Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Page 15

  Pete set the bike on the kickstand. “Well?”

  “Exhilarating. Wow.” I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to undo the flattening effects of the helmet.

  Pete pulled a blanket, thermoses and wrapped packages out of the saddlebags. “It’ll be dark soon, so if you want to see what you’re eating—” He kicked a few rocks and pinecones out of the way and spread the blanket on the leeward side of a boulder outcropping.

  I dropped to my knees and finished the spreading. “What’d you bring?”

  “Turkey soup.” Pete grimaced. “Not fancy, but it’s what I had.”

  I chuckled.

  “And a couple of cheese and tomato sandwiches, because I’m a classy guy.” He grinned.

  “Hey. That’s the epitome of gourmet in my book. Don’t knock it.” I reached for a thermos.

  Pete settled beside me — right beside me. Our shoulders bumped. I poured a mug of soup and handed it to him, then poured one for myself. We slurped. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them.

  “Cold?”

  “The soup helps. What’d you put in it?”

  “Everything leftover except the pie. Why?”

  “I just got a chunk of yam.”

  Lights winked on a channel navigation marker on the Oregon side. It was so peaceful and calm — not much breeze. The water lapped against the rocky shore — midnight blue now, an inky ribbon.

  I inhaled. “I love it here.”

  “The river’s really gotten under your skin, hasn’t it? You were all skittery when you first came. The river’s a calming influence.”

  “Skittery?” I pulled away and scowled.

  “Jumpy. Tense. Didn’t take time to appreciate beauty — or people.” He leaned over and pulled me back, his arm around my waist.

  “I was working on getting over — well, I had a good reason. Oh—” I straightened and turned again toward Pete. “You probably don’t know since you just got back.” My stomach knotted.

  His eyebrows — two dark lines in the deepening shadow — drew together. His eyes looked black.

  I exhaled. “Ham, my ex-fiancé — you met him at Junction General — was murdered Friday night on the museum grounds. My cell phone was found under his body, so I’m a suspect.”

  Pete’s lips pressed together in a tight line, easier to see without the stubble. “Meredith—” He reached for me, but I rocked to my haunches and stood.

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

  “Wait — hold on.” Pete scrambled to his feet. “How are you?” He shook his head. “Why didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “I wanted to. Sheriff Marge had my phone because it’s evidence. And I didn’t get a replacement until yesterday. After that, well—”

  Pete stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m really sorry. It’s not fair to you — I’m sorry.” I stooped and collected thermoses and wrappers.

  Pete was still staring at me. What did he think of me now?

  “Will you take me back, please?” I turned away to hide my tears.

  My phone rang. I set everything down again and fished in my pocket.

  “Hello?” I tried to make my shaky voice sound normal.

  “Meredith, you okay?” Greg asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Um, okay. Got the microscopic wood analysis results. Disappointing, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Western hemlock.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I thought you were hoping for an exotic wood, and you mentioned the wood was heavy or dense, but it isn’t particularly. Just ordinary hemlock which is native to this area — the Pacific Northwest coastal range.”

  “Oh.” I placed a hand on a boulder to steady myself. “Doesn’t it grow anywhere else?”

  “It was introduced to northern Europe, Britain and southern New Zealand for timber and paper production.”

  “Okay.” I released a shuddery sigh. “Thank you for arranging the analysis, for going out of your way.”

  “You know I love research. What’s wrong? Is it to do with Ham’s murder?”

  “Can I call you back? Please, Greg — later?”

  “You promise?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pete was in the same spot — still standing on the blanket, still staring at me. I bent to scoop up the picnic trappings again so he couldn’t see my face — probably a white smudge in the darkness. Would it be awful to let him see me cry? What had I done? Showed him I didn’t trust him, didn’t think of him, maybe betrayed his trust in me.

  I rose to face him, opened my mouth to repeat my apology. But before the words came out my phone rang again. Pete stepped forward and took the thermos from my hands.

  “Hello?”

  “The prints came back,” Sheriff Marge said. “Several aliases, but his real name’s Edward Fulmer. "

  “Criminal history?” I leaned against the boulder and fixed my gaze on the pulsing navigation light.

  “A mile long, but never convicted in Washington. Served time in California, Montana and Nevada.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Nope. Put out a BOLO.”

  “A what?”

  “Be on the lookout.”

  “You think he’s the one?”

  “My gut says yes, but no evidence yet.”

  “So I’m not off the hook.”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  Pete had everything packed in the saddlebags and his helmet on. He handed me the second helmet. He fired up the bike, and I climbed on — no fear, no nervous anticipation, no exhilaration this time. No thought about the danger. A motorcycle wreck would be inconsequential compared to what I’d just done to Pete.

  A sprinkling of stars peeked between the dark, patchy clouds. My teeth chattered, and a few tears soaked into the helmet’s padded lining. I’m terrible at communicating. Of course, Pete wouldn’t want to date a murder suspect or be involved with someone whose past was as messy as mine. I’d presumed upon him without considering his feelings. It was all my stupid fault.

  I wanted to rest my head on Pete’s back and have a good, old cry, but he probably wouldn’t appreciate my hugging him right now. I blinked to get rid of the tears. Think about something else.

  So Ferris was Edward Fulmer. He’d picked another ‘f’ name — similar, easy to remember. Wait — Fulmer. Ozzie Fulmer, the cop-killer — the worst, or best, of Ham’s trials, depending on which side you were on. The article I’d read listed Fulmer’s relatives who sat in the courtroom throughout the entire trial, even included an interview with his mother. Was there an Edward on that list, or was Ferris’s real name merely coincidence?

  I flipped my face mask up and pounded on Pete’s shoulder. When he turned his head and flipped his mask up, I yelled, “Can you go faster? I need to get to the museum right away.”

  Pete snapped his mask closed and gunned the bike. He hunched into the wind, and I ducked lower, pulled my knees in and held on.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Imogene rose like a huge black box in the night. The exterior lighting did nothing to reveal the building’s true dimensions or appearance. I slid off the motorcycle and fumbled with the helmet strap.

  Pete killed the engine and removed his helmet first. “What’s wrong?”

  “Aarghh.” My voice was muffled inside the helmet.

  Pete pushed my hands away and unclipped the strap. He lifted the helmet straight up, and my hair popped out in a clown wig impersonation. I wrapped my arms over my head.

  “I need to check something online. The last names match.” I spun and trotted for the museum’s front doors. I unlocked them and pushed through, Pete on my heels.

  “Are you going to turn on the lights?” Pete asked as he tripped on the bottom riser of the grand staircase. The dim after-hours lighting was only in the ballroom and did nothing for the rest of the cavernous museum.

 
I was halfway up the staircase. “Sorry. I know my way around, so I didn’t think—” I returned and grabbed his arm. “Here — with me. Step. Step. Got it?”

  Pete muttered something unintelligible, and I dashed ahead.

  On the landing, I froze. The Imogene makes noises, like any old building — creaks and groans, ticks and clicks, air whooshes as the heating and cooling systems turn on and off. But this was different. The noise had stopped just before I did — in response to my movements.

  And it wasn’t Pete. He was still carefully thud, thud, thudding up the stairs in the dark — his boots heavy on the oak boards.

  I turned to shush Pete, and my hand brushed something rough fuzzy. I gasped, then realized it was Pete’s jacket. His warm breath flitted across my face.

  “Wha—” he began.

  I flashed my hand toward his face, bumped his nose, and settled over his mouth.

  “Mmmrf.”

  I clamped tighter and shook my head, hoping he could sense the movement. I felt around and tugged on his earlobe with my other hand. I held my breath, and Pete seemed to be doing the same.

  His hand closed on my wrist, and he pulled my hand from his mouth. His other arm went around my waist. I squeezed my eyes shut, tipped my forehead against his chest and concentrated on listening.

  Seconds passed — minutes. The only thing I could hear was Pete’s calm breathing, in time with the rise and fall of his chest.

  A sharp crack — the parquet ballroom floor adjusting to the cooler after-hours temperature.

  Clank, clank, clank — the radiator in the public restroom on the main floor.

  Whooshiwooh, click, click — the furnace cycling on.

  Shuffle — My eyes flew open and I stiffened.

  Pete pressed his hand into the small of my back.

  Shuffle. Shuffle.

  Creeeak — the loose board on the fifteenth step up, the third step down on the staircase between the second and third floors.

  Long pause. Shuffle.

  Someone was stealthily climbing to the third floor.

  The third floor. My office. Where a prowler would start looking for the gold.

  I pushed away from Pete. “I gotta go,” I half-whispered, half-breathed and kicked off my shoes.

  I flew down the hall toward the servant’s stairwell, slid past it on my wool socks, flailed backwards and fell through the swinging door. Just a bump — not too loud. I shot to my feet and dashed up the back stairs.

  At the third floor landing, I paused, panting, behind the swinging door. I wedged a fingertip in the gap and pulled the door toward me, opening a small crack to peek through. All black.

  There. There again — short flashes of dim light arced under my office door at the far end of the hall. Someone was already inside.

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I picked out shadows of doorways and the pedestal stand holding a bust of Rupert’s great-great-uncle.

  I pulled the swinging door open far enough to slide through when another dark shadow made me freeze. This one moved. A man’s form (what woman would creep around a museum in the dark?) slunk to my office door, reached for the knob, seemed to be listening.

  Warm air on my neck. My body went rigid and my hair stood on end.

  “I’m coming with you,” Pete whispered. He squeezed my arm. “I texted Sheriff Marge.”

  I hadn’t heard him come up — I’d been so focused on the man in the corridor. Pete must have taken his boots off.

  “I don’t know how many.” I pointed toward my office. Pete shifted for a better view.

  The man listening at my office door turned the knob — I knew that faint squeal. It needed a good dose of 3-in-One oil — and pushed into the room.

  Grunts, hoarse yells, thuds, a crash. The flashlight beams became frantic.

  “My laptop,” I hissed.

  I bolted down the hall, swiped the bust of Rupert’s great-great-uncle on the way, and slid to a stop just in front of my office. I felt around the doorframe for the light switch, took a deep breath, and flipped it on.

  Three men in the midst of grappling with each other blinked at me. A bookcase lay on its side, books strewn everywhere. It was the bookcase that had held the carefully positioned camera. Wires dangled from a gaping hole in the wall.

  “You —” I screeched. “Lath and plaster!”

  I flung the bust at the nearest man — Ferris, of all people, Ferris — but he ducked. He lunged, grabbed my legs and pulled.

  I fell hard against the file cabinet and slumped between the cabinet and a bookcase. Air whooshed from my lungs like a punctured balloon. I gasped and kicked my legs free. My injured shoulder, so recently released from the sling, throbbed.

  “That’s it.” Ferris’s voice cut like steel cable.

  I gazed up at him, everything blurry about the edges, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was pointing a gun at the doorway. I strained forward to see — Pete.

  I’d entangled him in my emotional mess. Now he was also in mortal danger because of me. He probably wished he’d never met me.

  Something happened to my vision. It narrowed to a point, as though I was staring through a tunnel at a bulls-eye. Ferris was the bulls-eye. Had he killed Ham? And now he had the gall to point a gun at my Pete. He was going down.

  I scooted one foot underneath my body and launched up and out of the corner. Ferris only had time for a startled glance my direction. He stumbled backward and fell across one of the other men. I landed on top of them — thrashing, jabbing for the gun. Where had it gone?

  “Murderer,” I grunted, wrestling with several pairs of arms and legs.

  Ferris barked a short laugh. Half on top, he pinned my arms to my sides. “Had it coming, that pig.”

  He moved fast — so fast. I kicked and squirmed. My heel connected with something squishy. The man on the bottom of the pile shouted an obscenity. A short flash of space, and I bent my elbow between them and grabbed a handful of Ferris’s ear and hair.

  “Ham didn’t deserve revenge. Ozzie’s guilty.” I wheezed, digging my fingernails into cartilage.

  Ferris grunted. “Ozzie? Think what you want, but that pig made plenty of enemies,” he spat out. “Should’ve seen his face. Coward.”

  Pete stood Ferris up, grasping him by the scruff of his neck. Then an arm in red and black buffalo plaid shot out straight and fast and collided with Ferris’s jaw. Ferris buckled — just folded accordion style into a pile on the floor without a sound.

  I gaped, my brain trying to catch up with what my eyes saw. Then the lump I was sitting on moved.

  “Impressive,” said a voice from the corner by the window.

  A young man — he could have passed for a college student — with short brown hair and brown eyes slowly squatted and snagged a pistol — Ferris’s pistol — from under the desk with his free hand. Now he had a gun in each hand. He trained them on Pete — arms extended, elbows locked. He meant business.

  He nudged the man underneath me with his sneaker. “Get up, you idiot.”

  The man rolled over, upending me, and scrambled to his feet. He pulled a gun out of his back waistband and shakily aimed it at me.

  “Not her, idiot. Him.” The first man jerked his head toward Pete, then Ferris. “And him, in case he comes to. She’s coming with me.” He handed the extra gun to the second man.

  He grabbed me by the hair and yanked me up. “I think you know what we’re here for. And you’re going to show me where it is.”

  He was inches from my face, and I fixated on his overlapped front teeth. Was this the man who’d flirted with Lindsay, who’d cased the museum?

  From the look of things, they’d already searched my office and realized the gold wasn’t in the room. How long until Sheriff Marge would arrive? Stall — I had to stall.

  Pete, with his hands in the air, winked once rapidly — more like a flinch or a tick. What was he trying to tell me? I wrinkled my nose, tipped my head. What?

  Snaggletooth waved Pete into the co
rner with his gun hand, and his buddy took up a rigid stance, legs spread, both guns pointed at Pete’s stomach.

  Snaggletooth’s hand clamped on my sore shoulder, fingers clawing into the muscle, and he pushed me toward the door. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  Conversation. Maybe he could be distracted. “Why did you scout the museum a couple days ago if you were just going to ransack it anyway?”

  He jabbed the blunt end of the gun barrel into my side, and I yelped.

  “Shut up and hurry up.” He kneed me in the back of the thigh. “Or we’ll torch the place too.”

  My breath came in shallow gasps. Think. Think. Don’t make him any angrier — at least not until you have to.

  I walked stiff-legged, the gun prying into a gap between my ribs. I clenched my teeth against the pain.

  Angling toward the dark hall instead of the stairs, I made each step take as long as possible. I wanted to be noisy, to clomp so everyone could hear my path, but with stockinged feet all I managed were light thumps. Was Sheriff Marge downstairs, listening, before mounting a charge?

  Snaggletooth wrenched my shoulder back. “Tell me where we’re going, or I’ll have Mike blow your boyfriend’s brains out,” he hissed.

  I sucked in a breath. Mike — the idiot — had appeared a little shaky, but at that short range he wouldn’t miss. “End of the hall — servants’ quarters. Tote bag in the laundry chute.”

  Snaggletooth shoved me forward. I stared into the darkness, my eyes dry and scratchy. If I couldn’t see anything, he couldn’t either. Adrenaline buzzed through my veins as an idea formed.

  Close to the staircase Pete and I had climbed, I ran my hand along the wall, searching for the latch to the laundry chute hatch. My thumb just nicked the edge. “Here.”

  Snaggletooth pulled me back, found the latch and opened the panel. “You do it.” He pushed me toward the blacker black of the deep hole.

  I grabbed the edge, about waist high, and leaned forward, stretching my arm into the opening. My hand brushed against knobs and over empty toeholds on the chute’s perimeter. Snaggletooth’s raspy breathing echoed in the chamber as he pressed against me.

  There. My fingers slid over the tote bag’s strap resting on the top of a knob. I kept stretching, reaching lower, not wanting Snaggletooth to sense hesitation. Then I straightened quickly, bumping his nose with the back of my head.