Harriet stood on my welcome mat, her bright blue eyes peering out from under the hood of her heavy fisherman’s slicker.
“You’re getting soaked. Come in. This can’t be good for your head cold.” I gave her a hand up the steps.
“Cold? Ppffft. Long gone. Can’t keep me down. I know you have a visitor,” she glanced at Frankie, “so I won’t keep you. Herb’s been after me to bring our parents’ farm and orchard records to you. Maybe the museum would want them? And you’ve been gone so much lately. So as soon as I noticed your truck was here, I zipped over. There’s more, but this’ll get you started.” Harriet opened her coat — it was like unlocking a quadruple dead-bolted inner-city apartment door, all the snaps and zips and flaps — and pulled out a thick folder she’d stuffed deep in the front waistband of her elastic-waist corduroy pants.
How could I not laugh?
“What? It wasn’t inside my panties. Just my pants. How else was I going to keep the papers dry? Herb wants to know what happened to your tailgate.”
Still chuckling, I helped her slip out of her raincoat and put my arm around her shoulders. “Harriet, you really must meet Frankie — Frances Cortland.”
Harriet stepped out of her rubber boots and made herself acquainted with Frankie with amazing dexterity. The two settled on the sofa and chatted about the weather, railroad men they’d known, using smudge pots to keep frost off budding orchards, family road trips, and whether you should drink mint or ginger tea or both when you have a head cold.
I flipped on the coffee pot — we would need stiffer stuff to outlast this storm — and leaned against the counter while it percolated, content to listen to their rapid-fire conversation. A few hours ago, I’d been thinking interaction with loved ones might be over.
The people of Platts Landing would absorb Frankie the same way they’d taken me in — without hesitation or expectations. And Harriet was just the woman to convince Frankie to stay.
oOo
Frankie and Harriet lingered, happily occupied with the serious business of learning each other’s life stories, for a couple hours until we all agreed the rain wasn’t likely to let up. They departed for their respective lodgings with promises of meeting again soon.
Even though I hadn’t participated beyond keeping mugs full and a few nods, smiles and short answers, I was wiped out from all the verbalizing. My language muscles have atrophied from living alone with only a dog to talk to and working in a mostly solitary environment.
I sank into bed.
Pete called. I was as groggy as though I’d been roused from deep REM sleep, even though I’d probably only been in bed a few minutes. He’s the best non-talker I know. He didn’t overreact when I told him about my harrowing day, although I could hear the concern in his voice. If he’d been here, he’d have held me and I’d have listened to his heartbeat. And that’s all I would have needed.
Even so, his steady calmness over the phone was comforting. I imagined his licorice scent and the feel of his plaid jacket’s rough wool against my cheek. His low chuckle brought me back with a start.
“You’re dozing off, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Want me to stay on the line for a few minutes, until you’re asleep? I can — Bert’s taking a shift at the wheel.”
“No. You should sleep too — while you have a break. ‘Night.”
CHAPTER 24
In the morning, still in the dark after I’d switched off the alarm clock, I realized my phone was trilling its you-have-a-message jingle. Had I accidentally hung up on Pete? Last night was a little blurry. I flipped on the light and poked the phone options until the message played.
“Meredith? Chuck Jacobsen here. I’m in Australia and a little jet-lagged. I’m also intrigued by what you sent me. I threw your curve ball at the legal department, and they found the terms of the merger agreement between Capilano and Rakker. Boy, you have some rare documents there. Don’t lose them.” He coughed — the dry hack of someone who’s about to succumb to a bug picked up from recycled, germ-infested airplane air. “Call me back when you can. Don’t worry about the time difference.”
Wow.
Did rare mean interesting, unique, fill-in-the-blanks history, or did it mean worth a million bucks? Could Wade legally inherit if he’d inherited by murder?
I hurried through my morning ablutions while a fresh pot of coffee brewed. My eyes had faded from red to pink, and I could inhale to about three-quarters lung capacity before succumbing to a coughing fit. A faint, but troublesome, tangy ammonia odor clung in my sinuses — I could taste it. Brushing my teeth did not help.
I dumped a few handfuls of pretzels in a plastic baggie — maybe they would help absorb the fire extinguisher aftertaste — and poured coffee, milk and brown sugar in a thermos for a latte to go.
The world outside dripped — and sparkled. Puddles in the grass reflected the pale yellow sky as the sun started its slow levitation over the hills. Everything glistened fresh and new, rejuvenated and eager. Dark clouds fled to the west, and the pavement steamed. I knew it was just the illusion of spring — a little trompe l’oeil before the gorge returned to strict winter, but it was certainly worth a few minutes of appreciation.
Tuppence agreed. Instead of taking off on her daily romp, she leaned against my leg and sniffed the air with an intensity usually reserved for rabbits and gophers.
“Smell good?”
She thumped her tail.
I bent and gave her a vigorous rubdown. “Skunks will probably come out today. Stay away from them, alright?”
She snorted, shook her fur back into place and trotted toward the river.
When I arrived at the museum, Sheriff Marge’s Explorer was idling in the spot next to Wade’s truck.
She sauntered over when I’d pulled to a stop and hopped out. “Knew you’d come in early.”
“You were waiting for me? You could’ve come to the RV — or called.”
“Needed some thinking time.” Sheriff Marge shrugged and squinted out over the river. “Verle will be here soon to tow Wade’s truck to the impound lot.”
“Want to wait — and think — in my office?” I waggled the thermos. “I know you prefer black coffee, but maybe this’ll help. I have a few things to add to your cogitation list.”
I unlocked the front doors and led Sheriff Marge upstairs. She settled on a folding chair and wrapped her hands around the cup of coffee I handed her.
“How are you?” I tried to imitate the steady gaze she gives me when she wants the real truth and not the socially acceptable answer.
She shook her head with a tight smile and sipped the coffee. “I’ll be okay.”
“Not yet?”
“I need to process. Wished we — Big John and I — had realized the truth about Spence’s death sooner. Probably couldn’t have prevented it, but justice could’ve been swifter.”
“Is it certain? Is there proof? I thought—”
“Wade came to — fightin’ mad — about an hour after being admitted to the hospital. Good for us — because he’s not as judicious with his words when he’s angry. Inconsistencies in his tale which he then doubled-up and back-tracked when Dale and Archie pressed him. Dale got the current address of Wade’s friend — the one who provided the alibi — and a Mariposa County deputy stopped by his house really early this morning and asked if he wanted to revise his statement. Turns out he did. Apparently whatever Wade bribed him with didn’t buy a permanent lie.”
Sheriff Marge drained her cup. “It’s enough. The prosecutor’s office will take it from here.”
“Why’d he burn down the cabin, if he did?”
“Oh, he did. His business is in trouble, facing several lawsuits for shoddy work and breach of contract that would wipe him out financially if he loses them. Looks like he was expecting to lose.” Sheriff Marge shook her head. “That boy’s always working an angle.”
“What was Spence going to turn Wade in for?”
> “Probably the same thing it appears he’s still doing — theft. There’s a bunch of melted stuff in the cabin basement that looks like the remains of power tools. The fire investigator pulled a few out to see if he can get serial numbers. Wade’s been accused of stealing from job sites in Montana and Idaho. He may have been trying to destroy equipment he couldn’t sell fast enough.”
I pursed my lips in a silent whistle.
While Sheriff Marge refilled her cup, I retrieved the mine shares from Wade’s valise and laid them on the desk for her to examine. I dialed Chuck Jacobsen and hit the speaker button.
He answered on the sixth ring. “Meredith?” His voice was muffled.
“Yeah. Is this an okay time?”
“Yup. Just having a late lunch.” Silverware clattered in the background. “This is great — I wanted to talk to you. You have the shares?”
“Right here in front of me.”
“Get them in a safe deposit box today. Shares that old — and in this case particularly — the bearer is the holder. Your possession of them is your proof of ownership. The legal department is tracing back the dates of share splits to figure out the equivalent value of what you have. Your shares were issued very early in Capilano’s history. This is amazing.”
“I thought the mine didn’t produce, though — that it turned up blank.”
“Right. No mineral or metal value. And for a long time the land wasn’t worth anything. We’ve tried to unload those properties many times in the past, without success. But in the last several years, the mining industry has boomed in northern British Columbia. So much so that infrastructure is being planned to support the northern mines and all the people necessary to keep them in operation. Towns are being built overnight. It’s crazy.”
Chuck cleared his throat. “We’re in contract negotiations with BC Hydro to lease them Capilano’s claims because they want to build high-voltage transmission lines along the entire length of that valley. The claims covers about forty percent of their direct path. It’ll be a lot of money, for a lot of years. How much, we’re not sure yet.”
“Wow.”
“Wow is right.” Chuck laughed. “I think Rakker will want to buy the shares back, if you’re willing to sell. I’ll be in touch.”
I hung up and turned to Sheriff Marge. “Can you take them into evidence now?”
“Yep.” Sheriff Marge pulled a folded packet of papers from her pocket. “Judge Lumpkin approved the search warrant this morning. Our storage locker is better than a safe deposit box.”
“It’s too bad. Spence loved hiking and camping in that area — he wrote about it. I don’t think he would have approved of the intrusion of transmission lines.”
Sheriff Marge chuckled. “It’d be just terrible if a long court case tied up those shares and delayed Rakker’s and BC Hydro’s development plans.” She peered at me over her reading glasses. “Mmm-hmmm.”
I leaned forward. “Do you think I could get the court’s — or whoever’s — permission to dig up and remove crocus bulbs from the Snead property? No one will be up there to enjoy them when they bloom. I’d like to plant them along the access road, from the Imogene’s sign out at the highway all the way to the parking lot. What do you think? As a tribute to Spence?”
“Do it.” Sheriff Marge smacked her palms on her knees. “I’ll make sure no one objects. I know you’d have volunteers from my department and the community if you wanted help.” She nodded slowly. “Good idea.”
“I think there’s an old coot on Beane Bluff who’ll help me.” I smiled. “We might have u-pick saffron tourists in the fall.”
It wasn’t really that funny, but Sheriff Marge and I chuckled at the idea of out-of-towners bent over rows of crocuses plucking three red stigmas from each flower until our eyes watered.
“Alright,” Sheriff Marge sighed. “I gotta go.”
I carried the valise downstairs for Sheriff Marge. Frankie had arrived, back to normal in a burgundy pantsuit and a chunky gold bracelet and earring set, as had Jim Carter with his HEPA-filtered shop-vac. Jim can be cantankerous, but he seemed to be complying with Frankie’s orders without too much grumbling. I grinned. Those two could easily be at loggerheads, equally matched in determination and stubbornness.
Frankie caught sight of me and hurried over. “That young man wants to see you.” She pointed to a nook by the front doors where Yonder Swygart stood balancing on one foot while cradling a lumpy paper bag against his chest.
“Thanks. Be right back,” I called to Yonder as I followed Sheriff Marge to her SUV and stuffed the valise into the backseat.
Edna drove up as Sheriff Marge pulled away. I set up a station for her in the basement’s laundry room where she’d have access to water and drains with plenty of good lighting. I lent her my laptop so she could research the best way to clean chemical fire retardant off oil paint.
I spent the rest of the morning with Yonder categorizing his metal finds. He had a story for every item.
“Would you be interested in giving a metal detecting demonstration for museum visitors?” I asked.
“You mean let ‘em see how my detector works and how to set it to find different types of metals?”
“Yeah. And more importantly, talk about what you’ve found and how the items connect with the history of Sockeye County.”
“Oh, sure.” Yonder’s head bobbed rapidly. “Maybe I’d get me some competition, but that’d be okay. It’s a fun hobby.”
When Yonder left around lunchtime, Jim was cutting drywall to fill the gaping hole in the wall where the portrait had been. “I’ll make a plaster mixture and daub it on. Texture should be a pretty good match, so’s most people won’t notice.”
Frankie was wiping the gift shop counter with a soft rag. “That shop-vac is a wonder,” she said. “The cash register seems unscathed — the buttons work fine, and the drawer opens.”
“I need to salvage what I can.” I pointed toward the wrecked display cases in the ballroom. “But I think we can open for visitors tomorrow.” I sighed. “We definitely need to plan a fundraiser now. Are you sticking around? Because I could sure use your help.”
“You bet.” Frankie beamed. “Oh, a package came for you.” She leaned behind the counter and pulled out a Priority Mail box.
I checked the return address. “Hmmm.”
“What?” Frankie pinched a jingling earring.
I yanked on the tab to tear open the box. “I can’t imagine what he would send me, except—” I lifted a heavy bubble-wrapped lump from the box — and a note — and a folded check.
Can’t tell you how much Ginny and I enjoyed our visit to the Imogene. Best anniversary ever, and we’ve had some good ones. My model cannons (253 at last count) will need a home when I’m gone — before I’m gone, ideally. Hope you will accept this as a deposit. It fires 00 buckshot. Careful — don’t put an eye out. Ginny and I plan to make several trips over the next year and — if you’re willing to accept them — we’ll bring a portion of the collection each time. Sincerely, Wally Hayward.
I opened the check and gasped.
Frankie leaned in on tiptoe to peek. “Oh my. What are you going to do?”
I shook my head, grinning. “Write a thank you note and order several display cases. We should lock visitors in the museum more often.”
SNEAK PEEK
TIN
FOIL
an Imogene Museum mystery — book #4
When Meredith Morehouse, curator of the eclectic Imogene Museum, and her friend, George, narrowly miss death via explosion, Meredith’s curiosity instinct kicks in. The explosion could’ve been accidental, but if not, who was the target?
Meredith’s about to take the witness stand in Sockeye County’s trial of the decade. George is a semi-retired fisherman. But George’s earlier hint that he needs to talk to Meredith’s new beau, hunky tug boat captain Pete Sills, about something he’s seen indicates not all is peaceful on the mighty Columbia River.
Can Meredith and P
ete sort out George’s frightening suspicions before someone puts one or both or all three of them out of commission?
CHAPTER 1
I shifted against the sticky nylon webbing of George’s lawn chair and ran my fingers along the seat’s frayed edge. This was George’s best chair — his company chair. He chose to use a three-legged campstool in order to preserve the chair with arms and a back for his occasional guests.
George rattled pots and clanked dishes in the minuscule kitchen while heating water for our tea. I didn’t know how he could stand to be inside his tin can trailer. He was probably boiling right alongside the water. He’d insisted that drinking hot tea on a blistering day would help us cool off. Seemed counterproductive to me, but I’ve learned that George’s advice is worth following.
I stretched again, trying not to have any of my skin doubled back on itself in the sweltering lean-to of tarps and two-by-fours that expanded George’s living space and sheltered his expansive library. The canopy provided shade but restricted air flow. It was a toss-up as to which was preferable, and neither was going to relieve my discomfort.
I am not an elegant perspirer. Forget glistening — I wiped trickles from my brow with the back of my hand. My short brown hair, normally curls with a mind of their own, gave up all ambition and stuck limp against my scalp and neck.
George stepped down from his trailer onto the green indoor-outdoor faux-grass carpet, two stoneware mugs in hand. He handed me the one with teal glaze drips hanging from the rim like stalactites against the speckled exterior — my favorite.
“You ever think about moving, George?” I asked. “Living somewhere else, somewhere more protected from the elements?”
“In time, I may join the elders. The elements are not a problem.”
“How old do you have to be to qualify as an elder?”
“It is more a matter of experience and the clan’s need for your wisdom and judgment than age.” George raised his mug in salute and took a sip.
Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Page 17