Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3)

by Jones, Jerusha

  “We didn’t really need it back,” Lindsay said. “She could have kept it.”

  “Matter of principle,” Sheriff Marge replied. “She knows what she’s done is wrong, knows the items should be returned. I try to be consistent, not confuse her.”

  “Has she always been — awkward?” I asked.

  “Half the people in my county are awkward.” Sheriff Marge pursed her lips. “But yeah, Edna’s had a difficult life.”

  “Any reason for her outburst?”

  “Not that she’d tell me about. But she seemed regretful. Kept saying how nice you’d been to her.” Sheriff Marge fixed me with a steady gaze. “If you’re up to it, you might try calling or going for a visit. I know you can’t have her in here,” she gestured toward the shop, “but I got the impression she might open up to the right person.”

  “Alright.” I thrummed my fingers on the countertop. “What do you know about Wade Snead’s family?”

  Sheriff Marge’s eyebrows shot up. “Got a reason for asking?”

  I told her about the personal papers, photos and flower bulbs and Wade’s hunt for valuables.

  “Hmmm. That boy’s never satisfied.” Sheriff Marge crossed her arms over her midsection and spread her feet in her toughest cop stance. Her jaw tightened. “The man with the eye patch in those photos would be Spence Snead, Wade’s uncle. Lost his eye in Vietnam. Lost his brother, Stu, there too. Never recovered from that. Today, we’d know he had PTSD, but back then vets suffered through that stuff alone. He was one of Big John’s best friends.”

  Sheriff Marge removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shot himself about ten years ago, about six months before Big John’s heart attack. It really ate Big John up.” She sniffed and replaced her glasses. “My husband carried that to his grave, wishing he could’ve saved Spence.”

  I blinked back tears, and noticed Lindsay was too. “Where does Wade fit in the picture?”

  “Wade is Spence’s sister’s son. He’s the oldest of that brood, and home life was hard. Abusive, alcoholic father. So Spence took Wade in for a while, through high school mostly. He shows up from time to time ‘cause he inherited Spence’s property west of town. Not sure what he’s going to do with it. Sits vacant most of the time.”

  Sheriff Marge’s phone rang, and she stepped into the ballroom to answer it.

  “I don’t know how she does it,” Lindsay said. “Sheriffing — law enforcement. I’d curl up in a corner and cry every night.”

  “Heading out,” Sheriff Marge hollered from the ballroom. “Semi rollover east of Lupine.” The doors swished closed behind her.

  “I’ll see if this can be glued.” I scooped up the broken bear figurine and trudged upstairs.

  I had just arranged glue, toothpicks, clamps and rubber bands on my desk and was doing a dry run to match up the leg piece at the right angle when my phone rang again.

  “Get down here,” Lindsay hissed. I hadn’t heard that tone of voice before. Lindsay usually faces difficulties with good-natured cheerfulness. Something awful must be happening.

  I knocked the bear over and broke it into several pieces while scrambling out from behind the desk. I flew down the stairs — much faster than the elevator — and skidded to a stop at the gift shop entrance.

  A huge man who appeared more like a bear than the figurine upstairs towered in the doorway. It was hard to tell where his hair stopped and the fur of his poncho started. It looked like an old buffalo robe with armholes cut into it. I think it had fleas, or mange, or both. Does mange have an odor? Because he had a rather pungent aura. He could double for Bigfoot in broad daylight. A wide leather belt strapped around his middle held two impressive knives and a tomahawk.

  “You the boss?” he growled.

  What would happen if I said no? Would he leave — or scalp me? I wrinkled my nose. I had a feeling he could smell a lie from a mile away. “Yes?”

  “Saw your vert down at the Sidetrack.”

  “Vert?”

  Lindsay was making crazy gestures behind his back, her eyes huge. I was afraid she might hyperventilate.

  “Advertissiment. For a job.”

  “Oh.” I cast about for something to say. “Do you have customer service experience?”

  “I can skin an elk with only three cuts.” He pulled a knife out of his belt and twirled it across the back of his fingers the way I’d seen engineers and IT guys play with their pens during boring meetings at my old job.

  Lindsay made a strangled sound.

  So he could count. “How about ordering supplies online?”

  “You mean computers?” He pulled an iPhone out of his pants pocket. “Got this doohickey. Do anything on this.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Zach Ratliff.”

  “Well, Zach, how’s your schedule?”

  “Slow at the moment. But I have a couple guide jobs lined up for next month.”

  I grinned. “I’m afraid the gift shop manager position is Tuesday through Saturday from 10 to 6. But I have another idea. Would you be interested in providing mountain man demonstrations during fundraising events? We’d schedule in advance so you could coordinate with your other jobs.”

  Zach scowled. “What’d I have to do?”

  “Show up looking the way you do now. Talk about hunting, offer survival tips, demonstrate how to make campfires in the rain, maybe do some target practice with rifles or bows — which you’d have to provide, of course.”

  Zach shrugged. “Easy.”

  “What’s your number?”

  After giving me his contact information, Zach directed a curt nod at Lindsay and strode out of the museum.

  “Isn’t he perfect?”

  “Is he?” Lindsay still had a death grip on the counter. “That was real? Not a costume or something?”

  “He saw my flyer at the Sidetrack, and I saw his — he’s a hunting guide.”

  “Oh my gosh.” Lindsay popped the lid off the cookie container and grabbed a handful. “I told myself I was through snacking on these, but after that — yeah, I need another one, or two. Sorry — I should have figured out what he was talking about. But with those knives and demanding to see the boss—” She shook her head.

  Rupert pushed through the front doors. “I just saw—” He turned back to look through the swinging glass doors. “I don’t know what I just saw in the parking lot — a buffalo centaur with only two legs? But it climbed into an old Ford pickup, so I guess it passed its driving test. Did one of our taxidermy specimens come to life?”

  Lindsay sprayed cookie crumbs.

  “That’s Zach Ratliff, expert mountain man and headlining lecturer at our next — and first — fundraiser,” I said.

  “My, my, my.” Rupert stared through the glass doors for another second, then he turned to Lindsay. “Cookies?”

  She shoved the container toward him.

  Chirpy whistled notes preceded Greg into the ballroom. When he saw us clustered together, he ambled over. “Hey — oh.” He reached into the tub. “Mmmm. Finished the Wishram basket display,” he said around a chocolate mouthful.

  “Wishram baskets?” Rupert’s eyebrows drew together. “I have some in my office. You’re making a display?”

  Rupert’s gone so much that sometimes new exhibits surprise him, even though he did acquire the items to start with. And his office? I swear he’s dug tunnels through a half-century’s worth of papers, books, notes, personal collectibles and sandwich crusts. You’d need whiskers and a keen sense of direction to navigate in there. If Rupert ever had a medical emergency in his office — which is something I worry about — I’d have to send my hound, Tuppence, in to find him.

  When I first started, we’d agreed that he’d no longer store artifacts in his office. Everything important is to be put on my desk or in the documenting area in the basement — period.

  So you can understand why I was suddenly strung like the marionettes I’d been cataloging — taut, on my toes. “Baskets in your
office?”

  “My dad’s. Chief Howard gave them to him when he was a kid. I use the big one as a wastebasket and the other one is on my desk, I think, or a shelf. I think I put Scottish mints in it.” Rupert scratched his ear. “Or maybe the filing cabinet.”

  Oh — Hagg family items — Rupert’s inheritance and not part of the official Imogene collection. I exhaled. But what a cool story. Who’s given priceless baskets as a kid, and by a chief no less? Rupert’s family, that’s who.

  “If you’re doing an exhibit, they should be included — they’re in excellent condition. I can get another wastebasket at Junction General.” Rupert selected a third cookie and exited the gift shop, his step springy.

  I poked Greg in the ribs. “Go with him. Try to get him to tell you the story — why would the chief give his dad the baskets? Then we can include some personal family history in the descriptions.”

  Greg grinned and stuffed the last of his cookie in his mouth. He hurriedly shuffled after Rupert.

  CHAPTER 5

  The bear figurine was just barely salvageable. I glued it, but the black paint showed jagged white lines where all the breaks had been. I set it, clamped and banded, on a shelf to dry.

  My phone rang again — my cell phone this time. So much for productivity.

  “Meredith? It’s Gloria. You’ll never guess.”

  Probably not, considering the way the day had gone so far.

  “I have a new renter in the apartment upstairs,” Gloria continued. “She just arrived. And she’s interested in your job. She’s on her way over right now.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I think she’d be great, too. Smart, put together, mature.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

  A few minutes later, my desk phone rang.

  “There’s a much nicer reason to come down this time,” Lindsay said.

  “How much hair?” I asked.

  Lindsay giggled. “Less. Professionally done, I’d say. Smells better too. No visible weapons.”

  I trotted downstairs, making up in one day the exercise I’d lacked the past month, and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her. Petite and plump, dressed in a navy pantsuit and sensible loafers. She wore a gold wreath brooch on her lapel. Even if I hadn’t known she was renting the apartment above Junction General, I’d have known she wasn’t local. People around here only dress up this much if they’re attending a wedding or a funeral and sometimes not even then.

  “I’m Meredith Morehouse, curator of the Imogene.” I offered my hand, and she shook it firmly.

  “Francis Cortland, but everyone calls me Frankie.” Her smooth, brown helmet hair framed a sweet face. I guessed she was in her early fifties.

  “What brings you to Platts Landing?”

  She smiled shyly. “Well, I’ve had some life changes.” She fiddled with the collar of her blouse. “I’m recently divorced and I was laid off from my job — health care administration — back in Reading, Pennsylvania. I decided to do what I’d always dreamed about — travel. And here I am.” She laughed nervously and patted the brooch as if to make sure it was still in place. “I suppose that sounds strange, but things in my life seemed to indicate I needed to take on a new challenge.”

  “Platts Landing is almost not on the map, though. Did something particular bring you here?”

  Frankie nodded, and her hair bobbed in time. “When I was a little girl, my family took a road trip, to the big Pacific Ocean and then south down Highway 101 along the California coast. I have such fanciful memories of that trip I decided to recreate it as best I could remember. I’m sure we didn’t travel a big highway like I-84 through the Columbia Gorge, so I was looking for a smaller, older route, and bumped into Platts Landing.”

  “Will you be staying for a while?”

  “I don’t see why not. But I would need a job to make that possible. Gloria mentioned you’re in a bit of a pinch, needing a gift shop manager.”

  Lindsay was beaming behind the counter. I raised my eyebrows at her, and she nodded.

  We showed Frankie around the gift shop and then toured the rest of the museum. She oohed and ahhed at all the right times and asked intelligent questions about the Imogene’s history and Rupert’s collection acquisition plan. I laughed and tried to explain that Rupert can’t be tied to a spreadsheet or a flow chart.

  “You’ll have a chance to meet him next week, if you’re willing to take the job,” I offered.

  “Oh, I’d love it!” Frankie clasped her hands together. “I have event planning experience, too, so I could help with the fundraising function you mentioned.”

  I wanted to hug her but settled for another handshake. “Can you start Tuesday?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll need a copy of your resume and ID and social security number to set you up for payroll.”

  “Oh yes. I understand,” Frankie said. “In fact, I have my driver’s license with me.” She dug in her purse. “And I can email my resume tonight. Gloria has Wi-Fi available in the apartment.” She handed me her license.

  “There’s a football potluck after church tomorrow at Mac’s tavern, and we’re all gathering at the marina for midnight New Year’s Eve fireworks. We’d love to see you there. You’ve come at just the right time.”

  Frankie’s cheeks dimpled. “Delightful. Gloria mentioned those too. I’ll be there.”

  I dashed upstairs to copy Frankie’s ID. I’d run it by Sheriff Marge just in case — I was learning.

  Lindsay and I saw Frankie to the door and waved as she drove away in a purple PT Cruiser with Pennsylvania plates. When she was out of sight, I let out a discreet squeal.

  “Could she be any more perfect?” Lindsay squealed with me.

  “I’d say she’s a miracle.”

  oOo

  On Sunday morning, I squeezed between happily chatting people and scooted into a pew at Platts Landing Bible Church. I waved to Sally Levine and several other friends.

  We stood for the first hymn, and Pete appeared beside me, wrapped an arm around my waist and nudged me over to make room for himself in the row. Boy, he smells good. How does he do that? As a tugboat captain, around all that machine grease and diesel and hauling who knows what, you’d think it’d be hard for him to clean up. But he is out in the fresh air all day. I leaned in and took another sniff — licorice and dusty wheat.

  “Mornin’.” Pete smiled down at me with his crinkle-cornered eyes. His chin and cheeks were stubbly again. Maybe having facial hair helps keep him warm on blustery days out on the Columbia River.

  I snuggled into Pete’s side and listened to his deep baritone rumble through “Amazing Grace.” I recognized the back of a brown helmet-haired head a few rows ahead. Frankie stood next to Gloria and fanned herself with a bulletin.

  Pastor Mort Levine stepped to the podium, and we sat. “Good morning. I see we have several visitors today. Welcome. We won’t make you stand up and introduce yourselves or anything uncomfortable like that. But we’ll try to feed you before the day’s over.”

  The audience tittered. You really can’t escape potlucks in Platts Landing. They suck you in like quicksand, and when it’s over you realize you just spent one of the most enjoyable afternoons of your life.

  Pastor Mort preached about the vine and the branches. Word pictures about abiding in Christ, the source of true life and love. His face glistened, alive with enthusiasm, and he stretched his arms wide — this much! — then narrowed his fingers to an inch apart — nothing. Fruit and pruning — concepts people in Platts Landing could definitely connect with.

  After the final hymn, everyone milled around — lots of hugging, handshakes and back slapping. I caught Frankie’s eye and waved. She smiled back.

  Pastor Mort skirted a group of chatting teenagers and shook hands with Pete. He asked about Pete’s recent job — pushing four barges of wheat from Montana all the way to Astoria where the grain was loaded on a freighter bound for China, then heavy e
quipment upriver from Astoria to the Vancouver industrial port. Pete never went anywhere empty if he could help it.

  “But I’m in town for a couple days now, for the holiday,” Pete said.

  “He’s going to position and anchor the barge used for launching the fireworks,” I added.

  “The firefighters are shorthanded, so I’m going to stay and help light fuses,” Pete said.

  “You are?” I frowned. Images of burnt fingertips, singed eyebrows, and worse flashed through my mind.

  “Yep.” Pete’s eyes sparkled like a little boy’s.

  His eager anticipation reminded me of Wally’s proclamation about loving anything that goes BOOM. I wrinkled my nose. Pyrotechnics is such a male thing.

  Greg and Lindsay and Lindsay’s parents joined us. The conversation groups shifted and morphed, everyone catching up with each other’s news. I spotted Sally smiling and nodding next to Frankie, no doubt welcoming her to Platts Landing. I squeezed Pete’s hand and slipped away.

  “Meredith—” Sally pulled me into their huddle. “Frankie has some great ideas about launching our community cookbook with a party.”

  “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, but I thought maybe we could have it at the museum.” Frankie flashed a burgundy lip-sticked smile. “In my experience, combining fundraising efforts can often bring in more supporting patrons.”

  “Right.” I tried not to look too concerned.

  “You could have recipe contributors make their specialties — finger foods — and donate them for a taste-testing event. The long, open area in the ballroom—” Frankie placed a hand on my arm, “would be perfect for setting up buffet tables. We’d station volunteers at the doorways to keep donors from carrying food into other parts of the museum. Wouldn’t want to get greasy fingerprints on the glass display cases.” Frankie’s tinkly laughter was unpleasantly high-pitched.

  I’m afraid I scowled. Sally shot me a worried glance. She’s coordinating the community cookbook project, but I hadn’t heard if it was ready to be printed yet.