Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) Page 18

  I grinned and shook my head. “And I had several volunteers to help eat the food.”

  “Oh, I was going to tell you — I noticed there was a broccoli and cream of mushroom soup dish. Write that one off. Absolute veto. I know whose that is, and it will make you sicker than a dog.”

  I stared at Sheriff Marge in horror, my jaw slack.

  Sheriff Marge squinted. “What? Well, it could just be me, but if I were you, I’d be careful.”

  o0o

  I napped between short walks with Tuppence the following day. Tylenol or Advil every four hours and lots of fresh air. I was getting the creaks out, building stamina, luxuriating in my new freedom. The worry about Greg — the overhanging helplessness and dread — had been a huge weight, its magnitude not fully realized until it was gone. I talked on the phone with both Greg and Rupert several times.

  Sheriff Marge picked me up on Saturday morning for the drive to Julian’s ranch. I scanned the port dock by the grain elevators and the marina as we sped past, looking for Pete’s tug, but it wasn’t there. Did I owe him an apology for a bout of food poisoning?

  Sheriff Marge reached across me and popped open the glove compartment.

  “Those are yours,” she said, pointing at a wadded plastic grocery bag stuffed on top of the papers and ice scraper.

  I pulled the bag out and opened it. Magnets with ladies’ names on them.

  I started in surprise. “You caught him? You’ve been busy.”

  Sheriff Marge chuckled. “Didn’t catch him, just picked him up. The clerk at the hardware and pharmacy place in Lupine recognized him and held him till we could get there. Matched your description exactly except he’s now suffering from a terrible head cold. Swore he was only there to buy decongestant.”

  Sheriff Marge succumbed to a high, wheezy laugh that I’d never heard before, and a tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. She swiped at it.

  “I’ve seen a lot over the years, but the funniest thing I might have ever seen was when his grandmother came to the jail — little bitty thing in shawls and curlers — and stuck her hand through the bars to get her teeth back so she could chew him out.” She howled and slapped the steering wheel. “Apparently there aren’t enough teeth to go around in that family, and he borrowed hers when he went to town.”

  Sheriff Marge reveled in the memory for several minutes, then sighed. “Just when you’re sure there’s nothing new under the sun, something like that comes out of the blue.” She shook her head. “The money and the tape dispenser are gone. It’s unclear what happened to the tape dispenser, and I didn’t press the issue. Do you care about the money?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. It probably fed his family for a week. His grandmother said she thought he had a job, thought that’s how he was bringing home the groceries. He lives with her plus four younger half-siblings. I got them set up with social services.”

  “What about the shotgun?”

  “He didn’t have it when we arrested him, and he said the gun wasn’t loaded when he threatened you. Granny brought it in the next day, wrapped in a burlap sack. Just left it on Nadine’s desk without a word.”

  Sheriff Marge drove for what seemed like miles up Julian’s graded and graveled driveway, past a sprawling ranch house and several machine sheds.

  I spotted Jesus Hernandez working on a tractor. So Julian had given him work for the winter.

  The Explorer rumbled over washboard tire tracks along a rusted barbed wire fence to a hillock overlooking the river. Short crosses and a few headstones stood among the waving grass in silhouette against the wan powder blue sky.

  “It’s a family plot,” Sheriff Marge said. “Several generations of Josephs are buried here. I was last here for Lizzie’s funeral.” She sighed heavily, opened the door and swung her short legs to the ground.

  We climbed the slight rise and joined a small group standing beside the rectangular hole Julian had ready. The coffin was in place at the bottom. An extra long pine box.

  Mort and Sally sang a hymn. A small, dark-haired woman stood next to me, sniffling into a handkerchief — Esperanza, the housekeeper.

  Julian kept his head bent, face hidden behind the Stetson’s brim.

  Mort said some things about the Good Shepherd and about life being like the grass of the field and a puff of wind. He didn’t linger. He picked up three shovels and handed one each to Julian and George. They worked fast and hard until their skin glistened with sweat, to cover the boy who had come home to stay.

  Esperanza laid a bunch of sunflowers on the mound.

  A few murmurs, a handshake, and arm around the shoulders. There wasn’t much to say. I held Julian’s hand until he nodded at me. The golden eyes were brighter today. He would survive.

  George was by my side as we walked back to the parked cars. He looked straight ahead when he spoke, into the wind and the blowing grass. “Come for tea when you’re ready.”

  I smiled. “I will.”

  SNEAK PEEK

  DOUBLED UP

  an Imogene Museum mystery — book #2

  Meredith Morehouse, curator of the eclectic Imogene Museum, stumbles upon the remnants of a stolen shipment of scary-looking wood figurines. Are they smuggled national treasures or clever fakes?

  While Meredith is sucked into the secret federal probe of the fishy figurines and their importer, her ex-fiancé — a man so annoyingly arrogant he could easily drive someone to murder — returns for another round of marriage proposals, and he won’t take no for an answer. Just when her friendship with hunky tug boat captain Pete Sills might be heating up.

  What’s a girl to do?

  The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. They squeaked rapid arcs across the glass, but my view of the highway wavered into watery columns regardless. The entire Columbia Gorge had been blanketed by a low-pressure soaker for the past four days, long enough that even the earthworms came up for air and drowned on the pavement. I had tried to tiptoe around the bloated white squiggles while splashing the short distance from my fifth-wheel trailer to the pickup, but I was pretty sure gummy residue coated the thick soles of my hiking boots anyway.

  Fashion went out the window on days like this. Silk long underwear, flannel-lined jeans, thick wool socks, a thermal t-shirt and a bulky cabled sweater puffed me up like the Michelin man under a bright yellow, hooded raincoat. But I was warm and dry.

  I turned off the highway into the access road for my place of employment, the Imogene Museum. We’d be lucky to get any visitors today. The Columbia River Gorge isn’t scenic when the bellies of dark rainclouds float just feet off the choppy gray water and hide the forested hills on either side.

  I relish the solitude, actually — a rare chance to do the important, and usually neglected, curator’s task of entering more of the museum’s collection of random oddities into the database tracking system.

  The mansion which houses the museum is by no means silent or lonely, even when empty. The old girl (circa 1902) creaks and clanks, whistles and groans like a decommissioned frigate straining against her final anchor chain, waiting for the blast that will send her to the bottom. Sometimes I talk back, promising the trustee board will keep patching her up as best they can.

  Yesterday’s puddles had amassed into mini-lakes splotching the muddy lawn. I picked out Ford Huckle’s cabin through the spindly arms of bare oaks and maples. He lives in a converted pump house, one of the many outbuildings on the museum’s sprawling acreage. I hoped the groundskeeper’s new septic system could handle the rising water table. A bright blue Honey Bucket porta-potty still stood next to the cabin’s front door, providing a shot of startling color in the otherwise drab landscape.

  I turned into the paved parking lot shared by the museum, county park, and marina. A semi-truck idled longways directly in front of the museum, blocking the entrance sidewalk. A blackish exhaust cloud hugged the asphalt, unable to rise through the downpour.

  The white trailer was unmarked, but the passenger-side door of
the dark green cab said ‘T&T Trucking, Seattle, WA.’ Probably a long-haul driver who’d pulled off the highway last night when the rain was so hard he couldn’t see. Plus, there are rules about the maximum number of hours a driver can be on the road in any 24-hour period in order to prevent sleepy drivers from becoming a safety hazard. He probably left the engine running to keep the cab heated while he dozed.

  As I slowed to a stop, I realized the driver must be in the trailer because the rear door was rolled up. A few pieces of broken wood pallet littered the ground at the back of the trailer.

  I slid my right arm back into the sling that was supposed to keep my shoulder and broken collarbone immobilized and hopped out of the pickup, pulling my hood up to shield my face from the pelting rain. The empty right sleeve of my raincoat flapped as I trotted around to the back of the trailer and peered inside.

  “Hello?” I called.

  Splintered wood, broken crates, clumps of raffia-like packing material and wads of plastic wrap were strewn on the trailer’s floor. Scuff marks disturbed what appeared to be sawdust.

  I couldn’t see all the way to the front end, but it did look as though there were more boxes and crates farther in. Some of them might still be intact. Who would unload crates in the museum’s parking lot in the middle of the night?

  Unless Rupert had yet another surprise up his sleeve. I grinned.

  Rupert Hagg is the museum director and great-grand-nephew of the mansion’s builder, the philanthropist and visionary Wilder Hagg. Rupert had inherited responsibility for the non-profit museum. He’d hired me to do the day-to-day organizing and managing while he traveled the globe looking for items to add to the museum’s roster. Maybe Rupert was in the museum, unpacking goodies.

  I dashed toward the museum’s front doors, but skidded to a stop after just a few steps. In my peripheral vision, a rotund, person-shaped lump lay on the ground beside the back wheels of the truck cab. Yes. He’d been hidden from view when I was on the other side of the trailer.

  The driver’s door was open. Had he fallen out?

  I gulped, trying to remember the basics of CPR from the lifeguarding class I took in high school a couple decades ago.

  I ran back and knelt beside the man. He looked as white and bloated as the worms I’d stepped on earlier. I jabbed two fingers in the fleshy fold between his jaw and neck. Maybe a little blip, blip, blip of a pulse. Maybe it was my imagination.

  I leaned over, my cheek skimming his nose. Ragged, raspy breathing and a bitter, acrid smell. His salt and pepper mustache was stained tobacco brown directly under his nostrils.

  I picked up a plump hand which was surprisingly soft but heavy limp. His steel-gray button-down uniform shirt said ‘Terry’ on the pocket that bulged around a pack of cigarettes. Presumably one of the Ts of T&T Trucking. I rubbed his hand but didn’t get a response. Still, his chest rose and fell in a pretty regular cadence, and I was glad his life didn’t depend on my shaky memory of CPR.

  He was soaked to the skin. How long had he been lying here? In this rain, it wouldn’t take long to get that wet.

  I sprinted to my pickup to fish my cell phone out of my tote and grab the hairy old blanket Tuppence, my hound, sat on when she rode shotgun. I grunted as I tried to manage everything one-handed, still feeling twinges of unexpected pain with certain movements. With the blanket wedged under my right arm, I palmed the phone and ran back to the unconscious driver.

  I flung the blanket over him, pulling and nudging to get most of him covered. Calling Sheriff Marge Stettler guaranteed as quick a response as calling 911, and sometimes faster. Sheriff Marge was always on duty.

  “Unconscious truck driver in the museum parking lot,” was all I had to say.

  “It’ll have to be the volunteer fire department,” Sheriff Marge replied. “The EMTs are in a training session at the hospital in Lupine. Get him warm and dry.”

  “I’m trying,” I said to dead air.

  He was lying in about half an inch of water. I pulled off my raincoat and spread it over him. He was too heavy to drag one-armed, and until we knew what had caused his condition, he probably shouldn’t be moved.

  I climbed the steps to the cab, hanging on with my left hand, and fell stomach first onto the driver’s seat. Maybe he’d have something I could use.

  I scooted around until I was sitting behind the wheel. The cab was littered with crumpled potato chip bags, empty plastic drink bottles and fruit pie wrappers. A bobblehead chihuahua clung to the dashboard by a grimy suction cup. It jiggled above a protruding ashtray that overflowed with putrid butts.

  No umbrella, tarp, rain poncho — nothing water resistant. I reached through the steering wheel with my left hand and rocked the key in the ignition until the rumbling engine shut down.

  My foot bumped something light on the floor, and I bent to look. An inflated doughnut seat cushion, the kind new mothers sit on. And truck drivers, apparently. I tossed the cushion out the open door and eased down the steps.

  Kneeling above the driver’s head, I slipped my right arm out of the sling and used both hands to lift his head. I grimaced against the pain in my right shoulder and kneed the cushion underneath. He moaned. My hands came away bloody.

  NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Imogene Museum mystery series is a tribute to the Columbia River Gorge and the hearty people who live in gorge towns on both sides of the Oregon/Washington border. It’s an extraordinary piece of God’s real estate, and I savor driving, sightseeing, picnicking and camping its entire length. Hitching a ride on a tug run from Umatilla to Astoria is on my bucket list.

  If you are familiar with the area, you may realize that I have taken liberties with distances in some cases. Mostly I squished locations (albeit fictional) closer together to move the story along and also to showcase the amazing geologic and topographic features of the gorge. In real life for many gorge residents, the roundtrip to a Costco or a bona fide sit-down restaurant might well take a full day. This kind of travel time is not helpful when you’re chasing a fleeing murderer. But, if you’re not Sheriff Marge and have time to enjoy the scenery, the gorge is spectacular, and I encourage you to come experience it for yourself.

  However, please don’t expect to actually meet any of the characters in this book. All are purely fictional, and if you think they might represent anyone you know, you’re mistaken. Really. I couldn’t get away with that.

  oOo

  Profound thanks to the following people who gave their time and expertise to assist in the writing of this book:

  The wise, good-humored and eagle-eyed ladies in my writing critique group — Diane Cammer, Sandy Stark, Anne Taylor and Karen Williams.

  My insightful beta readers — Debra Biaggi and BJ Thompson.

  Detective Kevin Schmidt of the Clark County Sheriff’s Office who answered questions about guns, search and rescue, and evidence collection.

  Sergeant Fred Neiman, Sr. and all the instructors of the Clark County Sheriff’s Citizens’ Academy. The highlights had to be firing the Thompson submachine gun and stepping into the medical examiner’s walk-in cooler. Oh, and the K-9 demonstration and the officer survival/lethal force decision making test. And the drug task force presentation with identification color spectrum pictures and the — you get the idea.

  I claim all errors, whether accidental or intentional, solely as my own.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I live in the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. After too many years as a VP of inventory and analysis, I find writing mysteries much more stimulating than squinting at spreadsheets. When not typing, doodling or staring out the window, I’m usually planning my next local tourist adventure, listening to NASCAR races and Mariners, Seahawks and Trailblazers games on the radio, or sneaking dessert for breakfast.

  I post updates on my website www.jerushajones.com

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  I love hearing from readers at jerushajonesmystery@gmail.com