Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Page 11

  My jaw dropped. “But I didn’t text him. It’s on my phone?”

  Sheriff Marge nodded.

  “What time was it sent?”

  Sheriff Marge checked her notes. “9:36 p.m.”

  I slumped forward, elbows on the table, chin in my hands. “Were there fingerprints on the phone?”

  “No. Too smeared with mud. None on the knife either.”

  “Have you talked to Gloria? She said his laptop’s still in the apartment. Maybe something in his e-mail would provide clues.”

  “Dale’s working on that now.”

  “So someone knew about Ham and me and what was going on between us and used that to lure Ham to his death?”

  “Who could have stolen your phone?”

  “I lock my office at night, but not during the day while I’m at the museum. We have so few visitors that I never worried about it. I know I left my office a couple times during the day, so someone could have walked in and taken it then. Lindsay’ll have a visitor count, but we don’t know their names unless they used a credit card to pay admission. I talked with Jim outside, went to the tavern, came home. The tavern was getting crowded when I left.”

  “In other words, just about anyone had access.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, but why? I guess you could say Val and I have similar motives since we both dated him at some point. I was trying to keep him away, and she was trying to keep him close. But is that enough to kill him — really? There has to be another reason.”

  Sheriff Marge shoved back from the table and stood. “Do you have contact info for his next of kin?”

  “Yeah — Arlene, his mom.” I flipped open my laptop and pulled up Arlene’s phone number and address.

  “What about a dad?”

  “Died when Ham was thirteen. My step-father mentored him through college and law school.”

  Sheriff Marge’s eyebrows shot up.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I always wondered why you don’t seem to talk to your family much.”

  “Ham was the breaking point. But it started long before that. They maintain a smooth finish — pretend they and the few people they’re close to don’t have problems. I always asked too many questions and didn’t like the answers I got.”

  “Are you going to call them now?”

  “I’m a suspect.”

  “Right. I’ll arrange for his mother to be notified.”

  o0o

  I gave up trying to sleep well before dawn. Ham’s phantom face kept appearing in the darkness, frozen in terror. I shuddered and flung off the blankets.

  Val couldn’t have done it. I thought back to the episode at Junction General. Ham had been calm, measured, reasoning. He wasn’t terrified of Val.

  No, his face was the stuff of nightmares — his nightmares. What was he afraid of?

  I stumbled to the dining table and fired up the laptop. Two hours later, I still didn’t have an idea of what kind of menace Ham might have reason to fear. I’d searched for his name and read all articles relating to trials he had been involved with. Some I remembered from when we were dating, and learned more from the news accounts than I ever learned from him. He had been better than I knew at leaving the dirty stuff at work.

  Murderers, rapists, drug dealers, blackmailers, embezzlers — it was all there. But there were very few controversial cases, where the innocence of the defendant was a hotly contested possibility. Defense tactics usually fell in the he-shouldn’t-be-held-accountable-for-his-actions category. The majority of criminals accepted plea deals, and those rarely made the news. Most prosecutors knew better than to take cases to trial without overwhelming evidence — unless they were politically motivated.

  Ham’s landmark case — the one flaunted all over his campaign website — was the successful prosecution of a cop-killer, Ozzie Fulmer. The trial occurred during my third year of college, but I remembered the late-night strategy sessions Ham and my step-father held in the den over Christmas break — white board easels, flip charts, ideal jury profiles and a carefully orchestrated media presence. Even then, early in his career, Ham excelled at manipulating the press. Although, for this case it hadn’t really been necessary. The public, and the members of the jury selected from it, were dead set against Fulmer. He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison, no chance of parole — even though Fulmer claimed he’d been set up and kept his story straight throughout the proceedings.

  As Terry had pointed out, the best alibi is incarceration. Fulmer was still making license plates at the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla and couldn’t be Ham’s murderer.

  A deep hollowness weighed on me. In high school and early college years, I’d been infatuated with Ham, hoping someday he’d notice his mentor’s shy step-daughter. Then he did — and I’d loved him — or thought I did, then hated him, convinced myself I was ambivalent toward him, learned I still disliked him, and now what?

  Now, I felt sorry for him. He’d certainly run me through the gamut of emotions. I shivered and rubbed my arms.

  Tuppence sneezed under the trailer, in exile until the skunk scent faded — poor dog.

  I took a rawhide treat outside.

  The dog thumped her tail and whined.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll give you another bath this afternoon.” I tousled Tuppence’s ears.

  I returned to the warmth of the trailer and started the coffee maker.

  Sunday. What would people think if a murder suspect showed up at church smelling faintly of skunk? One way to find out. I was starving to hear some good news.

  CHAPTER 12

  The organist was warming up when I slid into a back pew at Platts Landing Bible Church. I’d only had to shake two hands and accept a bulletin on the way in — no accusatory glances or uncomfortable questions. I turned to smile politely at the man seated a few feet farther in and stared for a few moments before recognizing him without the Stetson — Julian.

  “Hi. How are you?” I scooted closer. Ham was not the first dead body I’d seen. Bard, Julian’s son, had been the first, a couple months ago.

  Julian nodded. “Alright. You? I heard.” His golden eyes bore into mine.

  “I don’t know.”

  The congregation rustled and rose for the opening hymn. Sweet melody filled the small chapel. I closed my eyes and let the music ripple over me like water.

  Pastor Mort preached from the end of the book of Jude — about glory, majesty, power and authority — with enthusiastic gestures, his face animated. He loves his job, I thought, probably because he loves his God. And Mort would say he loves God because God loved him, first — that no person is lovable in and of themselves, no one is deserving. I often thought that was true of others — people who caused hurt, like Ham. But now that he was gone — well, I was no saint either.

  Sally found me afterward, hugged me tight and pulled me aside. “I heard. I’m so sorry — I’m so sorry.”

  My faint smile wobbled.

  “Not able to sleep?”

  “No.”

  Sally rubbed my arm. “It takes a while, I know. And I’ve never found someone — well, under the circumstances you did. Just natural causes for me.”

  “That many?”

  “Everyone seems to want a pastor when they’re dying — if not for them, then for the family. Mort gets called a lot, and I go with him if I can. It’s nice for them to have someone to talk to, someone who’s been through it before. But it’s usually for old people or people who’ve been ill for a while. You need anything?”

  I shook my head.

  “I could bring a casserole over.”

  I laughed. “I have enough food. But thank you.”

  “Are you coming to the potluck?” Sally meant the Sunday afternoon football-watching community potluck at Mac’s tavern.

  “No. I think I’ve maxed out my sociability for today.”

  Sally gave me another squeeze. “You need anything at all, you call, okay? Anything.”

  Halfwa
y to my truck, a firm hand gripped my elbow. I turned.

  “Got busy in there. But I wanted to talk with you,” Julian said, Stetson now squarely on his head.

  My arm extended awkwardly because Julian still held it, and I returned a step. Julian moved his hand to my shoulder. I couldn’t bring myself to look away. Once his eyes locked on — but they were gentler than usual today.

  “Did you love him?” he asked.

  I dropped my head. Everyone assumed Ham and I were friends, even hinted around at something more. No one asked about love. But Julian would know — he had lost both his wife and only son.

  “No — maybe. Once.” I sighed. “Not anymore. But when you know they’re gone for good, then, well, you start wondering about what could have been.” I shook my head and looked up at him. “But I shouldn’t let myself think about that, should I?”

  “It’s better if you don’t.” His arm encircled my shoulders, pulled me in. I relaxed against him, weary of standing on my own two feet.

  “I’m on the suspect list,” I whispered.

  “Sheriff Marge will figure it out. Don’t worry.”

  “He was afraid. His face — seeing whoever did it — he was terrified.” I shuddered. Then I pulled away. “I’m sorry. This must bring up memories for you — not even distant enough to be memories yet, are they?”

  “There are certain scenes I still see every time I close my eyes.”

  I nodded. I had my scenes now, too.

  “What do you need?”

  “Nothing. But thank you.”

  “You sure you don’t need a casserole? I can make Hamburger Helper,” he said, surprising a laugh out of me. “You passed a whole lot of casserole on to me before. I’m just looking to return the favor.”

  “The thing is — I’ve already had several offers. Sally’s trumps yours.” I grinned.

  He held my elbow again, serious. “But if anything comes up, if you think of anything — call.”

  “I will.”

  On the drive home, I remembered I couldn’t call Sally or Julian even if I wanted to. Sheriff Marge had my muddy phone in an evidence bag. Then I wondered if anyone had tried to call me since the murder.

  While looping through the campground toward my spot, I slowed at the tent area and pulled onto the shoulder. Thinking Ferris might enjoy the community potluck, I hopped out of the truck. He could go stag, without a hot dish, because everyone else always brought more than enough food.

  I waded through wet, calf-high grass. Herb and Hattie Joshua, the elderly twins who owned the campground, were letting the grass return to its native state except in the immediate vicinity of my trailer. I’m usually the only occupant during the off-season, and the twins fuss around my campsite keeping it tidy. It makes me feel like I live on the green of a one-hole golf course. I should probably apologize for the skunk odor, although the twins’ farmhouse is far enough away that they probably hadn’t noticed yet.

  “Ferris?” I called, rounding the privacy hedge. “Oh.” I stopped short.

  The blue Datsun pickup was gone. A folded lawn chair tipped against the picnic table and a cooler sat underneath. The campfire ring held pale ashes and a few small chunks of charred wood. Someone else must have already told him about the potluck. They wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of a newcomer not being invited. Welcome to Platts Landing, eat with us — a package deal.

  I realized the friendly compulsion to invite Ferris — what they did — I had just intended to do. Did that mean I was one of them now? Truly a member of the small community? Apparently. It felt good.

  I swung my arms while striding back to the truck, inhaling the loamy scent of sodden grass and dirt. A song sparrow chirr-twirl-chirchir-twillup tweep tweeped from a pine bough overhead.

  Grilled cheese sandwich or dog bath first?

  Grilled cheese.

  After the bath, we’d both smell strongly of skunk until we were dry again, and skunk didn’t improve the flavor of melted colby jack and toasted sourdough. Mmmm. Maybe a slice of tomato too.

  o0o

  After washing Tuppence, I flopped on the couch and switched on the television for the ubiquitous Sunday afternoon football game. Maybe I could zone out.

  Instead, I remembered what Ford had said to me yesterday morning. “I’m sorry for ya, Missus Morehouse. Just wanted to say so.”

  What was Ford sorry about?

  Had he assumed Ham and I were friends, like everyone else in town did? Was he sorry my friend was dead?

  Not only is Ford physically strong, but he also has a clearly defined moral stance. Every once in a while, he’ll verbalize his views on right and wrong. I smiled at the memory of him adamantly informing Pete about the consequences of gambling. Pete had been joking, but Ford was dead serious.

  The uncomfortable idea that maybe Ford had been protecting me in some way crossed my mind. Could he have overheard me yelling at Ham? Telling Ham to leave?

  Ford was going to meet me to watch the gravel delivery yesterday morning. When had he arrived? Where had he been before he spoke to me?

  Ford lived on the museum grounds. Had he heard or seen something? Become curious and ventured out to investigate on Friday night?

  He wouldn’t have stolen my phone and sent a text. But what if he’d stumbled upon Ham? Or a struggle between Ham and someone else? Could he have accidentally killed Ham?

  I moaned. I didn’t want to think about that.

  CHAPTER 13

  Monday morning, a blinking red light greeted me as I opened my office door. I dropped my purse in the chair, picked up the phone and punched in the code to hear my voice mail.

  “Ms. Morehouse, this is Earl Rittenour. Thanks for calling. I was getting anxious about the shipment. And I’m sorry to trouble you with the delivery mix-up. I’d like to handle it myself from here since the freight company seems to be unreliable. I could rent a U-Haul truck and come pick up the crates this weekend — at your earliest convenience. Please call me back at this number.”

  The phone beeped and played the next message.

  “Uh, Ms. Morehouse. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a little worried I haven’t heard back from you. I realize the museum may be closed for the weekend. It is a matter of some urgency, as you can imagine. The crates are — well, I need to know if they’re secure. I’m sure you know how sensitive artifacts can be — humidity and whatnot. Please return my call just as soon as possible. Earl Rittenour. Thank you.”

  And another.

  “I looked up the Imogene’s website — it says you’re open Saturdays. Really hoping you’ll get back to me soon. It’s extremely urgent. I know I keep saying that, but—” A woman’s voice, discontent evident in the high, whiny pitch, sounded in the background. “Call me back,” Earl muttered and disconnected.

  I wrinkled my nose. Another one.

  “Sorry about that earlier message, Ms. Morehouse. I just wanted to apologize. Family vacation’s getting, well, a little stressful. We didn’t go anywhere — we’re home, so I could come anytime to get the crates. If I don’t hear from you, I’m planning to drive up Tuesday when the museum is open — I see you’re closed Sundays and Mondays — and hope someone can help me. Anyway, hope to talk with you soon.”

  I moved my bag and sat. I poked more buttons and checked the times of Earl’s calls. The first one came just a few minutes after I’d left Friday afternoon. Then later Friday evening, Saturday morning and Saturday afternoon. Apparently, he hadn’t picked up on the fact that I only had the contents of one of his crates since he kept mentioning crates plural. Maybe it was just as well.

  He couldn’t have known that on this particular Saturday, the museum had not been open. ‘Temporarily closed due to murder. Please come again’ was not the sort of thing to post on a tourist attraction website.

  I slipped down to the chamber pot exhibit and checked the toilet tank. Eight rods present and accounted for. I wondered if Earl knew about the gold or was inexplicably enamored with ugly carvings. If he
already owned some wood statues, as his secretary had mentioned, did those come with gold inserts too? As a CPA, he must have an inkling of what kind of mess that could get him into.

  I quickly returned to my office and dialed Sheriff Marge.

  “Earl Rittenour wants to pick up his statues as soon as possible. He said he’s coming tomorrow if he doesn’t hear back from me. Do we want that?”

  “Rats. I don’t know. I’m headed into the office to meet with the feds now. I can’t babysit them and conduct a murder investigation.” The Explorer’s engine roared as Sheriff Marge stomped on the gas. “I’ll get back to you.”

  I set the phone in its cradle. Sheriff Marge drove everywhere at breakneck speed. One of these days she was going to be the reason for an ambulance call-out. I rubbed my temples.

  Mondays are supposed to be one of my days off, but they’re often my favorite day to work — when the museum is quiet, and I have the place to myself. I opened my laptop, stared at the screen, then closed it. There would be no concentration today.

  Noticing a book sticking out on the shelf opposite, I walked around my desk and pushed it in. Why was a book on French porcelain next to one about Minton majolica? Suddenly, my organizational system seemed all wrong.

  Well into the fourth bookcase, a loud voice announced my name. I jumped, bumped my head on a shelf and backed out of the corner where I knelt. A precarious pile of books slid, domino-style, across the floor until the desk leg stopped them.

  “Hmm?” I rubbed my head and turned.

  Sheriff Marge stood in the doorway, hands on hips, glaring over the top of her reading glasses. “What are you doing?”

  “Organizing. Cleaning.”

  Two men in suits peered around Sheriff Marge’s hat.

  “Oh.” I rose to my feet, straddling another book Pisa tower.

  “Lindsay let us in.”

  “Lindsay’s here?”

  “Said it was quieter than at home.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “College application. And, uh—” I tipped my head so Sheriff Marge would remember her guests.