice was serious. “I hope Sheriff Marge catches George’s attackers soon. Fleeing by water was smart — they could be anywhere and left less of a trail than if they’d driven the whole way.”

  “No CCTV sightings, weather cams, no video record except maybe department of transportation cameras on the bridges. But you’re right — those are aimed at the vehicle traffic lanes, not at the water.” I shook my head. “Pop a couple beers or tow a wakeboard, and they’d look like everybody else on the river. They’ll only be caught if someone saw them, realized what they saw, and reported them with enough detail to establish identities.”

  We sat silent for a few minutes, picking at the remains of food on our plates.

  It was a helpless feeling — this waiting. Waiting to catch attackers who slipped through the cracks, waiting for George to be able to talk, waiting for something bad to happen to someone else since he was temporarily safe.

  The waiting was as oppressive as the heat wave. I was itching for something to happen — anything. Even if the anything was bad, maybe it would get things started, lead to a resolution. I also had a prolonged knot in my stomach from dreading my return to the witness stand on Monday.

  The large maple’s shade had extended from the picnic table to include the fire pit. We could sit there and still be fairly comfortable.

  I sighed and collected plates. “Anyone want to roast marshmallows?”

  Harriet clapped and bounced on the bench. “I brought coconut macaroons. We can make marshmallow coconut sandwiches.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled. “Just like when I was a girl. We made them in Girl Scouts.”

  The men got a fire started while Harriet and I cleaned up. I brought out Tuppence’s food bowl and refreshed her water bowl. She was lying in the campsite’s coolest spot — under the trailer — panting.

  We slouched in lawn chairs around the low crackling fire. Harriet was right — gooey, warm marshmallow squished between two coconut macaroons is amazing. I settled into a drowsy sugar haze.

  Pete captured my hand which had been dangling between our two chairs and brushed his fingers lightly over mine. Dusk fluttered then hovered over us like a soft-winged bird, and crickets started warming up.

  Harriet regaled us with antics she and her Girl Scout cronies had tried. What a mischievous bunch — I pitied their leader. Too many headaches and late-night rescue missions.

  Every once in a while, happy voices and laughter rose from around other campfires, and yummy barbecue smells wafted on a gentle river breeze. The kind of people who go camping make the best friends, in my experience. I tipped my head back and spotted Venus just beyond the maple’s canopy.

  I slid a little farther down in the chair, my hand still nestled in Pete’s, and had just closed my eyes when a wild, unearthly scream pierced through Harriet’s chatter.

  CHAPTER 14

  The entire campground froze in silent breathlessness for a fraction of a second, including the crickets. We lurched upright in our chairs and stared at each other.

  Herb was the first to do anything meaningful. He sprinted for the picnic table and his rifle.

  Pete jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. He ran after Herb, then turned at the corner of the trailer. “Meredith, Harriet — stay together.” Then he was gone.

  Harriet and I huddled by the fire.

  “I never—” Harriet was trembling. “Such a sound—”

  I rubbed her goose-bumped arm and shivered. All my hair was standing on end too.

  Then panic somersaulted through my chest — Tuppence. Where was she? I darted frantic glances under the trailer, under the picnic table, scanned the riverbank. Not in sight.

  I whistled for her.

  Nothing.

  I started hearing human shouts, warnings, children crying — big, terrified sobs. And then I heard my dog.

  Tuppence has an eerie howl that’s interspersed with yippy barks when she’s excited. Sometimes I think she’s half wolf, although she’s all hound by the looks of her long, floppy ears, lanky frame and white-tipped tail. I’d know that urgent wail anywhere.

  Bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. “Harriet, I have to go.”

  Harriet grabbed my hand with fierce strength. “I’m coming with you.”

  We ran.

  People had congregated at the playground — a tight group of adults who’d shoved the children inside their circle. Harriet and I staggered to a stop near them.

  I spun around. Where was she?

  A man pointed — toward the brush at the edge of the campground property.

  In the fading light, I picked out Herb, rifle raised and sighted. Pete held a branch wide at his side, essentially doubling his size. When you’re facing down a cougar, you’re supposed to make yourself look bigger. The two men stood about twenty feet apart.

  Then I saw bits of white in the brush and realized Tuppence was the point of their triangle. She danced sideways a few feet and released another crazed howl.

  “Harriet, stay here, please.” I pried her fingers off my hand. “Please?”

  The man who’d pointed stepped forward and put an arm around her shoulders. He nodded at me, his eyes hard with worry. Harriet bit her lip, but she eased back into the circle with him.

  I approached slowly, not seeing the cougar until it snarled and took a lunging swipe at Tuppence. She jumped away, just inches to spare, as though she was teasing the big cat, maybe wearing it out.

  I stopped at Herb’s left shoulder. His eyes never left the cougar, his fingers white on the rifle barrel, but he held the gun steady.

  “Call Tuppence off,” he said, his words clipped. “She’s not responding to me.”

  I knelt
and whistled softly.

  Tuppence’s ears flicked, but she remained focused on the cat.

  “I have to shoot it, Meredith. If Tuppence is in the way—”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  I called her name, keeping my voice low. “Come here, girl. Come on.” I patted my leg.

  Tuppence crouched, her hip bones sticking up above her lean body. She looked back over her shoulder — just a glance — then she was eyes-on the cougar again. The cat would kill her if it had the chance.

  “Come, girl. Make a run for it,” I said.

  Tuppence wriggled her bottom backwards — a few inches, then a few inches more.

  The cougar took a step forward. I felt Herb tense. He raised the gun a fraction of an inch.

  “One more, girl, one more,” I called.

  Tuppence scooted backward another body length. The cougar leaped, and Herb fired.

  The acrid scent of burnt gunpowder clogged the air, the rifle report still ringing in my ears — then sloppy dog kisses. Tuppence squirmed in my arms.

  “Oh, you sweet dog.” I pressed my face into her neck.

  She couldn’t stand still for happiness. She darted to the prone cougar and back again as if to tell me what she’d done. Caught that big, old, mean cat. Isn’t that something?

  I agreed it was and hugged her when she’d let me.

  Herb and Pete bent over the cougar, stretching it out. Pete waved me closer and pulled me into a tight embrace when I got there. His heart — and mine — were still thudding pretty hard.

  It was a beautiful animal. Enormous paws. Nose to tail, it was longer than I am tall. And obviously too thin — the fur stuck up in ridges over its ribs. Tuppence sniffed it.

  “What a pity,” I murmured into Pete’s shirt.

  “I’d better call Fish & Wildlife,” Herb said.

  “What will they do?” I asked.

  “They’ll come get it, measure it, see what it last had to eat.” Herb shook his head. “It is, indeed, a pity.”

  A few parents brought the braver kids over to see the cougar. It was a good lesson in wildlife management and what happens when human territory overlaps with natural predator territory.

  A side of Herb came out I’d never seen before. He held forth on the tracking, hunting and eating habits of cougars. He pressed on the cat’s paws to extend the claws, showing the kids how vicious the cat could be. He pulled back its lips to show them the fangs. He gave a thorough lesson on what to do if you encounter a cougar.

  I think the parents settled their children into bed that night with a feeling of peaceful relief, for several reasons. It’s always good to understand the threat you’re facing, and even better to have the threat eliminated.

  Tuppence enjoyed her celebrity status until I asked everyone to stop feeding her. Camping menus are doggy heaven — hot dogs, sausages, steak bones, graham crackers, packaged cookies. I even saw her carrying a corn cob around at one point. I didn’t want to have to deal with a sick hound in the middle of the night. She got belly rubs, ear scratches, maybe a few tail pulls from little kids — but she didn’t mind — and lots of praise.

  A Fish & Wildlife officer arrived a couple hours later. Harriet and I held flashlights while Herb and Pete helped him load the carcass into his pickup’s bed.

  “Thanks, folks,” Officer Benson said. “There’ve been several cougar sightings reported in the county. It’s good to have one resolved.”

  “Wish it could’ve been captured instead of killed,” Herb said.

  Officer Benson shook his head. “You don’t need to worry, sir. Cougars are becoming over-populated, concentrated due to the lack of deer this summer. We’re hoping the drought breaks soon.” He rested a big hand on Herb’s shoulder. “This one was already starving. Not sure it could’ve been saved.”

  He pulled a dog biscuit from his pocket. “If it’s alright with you?” He tipped his head toward Tuppence who sat at attention at his feet.

  I grinned and nodded.

  He knelt and gave Tuppence the treat and a rubdown. “Good hound you have here. Did your job, didn’t ya, girl?”

  Tuppence snuffled his hand for crumbs, food being her only concern in the world at the moment. What I’d give for such a carefree lack of horrifying memories.

  CHAPTER 15

  I slid into a pew next to Pete at Platts Landing Bible Church the next morning. I could sure get used to seeing him every day like this.

  Frankie scooted in beside me few minutes later, followed by — of all people — Zane Johnson. I hid my grin. He must be awfully interested to drive a whole hour to come to church with Frankie, plus a farm tour planned for this afternoon. Seemed fast, which was maybe not a bad thing. Lots of opportunity to see if the truck had all the bells and whistles Frankie might need.

  Zane nodded politely when I introduced him to Pete. I’d have to corner him later and grill him. Isn’t that what the church’s coffee hour is for? I’m not going to let just anyone date my gift shop manager.

  I absolutely love singing in church. I am not a good singer, but it doesn’t matter when you’re surrounded by friends who harmonize with gusto and mean every word.

  I struggled during the service, though. I’m sure it was an excellent, applicable message, but it’d been a late night, and I’d had trouble falling asleep. Even knowing the cougar was dead, its hair-raising scream echoed through my dreams.

  Tuppence had had a rough night, too. She’d whimpered and yipped in her sleep, no doubt giving the cougar another piece of her mind.

  Pete had to poke me awake couple times.

  Then my phone rang. Rats. Rats. Rats. I usually remember to turn it off before church starts.

  I pawed through my purse and finally pushed the silent button. Sheriff Marge’s name flashed on the caller ID.

  Pete leaned over to look. We shared a glance. George.

  I mouthed “I’m sorry” to Pastor Mort who’d carried on as though nothing happened — although he had a worried look on his face. Phone calls during church must rarely bring good news. I climbed over Frankie and Zane to the side aisle, Pete right behind me.

  Once outside, I called Sheriff Marge back.

  “He’s awake and alert. How fast can you get here?” she said.

  Pete held out his hand, and I realized he wanted my truck keys.

  “Twenty minutes,” I replied. “Pete’s driving.”

  oOo

  George’s bed might as well have been a conference table. Sheriff Marge, Archie, Owen and Susan were clustered around it when we arrived.

  “Meredith.” George held out his hand, and I stretched to grasp it.

  “You are alright?” He squeezed my fingers.

  I nodded.

  Susan pushed a chair over, and I sat, still holding George’s hand. “And you?”

  “Fine. Unaware of all this—” he gestured with his free hand, taking in all the concerned faces surrounding him, “until this morning. I have much to tell you. Although I do not know if it will do any good now.”

  Sheriff Marge inched her chair closer and pulled a little notebook out of her chest pocket. Archie and Owen did the same. I wanted to laugh. It was like three-quarters of the Bobbsey twins at the end of the bed. Very serious Bobbsey twins, that is.

  And I wanted to cry. It was so good to see George awake, unperturbed and with his usual calming presence — my George was back. I rubbed my thumb on his rough palm and cleared my throat.

  “George.” Sheriff Marge peered at him over her reading glasses. It was her cue to hurry up and talk.

  George gave a slight nod. “I started seeing activity on the river that concerned me about two months ago. Deliveries made by speedboat to tugs, or rather barges, underway and always after dark. The times varied, but it seemed they were coordinating schedules. Always the same speedboat but not always the same tug or barges. I wanted to ask Pete—” George shifted to get a better view of Pete in the doorway.

  Sheriff Marge swiveled to look at Pete too, then sa
id, “Shut the door.”

  Pete squeezed into the already crowded room and latched the door. He leaned against it and caught my eye. He cracked his knuckles — something he only does when he’s stressed.

  I turned back to George, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

  “About tug crews for the big transportation companies. Does each crew stay with their own tug, or do they circulate among the fleet as needed?”

  “Both.” Pete sounded relieved. The question was well within his realm of experience. “Crews usually work a set time period — say two weeks on duty, then two weeks off. When they’re working, it’s round-the-clock. They’ll take shifts for sleeping, but if they’re loading, unloading or linking up, sleep waits. Most of the big companies will shuttle their crews to their tugs wherever they are. The tug keeps going — the crews come on and off. Most efficient that way.”

  George released my hand and reached for a glass of ice water with a flexible straw poking out the top. He sipped slowly, deliberately. He hadn’t had liquids by mouth for several days. Drinking must feel good — and soothe his throat. He hadn’t talked for a while either.

  He settled back on the pillows and closed his eyes.

  I shot a worried glance at Sheriff Marge, and she shook her head, frowning.

  “Do captains and crews stay together?” George asked, his eyes still closed.

  “Mostly,” Pete said. “There’s greater turnover at the deckhand level, so one or two of those guys may shuffle every few rotations — also to help cover vacations. But yes, crews become accustomed to working together, usually develop an effective system.”

  “How much does the captain know about what happens on his boat?” George opened his eyes and gazed solemnly at Pete. “Any chance the engineers or deckhands could be involved in side activities without his knowledge?”

  “While underway?” Pete’s eyebrows arched, and he pursed his lips. “Unlikely, but possible. With barges, especially a four-pack, there’s a lot of surface area. The captain can’t see it all, all the time. But they live in close quarters, so he’d get wind of any grumblings or rumors.”