I pushed back from the desk and moved to the large picture window that fills most of my office’s south wall. If I stood at the right edge and craned my neck, I could see part of the marina at the far end of the grassy stretch that borders the Imogene’s children’s garden and living wildflower exhibit.
The chrome trim and aluminum sides of a few bobbing boats glinted in the sunlight. The Columbia was slightly choppy, a rippling silver sea of divots. I squinted against the glare and decided to go for a walk. Maybe Archie was still chatting with the fishermen and I’d be able to eavesdrop. I’d missed my weekend chili tasting, too, and needed to catch up with Finney.
I rode the elevator to the basement and slipped out the back door again. I wasn’t anxious to share my comings and goings over the past couple days with Frankie. She had enough excitement in her life without my worrying her about something she couldn’t do anything about.
I detoured to the wildflower garden and dawdled along the pea gravel paths. Already, heat shimmered over the last of the purple lupine blossom spikes, wafting the flowers’ sweet scents. Walking in the garden this time of day is guaranteed to get you tipsy on the gorge’s best perfume.
Fat bumblebees ricocheted off petals, too pollen laden to fly straight. I sympathized with them. Although, instead of flowers, I was being bounced from one disaster to the next without any control over my trajectory. I just hoped it would end well — and soon.
I took one last, deep breath and cut across the lawn. The grass is only green because it’s heavily irrigated. I left footprints in the moist ground and collected water droplets on the toes of my shoes.
Just as I reached the angled ramp to the Burger Basket, my phone rang. I veered to the side and answered.
“Sleep well?” Pete asked.
“Not long enough. You?”
“No. Bert got here an hour ago, and Al and Carlos just arrived. I’ll feel better when I see progress on the deck repair.”
“Have you told them what’s going on?”
“Yep. Gave them the option not to come, no hard feelings.”
I kicked at the base of a boulder that served as a parking bumper in the marina’s gravel lot, watching my blobby shadow follow suit. “And yet they came. I love those guys. Feed them all the ice cream I left in your freezer.”
I could hear the smile in Pete’s voice. “Done. Be careful.”
I sighed and slowly rotated, shading my eyes with my hand — the parking lot, the droopy-limbed trees in the county park and the creaking boardwalks floating in the marina. Everything looked normal with only a few people in sight, all minding their own business. “You too. I’ll call you later.”
Several battered pickups sat at odd angles in the parking lot like rusty monoliths. No Sockeye County deputy’s cruiser — I’d missed Archie.
I trudged down the ramp and knocked on Finney’s back door. I sucked in a deep breath and plastered a smile on my face. Time to act like the professional museum curator I supposedly was and not succumb to morbid ruminations. Chili tasting was on the docket.
oOo
The chili took care of my sinus congestion. Finney’s and my definitions of mild are still miles apart on the spiciness spectrum. He agreed to tone down his recipe even more, and I walked back to the museum with burning lips.
Since I needed to report to Frankie — she’s coordinating the details for the fundraiser — I pulled open the glass front door and popped my head into the gift shop. Frankie was on her hands and knees scooping replica wampum beads into a bowl.
I knelt and swept my forearms across the floor in big swimming motions to scrape the scattered blue, red and yellow disks — like Life Savers, but smaller — into a pile. “What happened?”
“You just missed the couple with a six-year-old cherub who managed to knock this display over, flush half a roll of toilet paper at one time and clog a toilet, spill a can of soda on our stuffed skunk in the taxidermy room and skin a knee on the stairs to the basement which are clearly marked ‘private’. The first aid kit didn’t have a Band-Aid big enough, so I taped him up with gauze and suggested the parents take him outside.” Frankie sniffed.
I ducked my head so she wouldn’t see my grin. “They’re not all that awful.”
“I know.” Frankie sat back on her knees. “I’m just in a funk, I guess.” Her voice was flat.
I brushed beads off my fingers and glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She was frowning slightly and picking at a snag on the hem of her brocade jacket. I waited, busying myself with the beads again.
Frankie heaved a sigh.
“Zane?” I asked.
“I just don’t know how to figure out if I can trust a man or not, you know — after the divorce. You think you know a person and then—” Frankie spun the bracelets on her wrist.
“I heard Zane’s a widower. Does he seem open to talking about past relationships, both his and yours?”
“This is going to sound so shallow, but I’m actually more concerned about his ability to manage his finances than his ability to be emotionally available.” Frankie used a forefinger to line blue beads up in a row on the floor. “I don’t know anything about running a farm, but it must be complicated, with a lot of factors that are out of the farmer’s control. And I really like my job here.” She glanced at me and smiled faintly. “So different from the frantic corporate pace I dealt with before. I see now why you made the switch, gave up your career in Portland. I might be following in your footsteps.”
“And wanting to make this permanent?”
Frankie nodded.
I didn’t even try to suppress my squeal or mini fist pump. But the worry lines across Frankie’s forehead stayed etched in place. “But?”
“I’m not a money grubber. At least I don’t think I am, but — well, this job doesn’t pay as much as — but I love it, you know—”
I resisted the urge to shake her, wishing she’d get to the real point. Instead, I wedged my hands between my knees and sat there, much like a begging dog, waiting for the tidbit.
Frankie sighed. “Zane increased the price of the pickup five hundred dollars.”
“What? After he’d posted the price on the flyer?” I gritted my teeth.
“I know. It seems — I don’t know — manipulative?” Frankie raised her hand, palm out and shook her helmet hair. “Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding. The truck certainly has a lot of extra features.” She was already defending him.
I bit back my quick retort. If I’d been in Frankie’s situation a few years ago, I’d have run the opposite direction from this guy, screaming. But that’s just me — fleeing at the first sign of trouble, not sticking around to sort things out. I used to figure if a man even hinted at a reason not to trust him, there wasn’t much to sort. Thank God for Pete’s patience and integrity.
Frankie had her own sorting to do, and this was her first test. Advice to run and hide wasn’t going to help her. I nodded, trying to figure out what to say.
“Maybe we can talk about it tonight,” Frankie added.
I rocked forward. “You’re going out with him again, tonight?” I cringed — it sounded like an accusation. But what was that — three dates in three days? No, four — if you counted lunch on Saturday. I exhaled in a big puff.
Frankie smiled and patted my arm, but her brown eyes were still worried. “We’ll behave. He’s taking me fishing.”
I had a really hard time imagining Frankie in hip waders threading bait on a hook or sailing flies out over the water — there was that helmet hair to preserve. But I also had no doubt there were plenty of men in Sockeye County who’d like to help her do whatever her heart desired.
“Well, you let me know if you need to go vehicle shopping again. You definitely don’t have to buy the first one you see.” I winked.
Frankie giggled. “There was another one I kind of liked. I still have his number.”
CHAPTER 23
I called Pete that afternoon, interrupting a welding session and the
use of who knows what other kinds of pyrotechnic power equipment judging from the metallic bangs, high-pitched motorized saw sounds and man laughter in the background. He said repairs were progressing but not as fast as he’d like, which was code for I’d be spending the evening on my own.
I hung up grinning. It was not a problem. I love that Pete knows how to fix things and that he loves his job.
This would be my first evening not fretting about testifying at the trial. Last night, I’d ended up worried about other things, but maybe tonight I could relax just a tiny bit.
I wrote an introductory description for the pottery display and made a task list for preparing the individual pieces. A few of them needed to be cleaned, and I wanted to pick Mac’s brain about display cabinets. I wasn’t worried about humidity or climate control for them, but I did think specialized lighting would show off the pots’ rich glazes. Maybe I could get samples of the minerals mixed to make the colors and set up an interactive exhibit for kids based the glaze creation process.
I also assessed the appearance of Stinky, our taxidermied skunk. Have I mentioned lately that I love my job? Stinky’s a legacy piece — no one, not even museum director Rupert Hagg, knows exactly how Stinky came to be in the museum. Which means he’s older than dirt and in worse condition, even before being doused with soda.
Stinky looks as though he was run over by a log truck, then painstakingly reassembled into something approximating his original four-legged form. His one remaining glass eye drifts off to the side. His stripes are unmistakable, though — all our visitors know what he’s meant to be.
An entire exhibit of expired native mammals, one raptor and one reptile has been built around Stinky. The preserved carcasses in lifelike poses are usually donated by ranchers who were protecting their livestock or Washington Fish and Wildlife officers who seized them from poachers. The animals fill the room that used to function as the mansion’s library.
Cleaning Stinky would ruin what was left of him. And I hated to throw him away — it seemed too ignominious an end for such an historic, if not noble, creature. In one aspect, he was improved — the Orange Crush odor was better than what he’d smelled like before.
I cleared books off a high shelf and lifted Stinky to his new perch. From this angle, his eye wasn’t too bad — he leered down at me like Snoopy from the roof of his doghouse.
The next time someone violates our no food or drink policy, maybe they’ll have the courtesy to spill on the hardwood floor instead of on an exhibit. One can always hope.
oOo
Herb, Harriet and I enjoyed a leisurely dinner. Herb set off to mow the B and C loops while Harriet and I cleaned up the dishes.
“How’s your aim?” Harriet asked.
I draped a damp dishtowel over the oven door handle. “Haven’t had a chance to practice since the lesson you gave me.”
“I have an idea.” Her blue eyes twinkled, and she pulled two shot glasses out of the cupboard.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” Harriet lifted a gallon pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge and arranged everything on a tray. “Come with me.”
Outside, Harriet dragged a picnic bench to the middle of their expansive back yard, lined it with empty soda cans and measured paces to a starting line. She set up a small table with the tea and glasses, then plunked a pot of violas on it. The Columbia, aquamarine in the dipping sunlight, rolled past at the edge of the lawn, and velvety brown hills rose out of the haze on the Oregon side. It could have been a pastoral scene from the Victorian era, except there was nothing dainty about Harriet’s motives.
“For every can you miss, you have to take a shot of tea. The first one to visit the little girls’ room loses.”
“What if I visit the bushes?” I asked.
Harriet dissolved in peals of tinkly laughter. Wiping her eyes, she said, “I’ll handicap by three glasses.” She made a dramatic show of pouring them out and slugging them back, then smacked her lips.
“You’re on.” I’m several inches taller than Harriet, so I hoped that meant I also have a bigger bladder. But it’s not like I exercise it on purpose. I grabbed my slingshot and stepped to the line.
Harriet took the early lead — or I fell behind is probably a more accurate way to state it — but my accuracy improved with repetition. By the time the pitcher was down halfway, I drew even, I think — I stopped counting glasses at 26.
Harriet started cracking really bad jokes that rhymed ‘tea’ with ‘pee’ and other juvenile variations when I was moderately uncomfortable. Consequently, my aim deteriorated. I considered it a sneaky psychological tactic, but I was laughing so hard I couldn’t retaliate.
We both stood hunched at the line with our legs crossed, trying to draw the slingshot bands back to our ears while giggling hysterically. The cans remained untouched for a few rounds.
With a couple inches left in the pitcher, I realized that if I laughed one more time, I was going to have an accident. So I let Harriet win and sprinted for the bathroom.
“You are one crazy lady,” I said when I returned.
Harriet, flopped in an Adirondack chair, replied, “It takes one to know one.” She grinned. “I was doing you a favor. If you practice under stressful conditions then you’ll have the concentration necessary to be effective when you really need to use your slingshot.”
I dropped into the empty chair beside her. “Did you learn about drinking games in Girl Scouts?”
“Yeah.” Harriet sighed, her hand resting on her belly. “Betty Jenkins’ older sister, Pauline — she wore lipstick and stockings, so we thought she knew everything — set us up once when our leader was sick. With Kool Aid and our archery kits. We ended up shredding a few bed sheets Mrs. Jenkins had on the line. Then Wanda Pilson threw up in the laundry basket. The red stains never did come out of those clothes.”
I quickly curtailed my chuckle, wincing at the ache deep in my abdominal muscles. “What a band of terrors you girls must have been.”
A mischievous sparkle gleamed in Harriet’s eyes. She scooted to the edge of her chair and pushed herself up to standing. “I’ll be right back.” She waddled to the back door.
Tuppence ambled over and rested her muzzle on my thigh.
“Boring night for you, old girl?” I fiddled with the band on my slingshot. It was breaking in nicely.
Tuppence snorted.
I leaned forward and whispered, “Do you think we’re nuts?”
Tuppence’s whiskers twitched. I took that as an affirmative. She loped to a shady spot near the back porch.
Harriet returned with the cookie jar and set it on the ground between our chairs. “In case you need something solid in your stomach.”
“Always.” I snagged a few oatmeal cranberry pecan cookies.
“How’s the museum fundraiser planning?” Harriet asked.
“Most of the details are coming together. Finney’s still de-spicifying his chili and Frankie’s expanding the guest list. Since we’re going to all the work, I want to make it big — as big as the Imogene will handle, anyway.”
“People are already talking about it. It’ll be the social event of the year in Sockeye County — well, aside from the fair. You’ll have a good turnout.” Harriet flung a leg over the arm of her chair and munched thoughtfully. “Speaking of Frankie, has she bought a truck yet?”
“She’s still shopping.”
“With Zane Johnson? From what I’ve heard, he’d be quite a catch.”
“I think the only thing they’re catching tonight is fish.”
Harriet popped up straight and turned toward me, eyes wide. “Fishing? Frankie?” She laughed. “That’s something I’d like to see.” She shook her head and settled back in the chair. “They won’t have far to go. Zane has a nice little feeder stream at the edge of his property. The fall Chinook run’s just starting.”
A furry, black and white speckled form crept between our chairs, trying to be invisible, nose extended toward the cookie jar. I’d b
een watching her wander out of the corner of my eye. While Tuppence had taken an indirect route, I knew what she was after.
I pushed her away. “Sorry, not for you.”
Tuppence eyed me dolefully.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Harriet said. “I gave her the last of her treats this afternoon.”
I wrinkled my nose. The treat bag had been three-quarters full two days ago. Harriet was spoiling my hound. I tousled Tuppence’s ears and eased out of the chair. “I have more in the RV.” I stretched my arms overhead. “I think I need a walk too — work a few kinks out.”
Harriet groaned. “I’m stuck in this chair for a while. That was more excitement than I’ve had in a long time.”
“I should congratulate you on your bladder capacity.”
Harriet’s head bobbed. “I do have certain talents.” She stuffed another cookie in her mouth.
I slipped the slingshot in my back pocket and turned away, grinning. It’s always the scrawny, short ones who surprise you. Never mind the sweet little eighty-year-old ladies. I snapped my fingers for Tuppence to follow and strolled across the lawn.
The air was thick with campfire smoke, and dusk settled through it like grainy dust reminding me of an old sepia photo. The haze made things look pixilated, smudgy. The shade trees Herb was so proud of drooped low over the lawn, creating secret pockets. Tuppence zigzagged from tree to tree, checking for goodies kids might have left behind.
When she reached the short drive in my campsite, Tuppence froze, tail in a straight line behind her, head lowered. My throat constricted — it was her cougar stance.
I glanced around quickly — families were enjoying dinner and after-meal conversations clustered in their campsites. No one was particularly close by. Nonetheless, wholesale panic wouldn’t be good.
I crept up beside Tuppence and bent, trying to see what she was staring at. She stood rigid, quivering slightly and breathing ragged, fixed on a spot near the trailer’s rear axle.
A soft scrape and bump came from under the RV, then regular scritching noises, as though someone was turning a wrench. In a flash, I realized whatever was under my trailer had opposable thumbs.
Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4) Page 16