Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Page 17

  I scooted a path through the books with my feet and stood in front of the huge picture window — one of my favorite spots. Sunlight reflected off the river’s surface, turning it into a silvery mirror. Frost-coated tree limbs sparkled and sprinkled little water drop flurries when the breeze shook them. Tiny ice flecks dusted the muddy area around the trench — looking for all the world like a chocolate doughnut that had been rolled in granulated sugar.

  My stomach growled. I groaned. Not a good sign. When I’m nervous, my digestive tract goes into hyperdrive. I’d rather take on another gang of intruders than chat with Earl Rittenour.

  I carefully upended the tote bag and let the contents roll onto the desk. Eight statues in thirteen pieces. Not bad considering the four-story drop. Maybe they’d landed on top of Snaggletooth instead of the other way around.

  The bottom drawer of the file cabinet contains all kinds of potions and solvents for patching, cleaning and repairing artifacts — and a bottle of super-duty wood glue. The Imogene is pretty hands-on, as museums go, and accidents sometimes happen. It’s good to be able to reassure embarrassed visitors that their clumsiness is easily remedied.

  I spread a large garbage bag over my desk, pushed up my sleeves and set to work with flat toothpicks, glue and clamps. When the statues dried, I’d touch up the fracture lines with fine grit sandpaper and a wax filler stick. One of the benefits of having a mother who was an art therapist — I’d never been allowed to be tentative about getting my hands in dirty, smeary, messy, sticky, or greasy mediums. Diving in is always the best option.

  “Express yourself,” Mom had said, emphasizing the point with a big swoosh of her own hand — but she meant finger paints, not real life. Real life for Mom is always tidy, and tightly controlled — probably overcompensation for my wildly exciting but irresponsible father who’d abandoned us when I was three.

  I’d never seen him again. My last memory regarding him was Mom slouched on the kitchen floor weeping during — and much more after — a phone call. Mom had the phone cord wrapped around her forearm and strung through her fingers like cat’s cradle while mascara ran down her face. The linoleum under Mom’s bare legs — it was a hot day, and she wore cutoffs with red heart appliqués — was an orange and green faux-Moroccan tile pattern. It’s weird, the things that stuck in my memory. And the much more important things that hadn’t, but I wish they had.

  I heard words I didn’t understand at the time — overdose, addict, Bali, commune and transport. In the end, his family decided to let him be buried where he’d died, halfway around the world. It would have been socially awkward to deal with the return of a crazy son/husband’s body. A year later, Mom married Alex, the man her family had wanted her to marry in the first place. A sure bet, Alex — reliable, on a stable career path, an upstanding member of the right socioeconomic class.

  I sighed and propped up the last statue to dry, then headed to the restroom to wash the glue off my hands.

  Superman and Eyebrows were coming up as I went down.

  “Anything on the truck yet?” I asked.

  Superman pursed his lips. “Registered to a front company in Tukwila I recognize. They’re suspected of laundering money for a Somali militia group. Not on the SDN list yet, but will be soon.”

  “SDN list?”

  “Specially designated nationals. Basically terrorists, drug traffickers and their financiers with whom our government prohibits business transactions.”

  “And the gold?”

  “Probably smuggled in to be exchanged for cash.”

  “But why was it stolen before it was delivered?”

  Eyebrows jumped in. “It could be that Mr. Rittenour was being used without his knowledge. They may have piggybacked on his shipment.”

  “The shipment came from England,” I said.

  Superman resumed. “I’m guessing the gold was channeled from Somalia through India and into England that way. The Indians are very lax about documenting gold transactions, and England has a large Indian immigrant population — pretty easy to courier into the country. The Somali immigrant group there is small, but healthy. No doubt some of them, particularly the shadier ones, talk to each other. Unfortunately, there are always opportunists embedded among the true refugees.”

  “But why was the gold sent here, to Washington?”

  “Probably previous ties, maybe family members. These groups have amazing networks. When it gets hot one place, they try somewhere else.”

  “And the statues?”

  “That’s what we’re hoping to find out from Mr. Rittenour.”

  “Heard my equipment was trashed last night,” Eyebrows said.

  “Among other things. Go ahead — I’ll be back up in a few minutes.” I clomped down the remaining stairs.

  Glue-free, I stopped by the gift shop. “You’re early.”

  “Are you okay?” Lindsay hurried around the counter. “Archie said you were here last night, had a fight with — and subdued — a few burglars.” She examined my face with a worried look.

  “Sore and a little shook up. I’m trying not to think about how it could have turned out.”

  Lindsay tilted her head and peered at my jaw. “That’s a nasty bruise.”

  I rubbed the spot gingerly. “I don’t remember this happening, actually. It was kind of crazy there for a few minutes.”

  “Did you ice it?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Too late now.” Lindsay shook her head. “I’m not sure it helps anyway. I just know my brothers would lie around with ice packs clutched to various body parts after football games. I always suspected it was a ploy to garner sympathy.” She squeezed my arm. “I heard Pete was here too. Some date, huh?” An impish grin played across her face.

  “How do you hear all these things?”

  “Archie called this morning while we were eating breakfast. Dad was planning to go out to Archie’s place today to do soil testing — Archie’s thinking about putting in a vineyard. Anyway, Archie postponed because he has to work on this case, as he called it. That’s when we found out there’d been a break-in.” Lindsay hooked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Anything I can do to help? I heard they made a mess.”

  “Most of my books are on the floor. I’d love help putting them back.”

  “You betcha.” But a wrinkle creased the spot between Lindsay’s eyebrows. “What were they after, Meredith? Did they steal anything?”

  I wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “No. They tried — but they weren’t successful. I’m going to have a visitor this afternoon. After that meeting, I’ll be able to tell you. Oh—” I turned and put my hands on Lindsay’s shoulders. “But I can tell you one of them—” I paused and bit my lip. “I don’t even know why he was here, but one of them was arrested for Ham’s murder.” I smiled into Lindsay’s brown eyes. “This will all be over very soon. There’s no need to worry.”

  To my surprise, Lindsay hugged me. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised — Lindsay is an inveterate hugger. “Okay,” she whispered. “If you say so.”

  I gave Lindsay a quick return squeeze. “Have you seen Ford this morning?”

  Lindsay shook her head.

  “I need to talk to him, but I’ll be up in a few minutes.” No need to inform Lindsay that Ford had almost had his toes shot off last night. I didn’t see how Archie could have failed to mention that, but if he hadn’t, I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up — at least not right now.

  I walked across the museum lawn to Ford’s pump house-turned-cabin. I’d never been inside and wasn’t sure if he would welcome the intrusion or be flustered by it. The door was painted glossy forest green. I knocked.

  “Comin’.”

  Several thumps and bumps sounded inside.

  I turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack. “Ford, it’s just me. Please don’t get up. Is it alright if I let myself in?”

  But Ford was already at the door and opened it wide. “That’s jes’ Tommy. He’
s gettin’ spritely.”

  A small orange and white cat, purring much too loudly for its size, twined between Ford’s feet.

  I bent and scooped him up, tucking the fur ball under my chin. Tommy’s purr turned squeaky.

  “Ford, how are you?”

  “Got nothin’ to complain about.”

  When you get right down to it, that’s true of most people, but they don’t realize it. I grinned. Ford’s is the kind of company worth keeping — everyone needs a good dose of cheerful perspective now and then.

  “I expected you’d be on crutches.”

  Ford stuck his right leg out at a forty-five degree angle and examined the toe of his boot. “These’re my lucky boots, Nick said. Not supposed to be bulletproof, but the angle was jes’ right. Deflected.”

  “Are you sore, though? Bruises?”

  “Toes are purple. Nick said to rest.” Ford shrugged. “Seems silly.”

  “Nick’s training to be a medic, so he knows what he’s talking about.”

  “I got prunin’ to do.” Ford’s face was set, determined.

  I stroked Tommy for a minute. Nothing like cuddling a contented animal to get the gray cells clicking. “You know what I’ve wanted for a long time?”

  “Huh?”

  “Tessellation puzzles for the kids who visit the museum. Mac even cut the pieces for me a year ago, and I’ve never had time to paint them.”

  “I could do that,” Ford said.

  “Would you? The littler kids who visit the museum would love to have something special to play with — something just for them.”

  Ford grinned. “I like puzzles.”

  “It’d be nice to have them for the winter months, especially, when the weather’s not good for touring the grounds.”

  “Yep. Winter’s comin’. Froze again last night.”

  “I’ll bring the boxes of pieces over this afternoon. Each shape needs to be painted a different color. Think you could make time for that job in the next few days?”

  “Yep. I’ll clear the kitchen table.” Ford turned and hobbled toward the back of the cabin.

  “And prop your foot up,” I called.

  I snuggled my nose into Tommy’s soft fur for another second, then released the cat. He trotted after Ford. Smiling, I closed the glossy green door behind me.

  o0o

  I paused at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily. Either last night had wiped me out more than I realized or I was in dire need of exercise. Or both. Shuffling sounds came from my office.

  Lindsay squatted, sorting through books. The bookcases were already upright and in place along the walls.

  Eyebrows, sans suit jacket, was head and shoulders into a bookcase. He backed out, a couple long screws held between his lips and a screwdriver in hand. He waggled the screwdriver. “Not secure,” he mumbled around the screws and bent back into the bookcase, a few shelves lower.

  When he emerged a minute later, lips empty, he said, “Bookcases are supposed to be affixed to the walls. You know that, right?” His bushy brows plateaued in a straight line across his forehead. “Proper safety measures.” He almost clucked. “If there was an earthquake—”

  “A couple of those doubled as weapons last night — for the good side.” I sighed. “But of course, you’re right.” I didn’t tell him that if there was an earthquake, the bookcases would probably be the least of my worries.

  Superman blocked the doorway, holding a tub of spackle and a drywall cutout. “Best patch I can provide in short order. A little texture and paint, and no one will notice.”

  I shook my head. “You guys go to carpenter school?”

  Superman grinned, the first I’d seen. “On the job training. Attics, crawl spaces, vents, closets with the floorboards removed and replaced. Usually important not to let them know we’ve been there.”

  My stomach turned in knots, but I managed a tight smile. I knelt beside Lindsay.

  “Any particular order?” she asked.

  I pressed the heels of my palms to my forehead. “Topical, then alphabetical by author within topic. Maybe I’ll draw a quick diagram.” I exhaled, surveying the piles. “Yeah. Give me a few minutes.”

  I pulled an atlas over and grabbed a paper scrap from the file cabinet. Using the big book as a lap desk, I sketched a quick outline of each bookcase and its contents.

  Lindsay looked over my shoulder. “I already found some geology books.” She scooted to a neat pile, picked it up and slid the stack into place.

  By lunchtime, my office was cleaner than it had ever been — bookcases no longer tipsy, books perfectly aligned, their perpendicular spines flush with the front edge of the shelves, dust vacuumed from every nook, my desk positioned in the square of sunshine filtering through the hazy window.

  “Ugh.” Lindsay pointed to the window and disappeared. She returned with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels under her arm.

  Superman fiddled with the replacement camera in the corner.

  Eyebrows returned from stowing the ancient Hoover and smacked his hands together. “Looks good.”

  Both men were rumpled and dust-streaked.

  “Hungry?” I asked. “I called Dennis Durante, one of the local vintners and caterer. He’ll drop off some of his specialty sandwiches soon.”

  “I could go for that.” Superman rubbed his forearm across his brow. “This is ready to test.” He nodded at Eyebrows.

  They ducked into the storage room down the hall.

  “Lucky we haven’t had any visitors this morning,” Lindsay said. “But I’d better get back to the gift shop just in case.”

  “You get dibs on the sandwich you want when Dennis stops by.” I wrinkled my nose and sneezed. “I had no idea it was so dirty in here.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’re so focused all the time — and working. Maybe Pete’ll take care of that problem.” Lindsay dodged my playful poke.

  “I’ll come with you. I need to find those wood puzzle pieces Mac cut. They’re in the basement somewhere.”

  I plodded down the final set of stairs and flipped on the basement light switch. Long rows light bulbs snapped to life, illuminating the cavernous, low-ceilinged room. One corner was cleared for photographing artifacts, set up with a digital camera, a couple tables, spotlights and transit carts. The rest of the room held a conglomeration of broken furniture, unlabeled collections in dusty boxes, household equipment — some working, some not. Over a century’s worth of detritus.

  But the puzzle pieces were from my era. They should be near the top, or front — last in, first out, right? Like the accounting method. Those technicalities had always been a little beyond me in business school — why I went into marketing instead of accounting. But standing in the long room with my hands on my hips, they made sense. I was looking for cleaner, newer boxes.

  I grabbed a transit cart and pushed it down the semi-clear center aisle, examining the easiest-to-reach boxes. Certain I’d labeled the puzzle pieces, I looked for black Sharpie lettering. And pounced — three neatly stacked, clean boxes labeled ‘squares & triangles, parallelograms, hexagons.’

  While loading the cart, the abandoned avocado green washer and dryer set caught my eye. I still hadn’t posted them on Craig’s list. They certainly weren’t doing anyone any good in the Imogene’s basement. The mansion had industrial-sized washers and dryers installed in the 1940s, back when Rupert’s ancestors still hoped to produce more progeny and all live together happily in their massive vacation home. The 1970s avocado set was some kind of fluke — maybe the last servants used it.

  I wandered into the off-shoot area where the laundry had been. It was directly underneath the servants’ quarters upstairs — not long enough to be called a wing, just a chunky protrusion to the building. The Imogene was not a model of classical architecture. The mansion was a modern experiment before the idea of modern was fully developed, so from the outside it looked like something a toddler assembled with wood alphabet blocks.

  Helpfully, the
last person to do laundry here had left one of the big laundry carts directly under the chute — where Snaggletooth landed with little apparent injury. I jiggled the cart, the wheels squealing in protest.

  Snaggletooth had mentioned springs. I pushed on the cart’s suspended inner bottom. Springs underneath groaned and squeaked as they compressed, all the way to the cart’s real bottom.

  I wedged my hand between the inner bottom and the side, lifted and peered at the springs underneath. Clever, really — it would function somewhat like a trampoline in case a kid fell down the chute.

  A black rectangle lay between two coils. I squinted. A cell phone. That wasn’t from the 1940s, or the 1970s.

  I tipped the laundry cart on its side — a hard task. The cart was much heavier than it looked. The phone slid, and I wiggled it out.

  I opened the contact list. The names weren’t familiar — mostly men’s first names, Mercury Trading, a couple girls’ names, and Mom. There was no Earl on the list.

  I handed Superman the phone when we spread out lunch on my freshly scrubbed desk. The statues had their own space on a bookshelf.

  Superman flipped through the contact list too, scowling. “Yeah, it’s his. Jeff Reid — that’s his real name. And Mercury Trading — that’s one of the many subsidiaries of the front company the truck is registered to.” He nodded and pocketed the phone. “Hopefully the information Mr. Rittenour provides will be useful in getting Mr. Reid to talk.”

  My stomach churned. I set my chicken salad with red onion chutney and arugula on a crusty baguette down on the parchment paper wrapper — untasted.

  Eyebrows talked around a mouthful of pastrami. “The other guy, Fulmer — Ferris — whatever his name is — well, he sure blabbed. Soon’s the sheriff laid out his charges, he started pointing fingers every which way. If we’re lucky, Rittenour’ll do the same.”

  “I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why was he here?”

  “Ferris? Said he was looking for something to convert into cash ‘cause he hadn’t been paid. Overheard someone talking about secure display cases for valuable items. Heavy, he said. He guessed right about there being gold in the building.”