Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Read online

  “Of course.” I thought he meant an out-of-the-way place to drink coffee and work on their script. Maybe Sheriff Marge kicked them out of the cramped modular building that housed the sheriff’s deputies and dispatcher/office manager.

  Then he yanked open the van’s rear doors, revealing rolls of wire, electrical cords and power tools. He pulled out a tray containing a drill, hammer, screwdrivers, laser measuring device, plus other items I didn’t recognize.

  “Wait a minute. What are you planning to do?”

  “Wire your office for sound and a video feed.”

  I opened my mouth, but Eyebrows kept on talking. “Or you wear a recording and transmitting device, but hard-wired’s better especially in that old building.” He jerked his head toward the museum.

  “That old building is on the National Register of Historic Places. Also, the interior walls are lath and plaster. No holes.”

  “Pinpricks. You’ll never notice.” Eyebrows rummaged in the van, his top half out of view and his voice muffled.

  A door slammed and Superman put in an appearance. He’d been on a phone call in the driver’s seat. “Morning, Ms. Morehouse.”

  I scowled. “No holes.”

  “Now Ms. Morehouse, we’ll use existing holes wherever we can — wiring, plumbing runs and the like. The bookcases along the walls are an excellent place to hide a couple tiny cameras. And we clean up — all our equipment will be removed and we’ll patch any holes we had to make. Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers pressed together.

  I strode toward the Imogene’s front doors, mulling a comeback. Suddenly, my life was filled with a string of characters I didn’t trust — Ham (a rerun), Terry, Earl, the fed boys. I wished for a magic wand that would — poof! — make them all disappear.

  Never mind. I bit my tongue. Considering Ham’s demise, my wish was cruel. Selfish — I was becoming selfish in my hermit-y old age.

  Pinpricks, huh? Jim probably knew how to patch lath and plaster. He seemed to know how to do everything else. My outlook ought to be more pleasant today, considering I’d slept in my own bed last night for the first time in several days, thanks to Jim.

  Focusing on grateful thoughts didn’t help. I grumped up the stairs, Eyebrows and Superman on my heels.

  The men perused the third floor and decided on the storage room where folding chairs, extra doors, a dress form, dusty light bulb cartons, a pack of ant traps and some miscellaneous mechanical equipment (maybe the innards of several defunct appliances?) were mishmashed together — all in the space of a standard closet.

  “Where can we put all this stuff?” Superman asked.

  “The basement. I’ll show you.” I grinned inwardly. I’d been meaning to clean out the storage room for years. If these fellows were going to drill holes in my walls, they could compensate with some heavy lifting.

  A couple hours later, amid the thumps and scritches coming from inside the walls as though a hundred laboratory mice were running mazes between the beams, Sheriff Marge stuck her head into my office.

  “The boys are setting things up, I see.”

  I pointed to a growing pyramid of plaster dust on a shelf in the corner. “A wire keeps poking through that hole, then disappearing again. In — out, in — out. Like a mole shoving dirt from its tunnel.” I clenched my hands into fists, fingernails making half-moon indents in my palms. “I’m going crazy.”

  “Let’s walk,” Sheriff Marge said.

  I quickly followed her already retreating broad backside. To the best of my knowledge, Sheriff Marge did not partake of exercise — chasing bad guys being more than enough to meet her exertion quota. But she sure could hustle. I trotted to catch up.

  Outside, Sheriff Marge squeezed between two statue crates and aimed directly for the trench.

  “Um.” I slowed.

  Sheriff Marge pulled a small Swiss Army knife from her pocket and sliced through the crime scene tape. “Help me with this.” She walked the perimeter, balling the tape in her hands.

  I picked up the free end and worked counter-clockwise, releasing the tape from tree limbs and wood stakes in the ground. I met Sheriff Marge on the opposite side.

  “So you’re finished with the scene.” I knew the answer but said it anyway.

  Mesmerized, I stared into the trench. The bottom was covered with footprints and depressions — where Ham had lain, where the medical tech had knelt beside him, where Sheriff Marge and her deputies had squatted to examine things from a different angle. It was a churned mess of merged divots. Then the image of his face flashed on the screen in my mind.

  I jerked my eyes away, turned to Sheriff Marge. “Do you know who did it yet?”

  “Not for sure, but I’ve bumped a suspect to the top of my list.”

  “Who?”

  “Ferris. Or whatever his name is.”

  I squinted. “What motive?”

  “Don’t know, but he sure disappeared in a hurry. I’ve talked to all the wind farm managers in a hundred mile radius. None of them saw a man matching his description. They all said they hire through their companies’ HR departments. They’d never hire someone who just showed up looking for work.”

  “But he left things at his campsite.”

  “Lucky for us. Dale dusted for prints and is running them through the system.”

  “An outsider.”

  “That’d make me feel better, if it’s the case.” Sheriff Marge pursed her lips.

  “But known to Ham. The look on his face — he knew his killer.” I grabbed Sheriff Marge’s arm. “Arlene won’t see that, will she? Don’t let her—”

  “No. The muscles relax, you know — rigor mortis fades. She’s prepared for a closed casket. I told her that’s the norm after an autopsy.”

  “He was kind of jumpy,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Ferris. When I introduced myself at the campground. And I sort of thought he was following me a day or two before that — on the way to the hospital in Lupine.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Sheriff Marge glowered over her reading glasses.

  I shrugged. “He seemed nice at the Sidetrack. I just thought he was uncomfortable around strangers. I get that way myself.”

  “He sat next to you at the bar, right?”

  “I sat next to him. He was already there.” I frowned. “You don’t think — my phone?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll have to figure that out. And find him.”

  “Could have been a museum visitor. Lindsay said two guys came in together, spent a lot of time looking around. Maybe they were picking up anything not nailed down.”

  “Notice anything else missing?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Yoohoo.” Superman was picking his way across the wet grass, apparently concerned about the moisture’s effect on his wingtips.

  I wrinkled my nose. Had he actually just yoohoo’d? I kicked at a dirt clod so he wouldn’t see my grin.

  “We’re set,” he said, huffing slightly. “We need to test the equipment and go over the script.”

  Sheriff Marge wedged the ball of caution tape under her arm and marched after him. I took up the rear.

  The boys had made good on their promise to clean up. I scanned the bookshelves where everything was back in place. A couple titles were tipped at different angles than before, making the scant openings needed for the cameras. I stepped to the corner shelf and peered between two books.

  “Uh, really, Ms. Morehouse, there’s no need—” Superman jumped forward and grabbed my outstretched hand. “Don’t touch it. They’re aimed perfectly.”

  “Now, if you two will have a seat—” Eyebrows pulled a folding chair out for Sheriff Marge, “and have a conversation at normal volume, I’ll check the mikes.”

  The men hurried from the office. Sheriff Marge and I looked at each other.

  Sheriff Marge cleared her throat. “So how was Thanksgiving with Pete?”

  “You’r
e asking me now?” I hissed.

  Sheriff Marge shrugged. “Been kind of busy.”

  “Fine. It was fine.”

  “I’ve never been on his tug. It’s quite an honor he invited you.”

  “The Levines were there too.”

  Sheriff Marge tapped her foot. Then she thrummed her fingers on her knee. “Got a new microwave.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  “Old one died.”

  “Tuppence is smelling better.”

  Sheriff Marge nodded sagely. “Takes a while.”

  I shuffled papers. “Did I tell you the color of my new carpet is ‘sandstorm’?”

  “Brown?” Sheriff Marge squinted.

  “Goes with everything.”

  “Sure has been wet lately.”

  “It’s always wet in November.”

  “Yep.”

  We both glanced at the open doorway.

  I rearranged the piles on my desk. “Met Terry’s mother yesterday.”

  “Me too. Thought I was going to have to call an ambulance for her.”

  Superman popped into the room. “We’re good. Now for the script.” He handed me a couple sheets of paper.

  I quickly scanned the pages. They wanted dates, times, names — just the facts. “Do I have to memorize these?”

  “You need to be very familiar with them — comfortable, but not rote. We don’t want to make Mr. Rittenour suspicious.”

  Great. I inhaled. “He’s already highly-strung. But I don’t think he knows about the gold. His worries about the shipment have always been about the wood statues — whether they’re safe from moisture, the elements.” I frowned. “His secretary said he already owns a few statues, but his comments indicated this is his first time handling a shipment. Is it possible there are two things going on? Some kind of double-cross?”

  Sheriff Marge leaned in. “You boys have any ideas about who stole the majority of the shipment?”

  Eyebrows shrugged. “The trailer was super clean. We think they opened only a crate or two to verify the contents, then took the rest intact.”

  “Were they after the gold or the statues or both?” I asked.

  “I think it’s safe to say the gold is the more valuable of the two,” Eyebrows said. “My team hasn’t identified the statues yet. Nothing’s matched up with reported stolens from any museums or private collections. We’re not sure of their origin. They might be fake. But if that’s the case, what are they meant to be forgeries of?”

  I sighed. I could have told him all that. “Whatever it takes to fool Mr. Rittenour. Have you checked his travel history? Has he been to Africa, Australia or south-east Asia in the past few years?”

  Both Superman and Eyebrows were scowling at me.

  “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to know if he bought the statues he already owns directly or through a dealer — what kind of contacts he has in the art world, if any?” They were still staring. “At least, that’s something I’d like to know,” I muttered.

  “Good idea.” Sheriff Marge stood and used her bulk to usher the men toward the door.

  Superman turned at the threshold. “Tomorrow, we’ll find out how gullible Mr. Rittenour is. Or if he knows something we don’t.” He pointed at me. “That’s your job.”

  A few seconds later, Sheriff Marge ducked back into my office. “We forgot to share that tidbit with them earlier — about Rittenour already owning statues.” She grinned. “They’ll get over it.”

  I slumped in my chair and exhaled. With so many pieces of information swirling around in my head, and having to keep track of what I could say to who — better to err on the side of sharing too little information than too much. Still, I’d be angry if I’d been left in the dark. Maybe they were pulling a snow job. How could they have no idea who stole the shipment?

  I chuckled. Did certain species of cockroaches hail from certain regions? Maybe Dale’s son could find the answer faster than the feds.

  CHAPTER 16

  I spent the next hour trying to massage the feds’ questions into my brain. I scrawled several acrostics in the margins, then regrouped the questions into different themes. I rubbed my forehead. Maybe if the conversation flowed naturally, most of the questions would be answered in due course.

  If Earl wasn’t too skittish, we could easily have a lot to talk about. Maybe I’d give him a tour of the Imogene — wouldn’t Superman and Eyebrows love that?

  My brain was full. I folded the pages and stuffed them in my tote for review later. The wind-up toys beckoned, and I opened their photos and description document on my laptop.

  “Hey there.”

  I whirled around. Pete — clean-shaven, sparkly blue-eyed, hunky Pete. My mouth fell open. He had ruddy skin where the stubble had been, and a square chin. I might just faint from hormones.

  “Finished the job sooner than expected. But I have another one starting tomorrow, so I can’t come over this weekend.” He inhaled. “How about an early dinner?”

  “Now?” My mind flashed over my pantry shelves — bare. I’d left one crust in the bread bag this morning — couldn’t even make grilled cheese sandwiches. “Um—”

  Oh, but he looked good. He needed a haircut — it was getting a little shaggy at the edges. I could run my fingers through — there, at the back of his neck. Was I supposed to be saying something?

  “I packed a picnic.”

  “Okay.” I realized I had a silly smile plastered on my face.

  “I got something else too.” Pete’s grin mirrored mine.

  My eyebrows shot up.

  Pete tipped his head toward the hallway, beckoning.

  I closed the laptop, stuffed my phone in my coat pocket and followed him downstairs. I waved to Lindsay in the gift shop, and she replied with a very soft catcall whistle, pointing at Pete’s back as he pushed open the glass front doors.

  I quickly checked that he didn’t hear and ducked into the gift shop. “Shhh!”

  Lindsay shook her head and grinned. “You two behave, now.”

  I scowled.

  “Quick — go,” Lindsay said. “I think he wants to show you something.” She winked. “I already peeked.” She flapped both hands, urging me out.

  I hurried to the front doors. Pete stood next to a low-slung motorcycle — spotless black paint and chrome pipes, black leather saddlebags draped over the rear wheel, begging for the open road and clear skies. He held two helmets by their straps.

  “The guy I did this last job for is struggling financially. He offered the bike as partial payment.” If anything, Pete’s smile was broader now. “It’s a little small for me — but it fits on the tug, which is the main thing.” He pointed at the second leather seat over the back fender. “And there’s room for a passenger.”

  I inhaled. “Wow.” My fingertips and something in the vicinity of my appendix tingled. It couldn’t be worse than a rollercoaster.

  I’d thrown up in the middle and at the end of my last rollercoaster ride, when I was nine. The people seated in the row behind hadn’t appreciated it. At least I’d be on the tail end of the motorcycle — with a helmet over my head.

  I ground my molars. “Great.” I would not be a ninny in front of — or behind — Pete.

  Pete’s smile faded. “Have you ridden a motorcycle before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just hang on — to me.” The grin was back.

  He was going to be black and blue from my hanging on. No way to hide that. I reached for a helmet and crammed it on my head.

  Pete flipped my face mask up. “I’ll get on first and start the bike,” he shouted. “Then you get on. Watch out for the exhaust pipe — it gets hot.” He cinched the strap under my chin. “When we go around corners or curves, lean into them, okay? Wrap your arms around me and follow what I do.”

  I nodded my giant noggin.

  The motorcycle started with a rackety roar and settled into a deep growl. My helmet muffled the noise down to lawn mower decibels. Pete stretched out a hand, an
d I grabbed it. I swung my leg over and slid onto the padded square that was to be my berth.

  Pete grabbed my calf and lifted my leg. My eyes about popped out before I realized he was placing my foot on a short peg — a foot rest. I found the peg on the other side by myself.

  I tentatively rested my hands against Pete’s sides.

  “Here we go,” Pete yelled over his shoulder and smacked his face mask closed.

  I reached up to close my face mask, and the bike lurched forward. With a squeal, I flung my arms around Pete. The snaps on the front of his jacket were cool under my palms.

  We couldn’t have been going very fast, but with the air rushing by — tugging at my pant legs and sleeves, pummeling my helmet — it felt as though we were flying.

  At the end of the parking lot, Pete leaned onto the access road, and my stomach nearly had an out-of-body experience. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my face mask between Pete’s shoulder blades. He’d said to lean with him, so I did — and focused on his strong, broad back instead of how close my knee was to the pavement.

  It was over in a second, and Pete accelerated toward the highway. I thought maybe he needed space to breathe and relaxed my grip a little.

  Out on the straight highway, when the imminent danger of falling off had passed, I eased back, still clutching handfuls of rough buffalo plaid wool. Tucked in behind Pete, the wind wasn’t too bad, and I had a glorious, unobstructed view of the Columbia River Gorge.

  Giant cloud poufs, like escaped pillow stuffing, dotted the sky and cast shadows over brown rolling hills tinged with green. The river was deep blue with a few whitecaps and flowing high and silent from the recent rain.

  A semi passed going the opposite direction, blasting us with its wake. I renewed my vice grip. My hands were freezing.

  We passed a west-bound train with four orange Burlington Northern/Santa Fe engines straining at the harness. Coal, scrap metal, wheat hoppers, oil tank cars and intermodal containers blurred into a mile-long streak.

  Pete slowed and pulled off the highway into a small state park. At the end of November, we had the place to ourselves. He coasted the bike to the edge of the river, and I slid off. My backside was numb, and I was suddenly warm inside my jacket.