“Feathers?” Greg asked.
I chuckled. “And flower bulbs.”
“Maybe that’s the place to start — the unusual stuff.” He scooted closer and spread out a pile of photos I’d set down. “This guy with the eye patch — he’s here again later but with two good eyes.”
I squinted over Greg’s shoulder. It was the same man, but changed even more — frail, hunched, so much I’d missed the connection. “Maybe it was just an injury, not permanent.”
“I don’t know.” Greg held the photo inches from his face. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”
“Coming right up.” I retrieved the clamp-on, swing-arm magnifying glass from the third drawer of the filing cabinet and screwed it onto the edge of the desk.
Greg pulled it over and switched on the light. He wiggled the lens and peered through it. “Look at this.”
I leaned over.
“See how his right eye isn’t tracking? Everyone is looking over here, at something just below and to the left of the photographer. It’s like something just happened to attract their attention. Except his right eye. It’s still staring straight at the camera.”
“Maybe the injury made his eye immobile.”
“Or maybe it’s a glass eye.”
“Do you know anyone with a glass eye?” I asked.
Greg shook his head and leaned back. “I think they’re very realistic now and most people wouldn’t notice. You?”
I sat down. “No, but I found one once.”
Greg’s eyebrows pitched up.
“When we were looking for you, searching a marshy area where a passing motorist had reported a small silver car parked on the shoulder.”
Greg groaned. “I’m so sorry for putting you through that.”
I patted his arm. “No worries. I’m sorry healing’s taking so long.”
“It’s not, according to the doctor. He says everything’s going well. Just a painful type of break.”
“No infection?”
“Nope. I’ve been lucky.”
“Yeah, considering what could have been—” I exhaled and squeezed his arm again.
“What kind of bulbs are these?” he asked.
I opened my laptop and spent a few minutes searching. “If they were blooming, I could probably figure it out, but there’s not much here for identifying bulbs.”
Greg poked at the fragile spheres. “Sure are small. Too dried out to sprout. Hey, I’ll try something.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, positioned the magnifying glass and took a picture of an enlarged bulb with his phone. “One of my friends is working on his doctorate in forest ecosystems. His research area is reforestation in Thailand, but he might know someone who does bulbs. The plant people are pretty tight.” Greg laughed.
“In other words, all your friends are geeks.”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
“Well, that’s enough for tonight. You have someone to take out to dinner.”
Greg stood and saluted, then hobbled out of my office.
oOo
My Chevy Cheyenne pickup’s engine roared to life, then settled into a throaty growl. I grinned. There was never any question about what this baby could haul. I rolled down the access road and turned onto Highway 14.
First stop — the Sidetrack Tavern. The Friday night after Christmas, and the large, brick red box of a building was gaudy with Christmas lights, a gigantic inflatable Santa wedged between antennas on the roof and flashing neon beer signs.
The parking lot was packed with dirty 4x4s raised on knobby tires. I had to park on the shoulder of the road. I crunched across the gravel, my breath coming in steamy puffs. At the small, awning-covered concrete slab in front of the door, I split a group of loitering men, a couple of them in full Harley regalia.
One spat tobacco juice. “’Lo,” he said, staring but not quite leering.
The others gave curt nods, eyes fixed under bushy brows.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I replied.
Harley #2 leapt into action, lunging for the door handle. “Let me get that for you.”
I ducked my head and hurried inside. Country music twanged from a jukebox in the corner. I’d never seen anyone dancing on the smooth, aged oak floor, probably because there were never enough ladies to make such an activity interesting. The Sidetrack cleans up really well, however. On Sundays after church, Mac hosts the community football potlucks here. That’s when he turns on all the lights. For the moment, though, I squinted through the hazy blue glow from multiple big screen TVs.
I spotted Mac behind the bar and made a beeline for him.
“Hey, Meredith.” Mac grinned, his missing left earlobe all the more obvious because of the tight knit cap on his head. Mac builds all the custom display cases for the Imogene in his spare time. He lost the tip of his pinkie finger and earlobe in the same power tool incident, the details of which I never quite understood.
“Meredith!” a pink and blond blur squealed and dodged under the hinged, fold-up counter section. Val smothered me in a ferocious hug.
“Hey, I didn’t know you were coming to visit.”
“Spur of the moment thing,” Val said. “Mac thought he’d be busy, and I have this week off — between Christmas and New Year’s. Besides,” she leaned in and whispered, “Mac’s such a sweetie, and I missed him.”
I snuck a glance over her shoulder at Mac who was grinning from ear to ear. Uh-huh. The feeling must be mutual.
Way back — well, in the not-too-distant past in Val’s case — we’d both dated the same two-timing deputy prosecuting attorney, Ham Wexler. And we’d both been suspects in his murder. It’s the kind of thing that can make a couple girls bond with each other.
“What’s that?” Val indicated the manila folder clutched in my hand.
“Okay if I post another flyer?” I waved the folder in Mac’s direction.
“Already?” Mac’s face switched to puzzlement. “You just took down the first flyer.”
I wrinkled my nose and shrugged.
“Whatever, but I don’t think you want to hire any of these geezers,” Mac said, gesturing toward the line of men straddling barstools.
“I’m desperate, Mac. Maybe a family member or friend?”
Mac scowled dubiously, but he said, “Well, if I hear of anyone looking for work, anyone classy enough for the Imogene — I’ll send them your way.”
“We need to catch up.” Val grabbed my free arm and tugged me into the crowded hall toward the restrooms. We stopped in front of a large corkboard packed with homemade advertisements — black lab puppies; appliance repair; a Kawasaki KLX 125 dirt bike — runs good; stump clearing; bee hives for rent; needed: one wife, good looks and cooks, will treat u well, call Jason. There were phone number tabs for Jason, several of which had been torn off.
“Oh gosh,” Val said. She yanked Jason’s advertisement off the board and wadded it up. Then she moved Zack’s Guide Service info sheet to Jason’s spot, opening up a front and center location. “So you’re hiring? That’s great. Here.” She took a flyer from me and pinned it in place. “You going to the fireworks?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Me neither.” Val leaned a shoulder against the wall, a broad smile on her face. “On a scale from one to ten, where would you rank Mac as husband material?”
“Whoa. That’s a big question. And so soon.” They’d been dating for a month, maybe.
“I know.” Val held out a warning hand. “He hasn’t proposed or anything, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that after Ham, I’m not sure I’m good at reading men, you know, evaluating their honesty.”
“You don’t have to worry about that with Mac. I’ve known him a couple years now, and he always does what he says he will. He’s generous and kind-hearted. In fact, he’s so eager to help that sometimes he comes across as a little — I don’t know — puppy-doggish?”
Val giggled. “Isn’t he adorable?”
I probably wouldn’t have used that word, but
I shared her smile.
Val sighed. “So? Pete? Spill, girl.”
I shrugged. “He works a lot.”
“So do you.”
I went to tuck the manila folder back in my purse and accidentally elbowed a youngish fellow who had just emerged from the men’s room. He had shaggy brown hair and blushed terribly.
“Excuse me, uh, sorry. Excuse me.” He tried to move me safely out of the way without actually touching me. “Sorry.” His blue eyes slid to the floor, hid behind long eyelashes, and he held his arms up like he was being frisked.
“My fault — sorry,” I said.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Val asked.
The poor guy turned bright red. “No, uh, I’m not—” He darted a quick look at me, pleading for help. “I’m kinda busy right now—”
I fired an exasperated look at Val. “What she means,” I said, “is that I’m hiring a gift shop manager at the Imogene Museum, which would be a perfect job for a young woman, and we were hoping you guys would tell your girlfriends and sisters.” I cringed at the illegality of such a statement. On the other hand, no one in this joint was going to turn me in for discriminatory employment practices. I pointed to the flyer and managed a hopeful smile.
“Sorry, no sisters either,” the young man mumbled and quickly escaped the hallway.
“Val—” I whirled toward her.
She giggled. “Don’t worry, you can get in some catch-up smooching with Pete at the fireworks. It’s what we’re all here for, right?” She winked. “I gotta go. I promised Mac I’d work the bar.”
I fled to my truck and sat in the cab a few minutes pondering Val’s comment. The windows slowly fogged up. Fireworks were for smooching? I guess New Year’s Eve is — the drop of the ball, all the hoopla — couples kissing at midnight. Oh yeah.
Pete and I hadn’t kissed yet. It hadn’t really seemed appropriate. He was gone for long stretches ferrying loads up and down the Columbia, and it almost felt that we had to get to know each other all over again after those absences. Val was right that my spending so much time at the museum didn’t help matters.
But Pete was really good at snuggling. I smiled at the memories. He never hesitated to pull me into his chest and wrap his arms around me. Mmmm. So — kissing or snuggling? Or both? The fireworks were sounding really good.
Next stop — Junction General. Metal bells clanked against the glass door as I pushed through.
“Hey, Meredith,” Gloria called. She was squatting in front of the candy rack next to the cash register, restocking Christmas-colored M&Ms. “I suppose I should mark them down, but they taste the same as regular M&Ms.” Gloria heaved a big sigh and stood.
“Okay if I post another job flyer?”
“Again?” Gloria asked. Then she shook her head. “Never mind. Silly question. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to hire a clerk to help in the store and keep an eye on the pumps. As you can see,” she stretched out her arms, “I’m still doing it all myself. Good thing people around here are pretty self-sufficient — and patient.”
Gloria pulled a roll of packing tape from behind the counter. “Let’s tape your flyer to the counter. That way everyone will have to read it while they’re waiting for change.” She ratcheted off a generous length.
“Who didn’t stick?” Gloria asked when the flyer was able to withstand a hurricane.
Rumors — and the truth — travel through Platts Landing faster than a skunked hound. I didn’t want to embarrass Edna but knew the facts would get out soon anyway. So I tried to put a positive spin on the situation. “Edna Garman. I’m afraid the Imogene can be a boring place to work if you’re not interested in history or folk art.” Or if you’d rather spend your time doodling in a notebook and lock visitors in the building overnight.
“Oh, Edna.” Gloria bit her lip, and looked as though she had something she didn’t want to say.
“You know her?”
“Yeah. She was a few years behind me in school. Got teased a lot. I always felt sorry for her, but she kind of brought it on herself.”
“How so?”
“Poking around in other people’s business, lurking, gave the impression she knew people’s secrets.” Gloria shook her head. “Which is just crazy in high school, I mean, really — what kind of secrets can high school kids have? Dope? Sleeping around wasn’t as common back then, but maybe there was some of that. Not life or death stuff, but she’d hint at things which got the other kids riled up. She seemed to target athletes, cheerleaders — the popular crowd. Maybe she just wanted the attention.”
Maybe she needed help, I thought.
“I just think maybe Edna’s never really had a friend.” Gloria picked at a black spot on the counter then rubbed it with her sleeve. “You going to the fireworks?”
“Yep.”
Gloria flashed perfect white teeth. “They’re my favorite community celebration. I’ll talk up your job opening, Meredith, let everyone know.”
“Appreciate it.”
I drove farther into town and parked on the side of deserted Main Street. Neither Gloria nor Wade had mentioned Edna’s kleptomania. I wondered if they knew and were too polite to spread that information, or if Sheriff Marge and the people Edna’d stolen from had dealt with the situations discreetly. Pretty hard to do in such a small town.
I hopped out of the truck and slid a flyer under the door of each shop, skipping the storefronts that were obviously vacant. The owners would find the flyers in the morning and post them in their front windows. Saturday is the busiest day of the week along the short retail strip. Maybe this time I’d get a couple decent applicants. I could always hope.
CHAPTER 4
The next morning, I packaged freshly-made chocolate peppermint cookies and lugged my insulated coffee mug and purse to the pickup. I have a thing for peppermint, so there’d been a stash — no, hoard is probably a better word — of post-Christmas, on-sale candy canes in my pantry, and I was certainly going to eat them all.
Unless I figured out a way to foist my now guilt-stricken purchases onto other people. Because I couldn’t just throw them away. I’d felt a sense of relief last night while cracking the canes into tiny pieces and folding them into the dough. Sharing my calories with the world one cookie batch at a time — all in the name of gratitude.
I pulled into a parking spot in front of the Imogene and slid out of the truck into the frosty air.
The sun peeked, trembled, then burst above a thin, wispy layer of fog hovering over the Columbia River. Immediately, the fog started spiraling upward in tendrils and dissipating to reveal sparkly blue water. The lawn, covered in thick dew, twinkled in Technicolor like a million prisms as the sun’s rays stretched toward me.
I sucked in a breath and grinned. I never get tired of sunrises. Every day is different. Sure, the main thing is accomplished — sun up — but the creative expression each time — stunningly unique.
I climbed the stairs to my office and consolidated Wade’s things so there was room to work at my desk. First, I checked the progress of the three shipments Rupert had sent from Paris and Istanbul. Same customs holds, same expected arrival date for the one in transit. Clicking refresh on the website didn’t make them move faster, so I settled in to write descriptions of beautifully sculpted Czech marionettes from the 1920s.
The cast of characters had been a mess of knotted strings when Rupert found them at a flea market in Prague, but I’d untangled the puppets, repaired a few small tears in their silk clothes and cleaned their painted paper mache and wood faces with Q-tips and a mild soap solution. The animals were by far my favorite — a giraffe and monkey. I wished I could find out what plays they’d performed and get a copy of the scripts. The marionettes were too fragile to let visitors handle them, but I hoped to suspend them in a display case and rig up their lines so levers on the outside of the case would make them move.
My desk phone buzzed.
“Sheriff Marge is here,” Lindsay said. I checked the clock �
�� the museum opened an hour ago. Where did the time go?
“Be right there.” I snatched the cookies and dashed downstairs.
Sheriff Marge is short and stocky with a barrel-shaped torso corseted in a Kevlar vest. She’s always in her khaki uniform and thick-soled boots. Her grey hair sticks out in tufts around a full face, gray eyes and perennial reading glasses. Lindsay bent near Sheriff Marge, and they were examining something in a catalog.
“What do you think, Meredith? Neutrals or primaries?” Lindsay folded back a catalog page and showed me pictures of baby blanket kits, yarn and knitting needles.
I stood there with my mouth open. I couldn’t imagine either Lindsay or Sheriff Marge sitting still long enough to knit a blanket. And then I remembered Sheriff Marge’s first grandchild is due in a few months. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Sheriff Marge thrives on wrangling criminals and is happiest tearing around Sockeye County in her Ford Explorer with the light bar flashing. She’d be more likely to use a knitting needle to jerry-rig a broken pair of handcuffs than loop yarn with it.
“Uh, I’m guessing you don’t know the gender yet?” I said.
“Nope,” Sheriff Marge grunted.
Even if the baby’s a girl, I bet Sheriff Marge will get her a tiny holster belt and pair of plastic six-shooters. Gotta grow up in her grandma’s shoes — and her grandpa’s. Sheriff Marge’s husband, Big John, had been the sheriff for decades until he died. The county elected his widow to take his place. I ducked my head to hide a smile.
Lindsay caught my eye and frowned. “Babies like bright colors, so I vote for the primary kit.”
“Uh-huh.” Sheriff Marge was clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea, but she seemed determined.
I spotted the missing ceramic black bear on the counter. “You saw Edna?”
“Yep.” Sheriff Marge fished in her chest pocket and pulled out the leg piece. “Said it was already broken.”
“It was. Why would she take something so worthless?”
“Animal. Everything I’ve ever retrieved from her has either been an animal or had pictures of animals on it.”
Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Page 3