Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (4 page)

“Missus Morehouse,” Ford panted.

“
Hi, Ford.”

“
Can I get a ride with you? Mac brought me, but he has to stay for a while. I don’t want to wait.”

“
Sure. Your prediction about the game came true.”

Ford grinned and tapped his temple.
“I know things.”

Pete chuckled.
“Do you predict final scores, too? ‘Cause I know a guy who could set us up if you have that kind of information.”

“
Pete. Don’t you dare.”

Pete shrugged and grinned.

“I don’t gamble,” Ford said. “That’ll get you in trouble. And if you do that, they take things away, like your house and your car and your family. Course, I don’t have those things, but jes’ the same, it’s wicked, and I don’t do it.”

“
Hear, hear,” I muttered and wondered how Ford had gained this knowledge.

“
Point taken,” Pete said, quickly serious.

“
That’s right.” Ford nodded.

We crammed into the pickup, with Ford in the middle. I turned the heater on full-blast, and gradually became aware that Ford
’s hygiene lacked a little something. Hints of irate raccoon plus the permeating odor of moldy potatoes made my eyes water.

I really shouldn
’t know what irate raccoon smells like, but thanks to Tuppence, I do.

After a few miles, I decided the tangy fragrance might not emanate from Ford personally, but rather his clothes. Perhaps they just needed a good scrubbing. The image of the unused avocado washer and dryer in the museum basement popped into my head. I
’d talk to Rupert when he returned, see if they could be installed in Ford’s cabin. But didn’t he already have laundry facilities?

I turned onto the straight, wide road leading to the port. Ford
’s cabin was closer to the port than to the museum parking lot. It didn’t have an access road, so Ford would have to walk no matter where I dropped him off. I pulled up next to the dock where Pete’s tug was anchored.

We all climbed out. Ford took off cross-country at a fast clip, waving his hand once. Pete hoisted his bike out of the truck bed.

“Do you think he’s okay, living by himself in that shack?” he asked.

“
I don’t know.”

Pete grunted.
“I forgot. We’re not the best people to judge. You live by yourself in an RV. I live alone on a tugboat. We’re probably all a little crazy.” He wheeled the bike down the dock.

I climbed back into the truck and drove home with the windows down. I resented Pete
’s observation. I couldn’t possibly be crazy because I don’t live alone. I live with Tuppence.

CHAPTER
4

Still steamed from Pete
’s comment, I knew I wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. So I decided to focus my restless energy on carrot cake. The day had been productive. If Saturday went just as well, Greg and I could take Sunday off.

Tuppence hid under the dining table while I whacked pecans into tiny pieces with a butcher knife.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She thumped her tail but did not come out. I gave the chopping board another bang, making nuts bounce all over the counter.

“Oh.” I put the knife down and peered under the table. “It’s not me, is it? Am I making you nervous?”

Tuppence whined and stuck her cold nose in my face.

“I see. Sorry, old girl. You know I get worked up about Pete.”

I grated carrots, drained a can of crushed pineapple and measured out raisins and the other ingredients. After placing the cake in the oven, I sat on the floor and pulled Tuppence onto my lap. The big dog worked her bony knees and hips into a comfortable position and let me stroke her long, silky ears.

I bent my head down to look in Tuppence’s sad eyes. “I’m not crazy, am I?”

Not normally a licking dog, she swiped my chin with her tongue.

“Thank you,” I whispered. I slumped back against the refrigerator and closed my eyes.

The timer jolted me awake. The RV smelled of cinnamon and a fruity sweetness. My legs had fallen asleep under the hound
’s weight. I slowly rose and pushed my fists into my lower back muscles.

“
I have to improve my posture,” I groaned. “I cannot be getting old.”

I set the pans on a rack to cool. After snitching a corner of cake, I tumbled into bed.

The alarm came too soon, but the lingering spicy scent reminded me of the waiting frosting job. I rolled out of bed and rushed through my morning routine.

While coffee brewed, I whipped cream cheese with powdered sugar and an overdose of vanilla. A dollop of frosting in my coffee was my splurge for the day. I hummed
“Louie, Louie” — still stuck in my head from last night. It was the only song the high school marching band had fully mastered, and they played it with gusto.

Greg would be driving back to school in
Corvallis tomorrow, so I cut the cake into quarters and packaged each section in its own airtight plastic container. Then I collected my things and made the short commute to the museum.

When Greg arrived, we resurrected a bed frame and mattress from the basement, loaded them into the freight elevator and dragged them into a bedroom on the second floor
— the new chamber pot exhibit room. Then Greg ran heavy-duty extension cords for the display cases Mac was building.

I found an ancient coverlet and a couple down pillows in the stash of family linens still housed in the original servants
’ quarters. I made the bed and slid the enamelware specimen just under the edge so it was still visible.

“
Perfecto,” Greg said.

I stood back to survey the effect.
“Yeah. I thought it would be a nice touch.”

“
History isn’t stuffy and boring when it’s interactive.” Greg nodded. “This makes me glad I switched majors.”

“
I didn’t know that. From what?”

“
You’ll laugh.”

“
No, I won’t.”

“
Well, you’ll be amused, anyway. Music — piano performance. I have the hands for it —” he wiggled his long fingers “—but not enough talent.”

“
That explains your comprehensive knowledge of early jazz.”

Greg grinned.
“Music is an important part of culture, so I guess it wasn’t such a big leap to cultural anthropology.”

“
I’ve seen how excited you get about research — I think you’ve found a home.”

“
And you need an oak Victorian throne-style chair with a hole in the seat for holding a chamber pot to round out this collection.”

“
So — find us a good one on eBay.” I shook my head, grinning. “And remind me never to break into song in your presence. I might offend your musical sensibilities.”

After lunch we finished the individual descriptions for each chamber pot and printed them on heavy card stock. Greg laminated the ones that would be hung on the wall or tented to stand next to the chamber pots that were out for public handling. I sorted the rest of the cards into order.

“That’s it. Can’t do anything else until Mac delivers the cases.”

Greg set the stack of laminated cards on my desk.
“I’m bummed I’m going to miss the final set-up.”

“
I’ll send pictures to your phone. Oh, and these are for you.” I pulled the cake containers out of the mini-fridge under my desk. “Thanks so much. I know the school kids are going to love this exhibit. I couldn’t have had it ready in time without you.”

Greg cracked a lid open.
“Carrot? Meredith, you’re the best.”

“
Really? I’ve been thinking I might be crazy.”

Greg scowled.
“Something I should know about?”

“
Overactive imagination, I expect. So, tomorrow, I don’t want to see you, at least not here at the museum. You’ve earned a day off.”

“
You’re not going to do something desperate, are you?”

I looked up, startled.

“Tomorrow, I mean.”

“
No, of course not. Tomorrow I’m taking your advice, and I’m going to be social. Football potluck at Mac’s tavern.”

Greg chuckled.
“This town is an enigma to me.”

“
Me too, which is why I love it.”

o0o

On Sunday morning, I slept in until Tuppence’s whining at the door reached the urgent pitch I had learned to take seriously.

While Tuppence chased squirrels and reestablished her perimeter around the campsite, I prepared ingredients for my signature potluck contribution known as cheesy potatoes. I spooned the whole fattening conglomeration into a casserole dish and set it in the oven for a nice low bake.

With a sweatshirt pulled on over my pajamas, I strolled to the river’s edge. Large boulders lined the bank and provided a hard but ring-side seat to enjoy the view. Tuppence clambered after me, tongue hanging, the white tip of her tail perked in the air.

High horsetail cirrus clouds feathered across the sky. Rain would come in a day or two. It was time. The season changes were more dramatic, and somehow both faster and slower than in the city
— probably because I couldn’t help but notice them now in my exposed living conditions while they went unheeded amongst the gray concrete barriers of the city.

Trees go from green to yellow and then to bare in a matter of days, pummeled by stiff gorge winds. If cold nights linger before the rains come, vine maples will highlight the deep blue sky with flickering red-orange leaves
— one of my countless favorite sights.

I inhaled the briny smell of freshwater algae and mud along with recently cut grass. Herb must have been out on the riding mower yesterday. I hoped to have as much energy as he did when I was almost eighty.

When the rains arrive, Herb and Harriet will turn off the irrigation system. I always miss the nighttime tick-tick white noise of the sprinklers. I’ll wake up in the wee hours because of the silence until I become accustomed to it, a sort of seasonal jet-lag.

Then the storms come
— raging wind and pelting rain that shudder my poor little trailer down to its jacks. I love those nights, provided I can sit in front of the fireplace and drink Earl Grey tea. Tuppence doesn’t share my enthusiasm for eventful weather.

The timer in my pocket buzzed, and I reluctantly returned to the trailer. Bubbling cheesiness greeted me, prompting my stomach to growl. I took the casserole out of the oven and hurried to shower and dress.

With the hot dish nestled in an old, clean blanket, I drove to Mac’s Sidetrack Tavern. The parking lot was filling up with the late-riser and after-church crowd.

I had been a bit shocked when I learned Mac hosted community potlucks at his tavern. But it all made sense when Pastor Mort explained the tavern was the only place in miles that had reliable NFL and college football coverage. Television reception is a tricky thing in the gorge. Mac wisely assessed that it
’s vital to his business, so he has satellite dishes from all the carriers stationed on his roof, antennas jabbed in every direction. He guarantees every single broadcast football game can be seen on one of his big screens.

Mac cordons off the stand-up bar at the far end of the tavern on Sundays to open up the rest of the large room for families. He doesn
’t have a license to serve food beyond peanuts, pretzels and tortilla chips smothered in nacho cheese sauce from a #10 can, so everyone brings a hot dish to share and buys soft drinks, coffee or lemonade to thank Mac for his hospitality. I’m not sure the arrangement is strictly legal, but liquor license inspectors are rare in these parts and don’t work on Sundays anyway.

I pulled in beside the Levine family minivan. Pastor Mort was helping his wife, Sally, unload a crockpot and cooler. Sally waved.

“Hey, Meredith,” Pastor Mort said, sweating slightly. He’s pudgy, and I know why. Sally’s a great cook. “How’ve you been?”

“
Good. Busy.”

“
I heard you got a shipment at the museum. When can we see the new exhibit?” Sally asked.

“
Thursday.”

“
Wonderful! I’ll be there with my class.” Sally teaches kindergarten, an energetic jumble of five-year-olds.

I grinned.
“I think you’ll find it very educational.”

I set my casserole on the designated table and found an empty seat next to Sheriff Marge in front of the Seattle Seahawks game.

Sheriff Marge was in uniform, but she’s always in uniform. With only three deputies besides herself to cover Sockeye County, she’s never really off-duty.

I can
’t tell if the bullet-proof vest functions like a corset, lacing the sheriff’s torso into that thick, tubular shape, or if it just adds several inches of armored padding around what’s already there. Everything about Sheriff Marge is utilitarian.

“
How’s preserving the peace going?”

Sheriff Marge shifted her no-nonsense bulk my direction.
“Found a marijuana grow just off County Road 68. Booby trap mangled the leg of the deer hunter who stepped on it.” She shook her head. “Makes me sick the grow workers got away. They would have been low-level, but maybe they could have led us to the ringleaders. This problem is getting worse in a hurry. It’s so destructive — for people, plants, animals — everything.”

She leaned back and sighed.
“Other than that, a couple punks shoplifted a pack of cigarettes from Junction General. And a handful of DUIs including one guy who knew he was too drunk to drive his truck but figured riding a quad on Highway 14 would be okay.” She shrugged. “Status quo.”

“
I don’t know how you do it.”