Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) Read online

  I hadn’t really thought this far along in my plan, but surprise was on my side, right? Heart pounding, I rose fluidly and leaped.

  My foot snagged on the tub’s high edge and the full weight of my hurtling body slammed against the bathroom door. I caught the glass doorknob under my chin on the way down and went out cold.

  o0o

  Someone pinched my nose. Hard. I flapped my arms at the perpetrator, but they didn’t move like they were supposed to — they were sucked under by a blurry sea of black and white one-inch hexagon tiles. I was floating — swimming — swirling. My head felt like it was trapped in a trash compactor. Blazing light stabbed through my eyelash filter. I groaned.

  “Wake up.” Someone jiggled me.

  “Uhhhoooooh,” I said, louder. A huge head blocked the glaring overhead light.

  I opened my eyes in the shadow. “Ford,” I croaked.

  “Yep.” He grinned, just inches away. His breath smelled as though he’d had sauerkraut for dinner, and I thought pinching my nose was now a good idea. “Can you get up?”

  “I jesht want … lie here frwhile.”

  He sat back and the light stung my eyes again.

  “Kay. Gemme up.”

  He slid me around and propped me against the wall.

  “Oooooh.” I slumped forward and dropped my head in my hands. A wave of nausea surged through my stomach and then returned to slosh the detritus around. “Shick.”

  Ford jumped over me, through the doorway, and dashed back to slide a chamber pot in front of me — almost in time. How could grilled cheese get so putrid in just a couple hours? Ford grabbed the roll of toilet paper off the holder and swabbed the chunky, yellowish-mauve puddle on the floor.

  If the water was turned off, why was there still toilet paper in here? At least reason was returning. I looked at Ford. His coveralls were unzipped to the waist, revealing grungy red long underwear underneath. I didn’t need to see the flap in the back to know it was a union suit.

  “Why’re you here?” I asked.

  “Borrowin’ a pot. Were you tryin’ to scare me, hidin’ in here? I almost shit my pants.”

  “It’s you. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why aren’t you using your bathroom?”

  “Somethin’s wrong with the plumbin’. Backed up.”

  “You should have told me. Sooner.”

  “That pot —” Ford jerked his head toward the bedroom, “is like one we had when I was a little ‘un. Reminded me.”

  I rested my head against the wall and closed my eyes. I should have checked on him at the first indication things weren’t right — that night in the pickup when his clothing stank. I should have known. Ford was always saying he had nothing to complain about, even if he really did.

  “Take the pot home with you until we can get your plumbing fixed. I’m sorry, Ford.”

  “Thanks, Missus Morehouse.”

  I needed to grill him about how he got into the locked museum, but later. “Thanks for helping me.”

  “Yep. See you later.”

  I kept my eyes closed and listened to his departure. There was a scrape on the wood floor as he scooped up the chamber pot, then he clumped down the hall. I lost his footsteps after the stairs. No clue about how he’d entered.

  I probed my jaw with my fingers and found a painful lump in the squishy part under my chin. It was so swollen it pushed my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  I didn’t taste blood, though. Of course, I’d just barfed. It hurt to swallow. There had to be more damage, and I moved my hand over the rest of my head. A goose egg on the upper right quadrant. My neck felt sprained.

  My right hip ached and my right knee throbbed. I pulled up my pant leg and found the entire knee cap already purple and puffy. Jumping out of bathtubs was for younger people. Not my brightest moment.

  Sitting on a cold, hard floor wasn’t going to help. I needed ice packs in strategic spots and a soft bed. My brain must have taken a knocking.

  I gulped air and focused on the one spot in the room that wasn’t moving — my left foot. Everything else was going around like a salad spinner.

  I used the doorknob to leverage a standing position. The door swayed on creaking hinges but held me upright.

  I shuffled out of the room, down the hall to the stairs and across the long ballroom. It felt like days, the minutes measured in steps. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. The keys were in my jeans pocket, where they were supposed to be. The night air was so cold it froze the boogers in my nose until they crinkled. But it felt good. Haze lifted from my addled brain.

  I strode steadily, arms out for balance like a tightrope walker, and kept up the pace all the way across the park and down the slope to my truck. I opened the door, slid in, stuck the key in the ignition and flipped on the headlights.

  Out of habit, my hand kept moving to the seatbelt while my mind tried to make sense of the scene illuminated in the high beams. At the end of the floating boardwalk, two men — no, three men were locked in a forceful embrace. The guy in the middle was not happy about it. His arms flailed. Long arms. He was a head taller than the others. Greg is tall like that.

  The man behind the sandwiched guy looked my way and his mouth opened. He shouted, but I couldn’t make out the words. He had something in his hand, something with a bright yellow handle — he whacked it against the middle guy’s head. The tall man slumped, and the front man let him fall to the dock.

  CHAPTER 12

  I shot out of the truck and flew across the gravel and down the slippery ramp to the boardwalk. The man who’d been the rear guard in the tussle — who also seemed to be in charge — leapt into a boat and fired up the outboard motor. He motioned to the second man and together they tried to shove the inert tall man into the boat.

  I was close enough to hear the splash just as the boat drifted away from the dock, and the body missed the bow. The men stopped, stunned, and stared at the inky water lapping against the bumpers.

  My pounding tread reverberated in my ears and must have in theirs too, because their heads jerked toward me. Then the second man jumped into the boat and they roared away into the black night — no lights, just rapidly fading engine noise.

  I skidded to a stop and dropped at the edge of the dock where the tall man had gone in the water, yelping when my right knee hit the rough planks. Nothing. My flashlight was back in the museum, and the truck’s headlights shone straight off the edge of the dock, leaving everything black below.

  I plunged my arm into the icy water, reaching for hair, clothing — anything. He was so close — so close. Why hadn’t he called out to me? Had he seen me? My arm went numb, and my fingers cramped. I might have been bashing them against a support post for all I knew.

  Tears filled my eyes, and I squeezed them out. I fished the phone out of my pocket and dialed Sheriff Marge with shaky fingers.

  I knew I didn’t make sense but said the words ‘marina’ and ‘Greg’ enough times that I knew Sheriff Marge would come. Then I pulled my knees to my chin, shivering. I tried to think but couldn’t get very far, my thoughts elbowing each other out of the way. Why was Greg here? Where had he been until now? How long would he last in the frigid river? I was blubbering.

  Dale arrived first. He swaddled me in a blanket and practically carried me to his squad car. Sheriff Marge rocketed into the parking lot, light bar swirling red and blue. She launched out of her Explorer like a boulder out of a sling-shot.

  “She’s a mess,” Dale said, “but what I can gather is that Greg was held by two men. One hit him on the head so he was unconscious when he was dumped in the water. The two men took off in a motorboat downriver.”

  “I called SAR and the fire department. We’ll get divers in the water. Let me talk to her.” Sheriff Marge motioned Dale back to the scene and took his place holding me up.

  “I should have gone in.” I said. “I could have saved him.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Sheriff Marge said. “Current’s too
strong, even here at the edge. And the water temp —” She shook her head. “Dive crews will pick him up.”

  “Dead. Drowned.”

  Sheriff Marge didn’t answer. She enveloped me in an enormous bear hug. Then she pulled away. “You smell like puke.” She grabbed my chin in her pudgy hand and looked in my eyes. I winced and let out a whimper of pain. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No. Slipped in the tub in the museum and probably gave myself a concussion.”

  “What were you doing in a bathtub in the museum at 2 a.m.?”

  “Staking out the phantom rearranger. It’s Ford, and no big deal. He won’t do it again.”

  Sheriff Marge stared at me so oddly I wondered if what I was saying in my mind and what was coming out my mouth were two different things. I managed a weak smile and tried to appear credible. “Really. Mystery solved.”

  Sheriff Marge’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Not much because he was in shadow, and then I face-slammed the doorknob. But Ford admitted it. He has childhood memories of —”

  “Meredith!”

  “What?”

  “Tell me what happened at the end of the dock.”

  Right. The important thing. I tried to collect the shattered scenes of the past few minutes. I started from when I turned on the truck’s headlights.

  “Are you sure it was Greg?” Sheriff Marge interrupted.

  “He was tall like Greg, but I couldn’t see his face — just from the side.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Uh, jeans and jacket — tan. Greg wears a tan windbreaker.”

  “Was he wearing glasses?”

  “I don’t think so. But the way he was struggling with those men, they could have come off.”

  “Okay. Now tell me about the other men.”

  “Shorter. Dark hair. The one who looked my way had a mustache.” I scowled.

  “What?” Sheriff Marge prompted.

  “They weren’t from around here.”

  “Meaning you didn’t recognize them?”

  “No — I mean yes. But they weren’t wearing the right clothes. Too citified. Shoes that slipped on the wet dock. That’s why they were having trouble forcing Greg into the boat. Slacks, not jeans or Carhartts. Hair slicked back — gelled or something. Nobody around here looks like that, even the people I don’t know.”

  Sheriff Marge chuckled. “That’s called profiling.”

  “It works, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Criminals share common characteristics. Hair gel being one of them.”

  “I’m serious. Like what you said about knowing people. I know this.”

  “Okay. What about the boat?”

  “I didn’t see it well, either. Normal aluminum fishing boat with an outboard motor that fired on the first try. Not fancy. Bench seats.”

  “I’ll get the marina manager down here. See if anyone’s boat’s missing.” Sheriff Marge stepped to the open door of her Explorer and called Nadine, the sheriff’s department dispatcher and office manager.

  The volunteer fire department’s small convoy coasted into the parking lot, lights flashing but no sirens. Sheriff Marge trotted over to the captain and instructed him to aim their spotlights at the end of the dock. Then a steady stream of people arrived and stood around, watching the black river slither by.

  Dale cordoned off the crime scene but there was no evidence to retrieve. No cigarette butts, gum wrappers, smashed eyeglasses or blood. The marina manager confirmed all year-rounders were in their slots, so the bad guys had brought their own transportation. Which explained why the motor started on the first try.

  A helicopter whop-whopped overhead and flashed a spotlight over the marina. The beam settled on Sheriff Marge as she waved her arms then pointed to her ear. She keyed her mike to Nadine. “I need to talk to Henry. What channel is he on?” She heard something in the static and poked buttons until she found the right frequency. “Henry. Marge. Do you copy?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “White male, mid-twenties, six and a half feet tall, tan jacket and jeans, went in the river off the end of this dock about half an hour ago. Unconscious. So track along the north bank for three miles down then come on back. Okay?”

  “Gotcha.” The helicopter spun, tail up, and buzzed slowly downriver.

  “And if you see an aluminum fourteen-footer with two guys in it, let me know.”

  “Okey-dokey.”

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Henry Parker. Retired Army chopper mechanic. Builds his own experimental aircraft now. I worry someday I’m going to have to pick up his pieces spread across several square miles. But, he has the keenest eyesight of anybody I’ve ever met.” Sheriff Marge patted my shoulder. “He’s the best bet we have. He’ll at least pinpoint locations where the dive team should start.”

  “You don’t think Greg sank straight down when he was rolled off the dock?”

  “We’ll check everything as soon as the dive team gets here, but his body would have been buoyant. He would move with the current until snagging on something. That doesn’t mean he’ll be on the surface, though.” She grabbed my elbow and looked steadily into my eyes. “His prospects are grim, Meredith. You know that.”

  I swallowed and nodded.

  The radio crackled. “Dale here. I have a few boat owners on site now. We’re sending out three search parties. One close in. One starting a mile down, the other two miles down.”

  “Okay,” Sheriff Marge replied. “Since it’ll be another hour before the dive team gets here, I’m taking Meredith to the office. I’ll be in contact.”

  I opened my mouth, but Sheriff Marge growled, “Don’t argue. Nadine will keep an eye on you. You’re still loopy. And you’ll be able to hear everything that’s going on. Get in.”

  The sheriff’s office was in a small modular building set on concrete blocks in the cracked asphalt parking lot of an abandoned grocery store. The jail was in the dank basement of the county courthouse next door, but they’d run out of office space down there years ago. Taxpayer money sprang for the decrepit store building and land in the hope that someday property values would go up and the resulting revenues would cover a remodel to make a state-of-the-art corrections facility. Until then, the sheriff and her deputies camped out in the parking lot.

  The steps creaked in warning as Sheriff Marge lumbered up them and swung open the steel door. “Nadine,” she barked, “Meredith’s my only witness to the kidnapping/potential drowning incident, and she has a concussion. She’s not to leave until I get back. You can put her to work.”

  Nadine was in full late ’50s regalia, which was probably when she’d graduated from high school — thinning platinum blond hair teased into a sparse bouffant, chocolate brown symmetrical arches drawn about an inch higher than where natural eyebrows should have been, fluttery fake eyelashes, sticky princess pink lip gloss and foundation used as mortar to smooth over wrinkles.

  She wore a white turtleneck, and her breasts jutted to prominent points — an architectural marvel. Her blue-veined, knobby-knuckled hands showed her age, but chunky rhinestone rings on several fingers complemented pearlescent acrylic nails. “Have a seat,” she said in a throaty smoker’s voice.

  “I have to make some calls,” Sheriff Marge said, heading down the short hall.

  I perched on the front edge of the only visitor seating available, a ratty lime green couch that looked as though it had been left over from someone’s garage sale — even at free there had been no takers.

  Nadine rose to refill her coffee mug, revealing a pair of tight red pants underlined by an amazing amount of girdling. She had the silhouette of a twenty-year-old, balanced on three-inch gold satin peep-toe pumps. Matching toenail polish made an appearance in the openings.

  I realized I was staring. And that my headache had returned with dull throbbing insistence.

  “So you saw it, huh?” Nadine asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well, I
seen plenty in my time.” A whoosh of air escaped from Nadine’s padded chair as she sat down. “Coffee’s free if you want any.” She waved toward the open box of red stir-sticks and sugar packets on the creamer-gritted counter. Self service.

  Sheriff Marge stormed back. “I’m going to the marina. I’ll let you know if anything comes up. Nadine, thanks for coming in.”

  My jaw dropped. Nadine had come in, for this — looking like that? She must sleep fully made up and completely corseted.

  The floor quaked as the steel door banged shut and Sheriff Marge rumbled down the stairs.

  “Have you worked here long?” I ventured.

  “Since 1962, when I married a deputy and offered to help type his reports.” Nadine sipped from the lipstick-rimmed mug. “Should have known better.”

  “Than to start typing reports?”

  “Than to marry a cop.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “So you divorced him?”

  “Didn’t get a chance. Widowed. Three times now.” Nadine sighed like it was all their fault.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Nadine emitted a harsh laugh that turned into a coughing fit. “That’s alright. I’m working on number four.”

  “Really? Anyone I know?”

  Nadine looked around like we weren’t the only two people in the building then leaned forward, her breasts shoving papers out of the way on her desk. “Julian Joseph.”

  Another Joseph. I had only heard of them, the elusive wealthiest family in the county. I did some quick math. If there was a son a little older than Lindsay, then his father must be at least a decade, and up to two decades, younger than Nadine. Maybe Nadine’s intended was an uncle or grandfather. How many Josephs were there?

  The diversion of Nadine’s potential love life didn’t alleviate the overwhelming numbness cloaking my brain. But, I didn’t want to think about reality. Not yet. “Well, good luck,” I said.

  Nadine rattled on about her hopes for the future, and the sound of her voice became mushy white noise. I slowly tipped over and sank into cushions that formed taco shells around my body.