Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3)

by Jones, Jerusha

  My headache had settled into a dull heaviness. I brushed a fingertip across the dry, crusty edge of the cut on my forehead then stretched my left leg out and tentatively rotated my ankle. I bit back a wince. “Yeah.”

  Tuppence stood and shook out her fur, her jowls, her ears, her tail — a full-body spin cycle.

  “Dogs know best.” Amos jumped out of the pickup bed and stretched a hand toward me.

  I accepted his assistance and slid to the ground, careful not to put much weight on my left foot. Amos clicked his tongue to call Tuppence, and she trotted ahead of us to my truck.

  I eased behind the wheel. Amos held the door open, waiting for me to get settled.

  I smiled at our reversed situation from just a couple days ago. “Have you recovered from your accident?”

  “Huh. Doc says I have to be tested ‘fore I can drive again. Need to get a new truck too.” Amos scratched behind his ear. “Hate gettin’ old.”

  “You’re not old. You’re experienced. And your experience saved my bacon today. Thanks.” I stuck out my right hand.

  Amos nodded thoughtfully and gave my hand a firm shake. “Bring your dog ‘round again sometime.”

  “You bet.”

  I aimed for the center of the potholed road, peering through the windshield to the far reaches of the headlight beams while gripping the steering wheel like a nervous old lady on her Sunday drive. I’d already had my share of accidents for the day and didn’t want to add a collision with a startled deer to my tally. Tuppence curled up on the seat with her nose on my thigh. Apparently, being chased and shot at, surviving an explosion and watching a cabin go up in flames had exhausted us both.

  Sheriff Marge had hinted at arson, and my own observations, reviewed after the fact, seemed to support the idea. But why? Wade owned the cabin free and clear as far as I knew. If he was a responsible homeowner, he’d have insured it, but the structure couldn’t be worth much. Was he that desperate for cash?

  No one seemed to think there was anything valuable inside the Snead cabin, neither from Spence’s time or Wade’s more recent habitation. In fact, Wade had brought me what he thought might be valuable.

  Wait a minute. If Wade brought everything he thought was valuable to me for safekeeping — what better place than a museum? — then he could burn down the cabin without risking much loss. But there wasn’t anything valuable among the Snead family papers and photos. Unless I’d missed something.

  I got the impression Spence Snead was a bit of a hermit, certainly not the type to throw dinner parties or even host stag poker nights. The only other person I knew for sure had been inside the Snead cabin before Spence’s death and the ensuing investigation was Edna. I wrinkled my nose. What had she said? Something about that’s when she’d started taking things.

  What had Edna taken from the Snead cabin?

  I gunned the truck past the entrance to the Riverside RV Ranch and home, heading for the county road to the Garmans’ place. No time like the present.

  The small white house was completely dark — no front porch light, no flickering blue glow from a television. But both cars were in the carport. I poked my phone to check the time — 10:46 p.m. No sign of movement from the house. My headlights and the sound of my truck engine hadn’t seemed to disturb the occupants.

  I opened the door and slid out. Tuppence reluctantly followed, and I closed the door quietly without fully latching it. I scuffed through the grass to the back of the house, not wanting to aggravate my ankle by tripping over a hose or other obstruction in the dark. In the faint starlight, I picked out which window I thought belonged to Edna’s bedroom and stepped under it.

  The bottom of the aluminum window frame sat even with my chin. I tapped on the single-pane glass with my fingernails and prayed Edna wouldn’t come barreling out of the house with a shotgun. Out here people take self-defense, property protection and wild animal predator control pretty seriously, and usually have the necessary guns on hand to make their point. I was still trembling from my earlier encounter with an irate homeowner. And I supposed I was trespassing again.

  I took a deep breath and repeated the tapping.

  A dim light flicked on behind the curtain, revealing a scattered dot pattern on pale fabric. A shadow moved across the light, and a hand pulled back a corner of the curtain.

  I couldn’t see clearly who it was, so I stepped back a foot and smiled encouragingly, hoping I was giving the person an adequate look at me to feel comfortable with further contact.

  Hands fumbled with the latch and slid the window open halfway, then Edna’s head and shoulders appeared. She must have pulled her little stool over and stood on it to see out.

  “Meredith. What’re you doing?” Edna’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

  “Sorry. Didn’t want to wake your mother.”

  “She’s probably awake. Insomnia. Come to the back door. I’ll let you in.”

  “But—”

  Edna’d disappeared, so I felt through the weeds and skirted a seatless iron patio chair. A door opened, casting a wedge of yellow light. Tuppence trotted directly for it and wriggled her way inside.

  “Hurry up. It’s freezing,” Edna said.

  I stepped into the kitchen and faced both Edna and Mrs. Garman, looking so much like twins of different ages. They were both wrapped in faded bathrobes and blinking at me with watery, pale blue eyes.

  “Visitors,” Mrs. Garman murmured.

  “I know this is a very rude time and way to call, and I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Not at all. This is a treat.” Mrs. Garman pulled out a dinette chair with a cracked turquoise vinyl seat and gestured for me to sit. She moved to the sink and filled an electric tea kettle from the tap.

  Edna opened a cupboard door and grabbed a box of saltines. She slid into another chair, took a handful of crackers and handed the packet across to me. “Mom and I do this all the time when we can’t sleep.”

  Mrs. Garman set three mugs on the table. “Chamomile?”

  “Perfect.” I nodded.

  “I didn’t introduce myself properly when you came before. Please call me Ramona.” She hunched into her bathrobe, hands knotted in the pockets, and she looked at me shyly from under her brows.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  “Edna told me about your offer of a special job doing restoration and repairs of museum pieces.”

  “I decided,” Edna piped up. “I’m coming to see you tomorrow.”

  I grinned. “I hoped you would.”

  The tea kettle whistled, and Ramona filled our mugs. I dunked my tea bag and chewed my lip, wondering if I could bring up my question in front of her. If Sheriff Marge made periodic visits to retrieve items, then Ramona must realize the extent of Edna’s kleptomania.

  “This isn’t just a social call, is it?” Ramona asked.

  I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. Apparently my thoughts are obvious to the casual observer.

  “Then I’m going to clean that cut on your forehead, and you’re going to tell us what’s wrong.” Ramona held up a finger in a wait-a-minute gesture and shuffled down the hallway.

  I fingered the scab. I must be a disheveled mess. I was still trembling — the whole night seemed unreal, and I wondered when I’d wake up.

  “Does your mom know about your — about the animal collection in your closet?” I whispered.

  Edna sighed. “Yeah. I cause her no end of worry. Every time, I think it’s my last time, but then—” She shrugged.

  Ramona returned and scooted a chair next to me. She opened a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and took my face in her hands, turning it toward her. “I used to be a nurse. Hold still.”

  She dabbed at the cut while I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “How’d this happen?”

  “Wasn’t watching where I was running.”

  Ramona’s eyebrow quirked, but her lips were pressed together in concentration. She opened a box of tiny butterfly bandages. “It’s a clean slice, but d
eep. Leave these on for a few days and don’t get it wet.”

  I sighed. “Thanks.” I hated it, but I had to tell them. “The Snead cabin burned down — or is in the process of burning down.”

  “Now? Tonight?” Edna blurted, her hand halfway to her mouth with another cracker.

  Ramona gripped the table edge. She pressed her other hand over her eyes. For a minute, she just breathed, her shoulders rising then falling heavily. “Perhaps it’s fitting,” she murmured, swiping a tear from her cheek as she removed her hand.

  Edna pushed a mug of tea toward her mother, then looked at me. “You were there.”

  I inhaled, nodding. “Last week, Wade brought me his family’s papers, photos and a few other items. He wanted to know if there was anything of value.” I shook my head. “I’m missing something.” I leaned across the table and grabbed Edna’s hand. “Which is why I really need to know what you — what you removed from the Snead cabin all those years ago. Do you still have it?”

  Edna darted a glance at Ramona and slid back from the table. She disappeared down the hall without a word.

  Ramona twined her fingers around the mug handle. “Edna’s had a hard life. She doesn’t have many—” she sighed, “—any friends.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Spence was a good man. I never thought—” Another tear leaked from the corner of her eye.

  Edna gently set her boot box on the table and lifted the lid. One by one, she removed the tissue-wrapped bundles, then she pulled out the sheaf of pictures and papers I’d seen earlier. She slipped three pages from the bottom of the stack and flipped them around so they were right-side up for me.

  I spread them out. Three shareholder certificates for the Capilano Silver Mine Company in British Columbia, Canada issued on different dates — April 1, 1856; January 15, 1857; November 20, 1860. They were in amazing condition, but better than that — and what must have attracted Edna to them — intricate engravings of native animals framed each certificate. Each one was different, and I leaned in to examine them. Moose, wolverine, loon, great blue heron, Kermode bear, fisher polecat, bison, peregrine falcon and many more.

  “Wow,” I breathed.

  “Are they valuable?” Edna’s voice squeaked.

  I glanced at her worried face. “I don’t know, but they’re beautiful.”

  “Wade got them out of Spence’s desk, was waving them around saying he was going to be rich one day. He’s so full of hot air.” Edna clenched her fists on the table top. “Then he tossed them on a shelf and started wrestling with his football buddies. He was just showing off, and I knew he wouldn’t take care.” Edna traced the edges of a caribou with her finger. “If Spence wanted them, I would have given them back. But he never—”

  Ramona pulled a certificate closer and peered at it. “Spence made regular trips to British Columbia, but he never talked about what he did there. These are old. Would they have been in the family?”

  “I’ll go through Spence’s letters again and see if he mentioned silver mining. Would it be alright if I took these with me?” I asked.

  “Yes, please.” Ramona gathered the certificates and thrust them into my hands. “Take them away.”

  Edna’s pale face suddenly took on a pinched quality. She swallowed and her eyes flicked back and forth from the certificates in my hands to her treasures piled on the table. She jumped to her feet, scooped everything back into the box and slammed the lid on. She pushed it across the table. “Take it all. Please.” Her breath came in shallow bursts. “Please.”

  I stood and cradled the box in my arms. “I’ll keep them safe.”

  Edna nodded, the muscles in her neck taut.

  I glanced at Ramona. “Thank you.”

  Ramona stood and placed a cool hand on my shoulder. Her pale eyes stared straight into mine for a long moment. “Come again soon.”

  Tuppence and I huddled in the chilly pickup cab. For the second time that night, we puttered down a long, dark country road. My mind was numb from adrenaline overload and from the swirling bits and facts I was trying to piece together. The shareholder certificates were old — old enough that Spence should have known if the mine panned out or not. And his lifestyle hadn’t indicated a secret source of wealth. He’d left everything to Wade in his will. If he’d known he was a rich man, wouldn’t he have told Wade?

  Edna’s report of Wade’s bragging about the shares seemed like a case of immature, hot-shot jock posturing. I didn’t believe he brought me his family’s papers just because he couldn’t be bothered to sort through them himself in search of the mine shares.

  I’d check to make sure, but for now I considered the shareholder certificates pretty pieces of paper at best. They might have historical value to a collector, but I doubted I could walk into the Capilano Silver Mine office, if it even still existed, and redeem anything with them.

  CHAPTER 19

  The alarm came too soon the next morning. I rolled over and smacked the buzzer off. My entire body ached, and I slowly stretched one limb at a time. I’d slept with my left ankle propped on a pillow, and while it was still twice the size of my right ankle, it did seem improved. No boots for me today — loafers.

  I rolled off the mattress and lifted the bed on its strut supports. I’d tucked Edna’s box in the storage compartment alongside my summer clothes and spare bedding. I retrieved the shareholder certificates, slid them into a padded envelope and stuffed them in my tote bag.

  Coffee was in order. I eased down the steps to the kitchen and poked the start button on the coffee maker. Tuppence groaned and stretched on her big pillow bed.

  I knelt beside her and felt along her smooth side, kneading her muscles with my fingertips. “You as stiff and sore as I am, old girl?”

  She thumped her tail once and rolled over with another groan.

  “You want me to massage your other side? What a life you have.” I chuckled and complied. When finished, I sat back on my haunches and sighed. “Well, no dilly-dallying. I need to get to work and figure out what to tell Wade when he returns my call. ‘Oh, by the way — you shot at me yesterday after I saw you doing things that looked suspiciously as though you were preparing to set your cabin on fire.’ Great.” I exhaled. “Let’s hope he’s hundreds of miles away — maybe he went back to being out of the country like he said he was.”

  I let Tuppence outside to make her rounds, showered, dressed and scarfed a quick breakfast of sourdough toast and dill Havarti. Armed with an insulated mug of strong brew, I took the RV steps one at a time and lugged my tote bag to the pickup. I slid into the cab, started the engine and turned knobs to get the defroster and heat going. An opaque layer of crystallized ice coated the windshield.

  Tiny, dry snowflakes swirled around — as though the clouds had a light case of dandruff. The air was heavy and silent. The birds were holding their collective breath, not sure if this morning was one to rejoice over or not. I pictured them hunkered in nests of all sizes, wings slightly spread and feathers fluffed to trap warmth against their hollow bones. It was not a morning for expending energy on unnecessary activities.

  Except me. The ice shaved off in powdery strokes, coating the back of my gloved hand. I freed a windshield wiper then moved around the hood to the passenger side.

  Something caught my eye just as I was turning, and I whipped my head back to double check. A spot of daylight — a hole — through the tailgate, low, on the driver’s side.

  Really? No way.

  I pushed past the side mirror and hurried to the back.

  Yes. Straight through.

  One of the sandbags was leaking a dirty brown avalanche from a split in the side. I pulled my gloves off and tore open the bag. Sand gushed out, and I sifted through it, feeling for lumps. Sure enough, a few pieces of metal shrapnel — the remains of a bullet. Now I knew why bunkers in old war movies were lined with sandbags. Maybe they still are.

  Nothing says ‘redneck’ like a bullet hole in your tailgate. Worse, this bullet hole was proof of my trespassing
infraction and sure to prompt questions from anyone who saw it. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining the hole to my insurance agent. If the bullet had hit a few inches higher, I might not be in a condition to have a conversation with my insurance agent.

  I wondered how good of a shot Wade was. Is accuracy with a firearm a genetic trait? Was he as good as Spence before the eye injury — sniper caliber?

  Of course, I couldn’t account for my driving skills at the moment of impact. Most likely, I’d been swerving all over the place. Maybe it was a lucky shot — or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it.

  I took a deep breath. Breathing is not to be underestimated.

  Why was I shaking now? The close call was twelve hours ago.

  Removing a tailgate is like hefting an eighty-pound disgruntled sheepdog in your arms while also giving him a trim and a shave. Pins and brackets hang up, stick, wedge where they aren’t supposed to, and the whole time it gets heavier and heavier.

  Panting, I finally slid the tailgate to the ground under the fifth-wheel’s overhang and covered it with a tarp. I flopped another couple sandbags on top to keep the tailgate wrapped and out of sight.

  I pocketed the bullet fragments and swept out the loose sand. I wondered how many bullets Delores and Yonder had found on their metal-detecting forays. Probably not any in a pickup bed.

  I blew on my hands then pulled my gloves back on. Just a regular day. I needed to act like this was just a regular day. Not think about what might have been. I’d end up hiding under my bed with Edna’s treasures if I let my mind wander.

  oOo

  The museum was all mine for a couple hours. In deference to my ankle, I took the elevator. Leaning against the wood paneling, I closed my eyes and listened to the winch hum quietly while the wall vibrated against my back.

  I should call Pete. Not yet — it was a little too early. No doubt he was working — he worked all hours on the tug, but I didn’t want to interrupt him if he was linking up or navigating a tricky spot. He was probably dodging amateur sport fishermen anchored in the middle of the shipping lanes.