Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Page 3

  “Did Terry say anything about hearing or seeing another vehicle in the parking lot?” I asked. “That crate was heavy. They’d have needed a van or pickup or something larger to haul thirteen of them.”

  Sheriff Marge’s answer was drowned in the grinding of gears as Terry swung the truck in a tight turn to clear the curbs marking the handicapped parking spots and my pickup beyond them. I held my breath as the semi’s left front fender came within a handbreadth of my truck’s back bumper. Then Terry straightened the trailer and moved toward the marina at the far end of the long shared parking lot.

  “No,” Sheriff Marge reanswered.

  “Do you think he was in on it?” I asked.

  “Always a possibility.”

  “Hey,” Dale said. “He’s making a run for it.”

  Instead of slowing and pulling the truck to the edge of the lot, Terry turned onto the access road toward the highway.

  “Maybe he’s going to back into position,” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” Dale called over his shoulder as he ran to his squad car. Terry was picking up speed.

  “I thought he was belligerent, but not stupid,” Sheriff Marge muttered. She trotted to her SUV, poncho flapping behind, and hoisted her bulky frame into the seat. She gunned the engine and took off with a squeal of tires, the door smacking shut on its own.

  Dale’s Crown Vic and Sheriff Marge’s Explorer converged on the semi truck, lights flashing. Terry was definitely heading for the highway.

  Then I spotted bits of bright blue and yellow moving through the trees. I stepped out a few feet to get a better view. It was Ford in his raincoat, on the tractor he used for mowing. But instead of pulling the mower attachment, he was pulling a little trailer with the porta-potty strapped on it. The tractor and porta-potty plowed through the muddy lawn toward the access road.

  “Stop! Ford!” He was too far away to hear. I waved my good arm and jumped up and down. Ford kept looking back, checking his trailer, not watching ahead.

  The tractor chugged along at a poky pace while the semi shuddered with a gear change and charged even faster on the smooth pavement. Terry wasn’t going to see a little tractor coming through the trees. My hand flew to my mouth, and I hunched my shoulders instinctively, bracing for impact.

  Ford reached the access road in front of the semi, but not by much. I couldn’t tell from my angle, but surely there wasn’t enough distance separating the two vehicles for Terry to stop.

  For a split second everything moved in slow motion — Ford rolled fully onto the road, the lights on the patrol cars swooped across the dirty white semi trailer and the gray-barked tree trunks. Then the semi tractor skipped sideways with a horrible crunching noise as the trailer bore down on it, the brakes — or was it the gears — grinding, scraping, piercing, metal-on-metal screams.

  Ford swerved, and his action flung the porta-potty airborne. It popped off the trailer as if it was spring-loaded, the door flapping open in flight. A corner pogo-ed off the pavement, and the blue hut somersaulted a couple times before coming to a rest on its side.

  The semi shimmied in little hops, then stood still, heaving and steaming. Somehow Terry had whoaed that rocketing weight up and sideways, like a cowboy jerking the reins hard on a horse’s bridle, pulling the brute to a sitting stop.

  I sucked in a breath.

  Dale sprinted toward the cab, gun held stiff-armed, pointed down. When he came even with the door, he aimed at the driver’s window. His voice carried on the damp air. “Show me your hands. Now!”

  Terry’s white face and two palms wobbled into view.

  Ford. Where was Ford?

  I charged the shortest distance, across the sucking mud, straight through lake-sized puddles. My nylon rain coat swished against tree trunks as I sideswiped them. Like a running back dodging lumbering linemen and free safeties, I swerved, stumbled, but kept my feet churning.

  My mud-caked boots felt like twenty-pound flippers by the time I reached the access road. I ran around the semi cab and stalled tractor, then tiptoed along the edge of neon blue chemical sludge that was oozing out of the damaged porta-potty. It reeked — a mixture of breath mints, orange peel and the kind of floor cleaner used in hospitals. Sicky-sweet and gross. Ford stood, arms akimbo, surveying the mess. He looked okay — no blood.

  I bent in half, panting.

  “Jim won’t like this,” Ford said.

  “Jim?” I struggled for clean air.

  “He told me to have the latrine out at the main road today. He’s goin’ to pick it up.”

  “I don’t suppose it has to be right side up for him to pick it up.”

  Ford stepped back as the seepage crept toward the tips of his boots.

  “You alright?” I asked.

  “Got nothin’ to complain about.”

  A giggle burbled up, and I couldn’t hold it back. I patted Ford’s shoulder.

  Sheriff Marge power-walked up to us, huffing, accompanied by the crinkly rustle of her poncho. “Injuries?”

  Ford didn’t answer, so I shook my head.

  “Phew,” Sheriff Marge said.

  I glanced at her, but Sheriff Marge was staring off into the trees. The word could describe the odoriferous cloud emanating from the porta-potty or the entire morning’s excitement or plain old relief at how a near-wreck hadn’t happened.

  “How’s Terry?” I asked.

  “Scared the hooey out of him. He’ll be talking now.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Dale and Ford stayed on the scene waiting for a tow truck and the porta-potty pick-up guy, respectively. Through traffic was impossible until the semi could be straightened and shoved to the side and the blue seepage dealt with.

  Back in the Imogene’s staff kitchen, Sheriff Marge settled in for a heart-to-heart with Terry. She shed her poncho and hat and warmed a mug of coffee in the microwave. I skipped the bitter brew, but started in on the roast beef, provolone, tomato and peperoncini sandwich I’d packed for lunch. The recent adrenaline rush had made me hungry.

  Terry slouched in a folding chair like a day-old balloon sculpture. The skin on his face hung in long folds. Even his mustache drooped. He shivered under the thick blanket I’d found for him.

  The flimsy chair creaked under Sheriff Marge’s weight as she eased into it. She plunked her mug on the table. “Let’s start with you. Then we’ll talk about the incident this morning.”

  Terry stared at the floor.

  “Is Terry Ambrose your real name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a commercial driver’s license?”

  “Not right now.”

  Sheriff Marge shifted, but Terry wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “Why are you driving a semi without a CDL?”

  “Need the money.”

  “Terry, this will go a lot faster if you fill in for me here. You want to tell me your story?”

  He spread his shaking fingers. “I need a cigarette.”

  “Just as soon as you tell me what’s going on.”

  He ran a tentative hand across his forehead then fingered the bandage on the back of his head. “I’m on parole. Got out a couple months ago. Been working for my cousins who own a small warehousing business. It was the only place I could get work with my record.”

  Sheriff Marge sipped her coffee and left her notebook on the table, unopened.

  “But it’s not full-time. It’s not even part-time most of the time. My mother has emphysema and no insurance, and she’s getting worse. I need money for her inhalers.” Terry paused and looked up for the first time. “She’s been good to me, you know, even though I haven’t been good to her.”

  Sheriff Marge raised an eyebrow.

  “A few weeks ago, the manager of the regional trucking firm next door came over to see if anybody could drive a rig. One of their drivers got arrested for a fight with his girlfriend or something and couldn’t make his usual run. I’ve driven trucks before — before I went to prison, so I said yes. The guy offer
ed me cash, off the books, to fill in here and there. Didn’t want to go through all the HR hassle and paperwork, he said. Cash sounded good to me, so I took the job.”

  “And this firm is T&T Trucking?”

  Terry nodded. “I’ve done a few runs for them. Try to drive at night and take side roads around weigh stations.”

  “The stolen shipment was intended for a gallery in Portland. One of the conditions of your parole is that you not leave the state without notifying your parole officer, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I assume your parole officer has no idea you’re doing this cash-basis job on the side?”

  “Yeah.” Terry massaged his hands.

  “Do you know what was in the shipment for the Rittenour Gallery?”

  “Just what it said on the bill of lading — wood artifacts.”

  “Did you see those wood artifacts?”

  Terry shook his head.

  “What did you serve time for?”

  “Forgery.”

  “How long were you in?”

  “Three and a half years.”

  Sheriff Marge blew out a breath. “Then it wasn’t your first offense.”

  Terry rocked forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “Third. First felony.”

  “You might be really lucky you didn’t make that delivery in Oregon.”

  When Terry didn’t answer, she continued. “Why’d you run?”

  “All that — what I just told you. Guess I panicked.”

  “And tried to outrun us in a semi?”

  “I’ve had a really bad day, alright?”

  Sheriff Marge’s eyes were straight-shooting serious. She leaned forward. “Let me tell you something. I have plenty of ex-cons living in my county. The ones who make an effort at clean living seem to prefer being out here, away from so many people, the craziness, the stress. I have a lot of respect for them — provided they’re honest. You’re not rolling in the right direction. Want to give me a reason to trust you?”

  Terry spread his hands in an open gesture. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “So who are your buddies, the ones who conked you on the head? Give me names.”

  Terry’s faced flushed deep purple red, and he slid forward a few inches. His eyes bulged to the size of jumbo jawbreakers, speckled and bloodshot. “I told you, I don’t know them,” he spluttered. His folding chair tipped, and he pushed the feet back down on the tile floor with a violent clank. “Didn’t even see them. I have no idea who they are.”

  “Who knew about this trip?”

  “Tom. Tom Hiller, the manager, and the dispatcher, Olivia. My cousin knew I was going south, but I didn’t tell him the addresses.”

  “Just those two? You mention it to your mother, friends, bartender, anyone else?”

  “Didn’t have a chance.” Terry’s face was draining to its normal ashen color. “Tom asked me to do it around 6 p.m. yesterday. I went home, told my mom I was making a run but not where to — didn’t want her to worry about the Oregon stop. I slept a few hours, then went back to the truck yard. Left around 12:30 this morning.”

  Sheriff Marge tore a blank sheet out of her notebook, clicked her pen open and slid both across to Terry. “I want you to think about it and write down everything you remember about deliveries you’ve made for this T&T Trucking — dates, business names and addresses or at least general locations, what items were listed on the bills of lading, names of people who signed for the deliveries, anything else you can think of.”

  Terry accepted the pen and paper. “I need a smoke.”

  “Meredith’ll set you up.”

  I snapped to attention. The museum didn’t have a dedicated smoking area. I’d have to take him outside, but raindrops were still ticking against the windowpanes.

  “And if you run this time,” Sheriff Marge said, “you’ll be on foot, alone, wet, cold, hungry. People are mighty suspicious of hitchhikers around here. And we have dogs, lots of dogs — the kind that hunt bear, ‘coons, cougar. They’d be thrilled to go after you.”

  “I’m not running,” Terry muttered.

  Behind his back, I rolled my eyes, but Sheriff Marge didn’t acknowledge me, didn’t let any levity slip through her stern demeanor. Terry Ambrose had definitely gotten on her nerves, and that was hard to do.

  I led Terry out the narrow kitchen door and dashed to a gazebo at the far end of what used to be the cook’s garden. It must have been glorious in its heyday. Among the family papers, I had found garden plans. The raised beds had contained herbs, vegetables and edible flowers. Now their crumbled frames are overrun by a thick sod of prairie grass and weeds. From a distance, they look like miniature Indian burial mounds from the Midwest.

  Benches around the gazebo’s perimeter had rotted away decades ago. I held Terry’s clipboard against my chest. Not sure why I’d picked it up, but I wished I’d thought to bring a couple folding chairs instead.

  Terry wasn’t up to sprinting, so he arrived a minute later and wetter. He dug a cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. Steady, drumming rain pelted the shake roof, the flagstone path, the saturated ground — a noise felt as much as heard. The way army ants would sound if they wore steel-toed boots. Terry lit up and inhaled with his eyes closed.

  I searched for something to say. But I couldn’t commiserate, couldn’t offer consolation or empathy. Was he one of the bad guys? He’d sure exploded when Sheriff Marge hinted that he was in on the theft.

  I sighed and yanked the stack of papers from the clipboard, then handed it to him. “Here — for your list.”

  Terry dropped the cigarette butt and smashed it under his toe. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “I mean for helping me when I was out cold. I should’ve thanked you sooner.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Groggy.”

  “You want me to write while you think? I take pretty good notes.”

  He handed the clipboard back. “You’re going to need more paper.”

  I filled both sides of Sheriff Marge’s notebook page plus the back side of five bill of lading sheets while Terry smoked through the rest of his pack. His under-the-table gig with T&T Trucking was pretty regular, with two to three runs per week all over Washington state. If he was telling the truth, the Rittenour delivery would have been his first time to cross state lines.

  His hands were still shaking when we finished.

  “I think you need to rest,” I said. “Come on.” I slid my arm through his. “You have an awfully good memory.”

  “Useful during my forging days.” He leaned more heavily against me with each step.

  Sheriff Marge was pacing the kitchen, cell phone pressed against her ear. She ran her other hand back and forth through her short hair, making it stand on end. “Uh-huh….yeah. Okay.”

  I marveled at how Sheriff Marge could keep her pants up when there was nothing to hitch her belt above. Her tubular torso extended from shoulders to mid-thigh. But even under the most strenuous circumstances, Sheriff Marge was always pressed, tucked and badged in the right places. She hung up.

  “Done?” She took the papers and scanned them.

  She peered at Terry over her reading glasses. “You’ve been busy.”

  He dropped onto a folding chair, but said nothing.

  “Here’s the deal. I’m not going to arrest you, at least not right now. I am going to call your parole officer, and I’m sure he’d like to talk with you. Since your truck’s not going anywhere for the time being and there are no Motel 6s around here, there are not a lot of options. But I can offer you a dry, safe place to sleep. We happen to have an empty jail cell at the moment. We won’t lock it. I’m sure the amenities will be familiar. You can have a hot shower, and we’ll nuke a frozen dinner for you. I think we have a stash of Lean Cuisines. What do you say?”

  Terry picked at his bandage again. “I need a nap.”

  o0o

  I trudged upstairs to my office feeling as exhau
sted as Terry looked. Probably had something to do with the nerve-wracking incidents of the morning. My heart started pounding again whenever I thought about the semi barreling toward Ford astride his tractor. The mental footage was going to plague my dreams for a while. That, and the porta-potty in lumbering flight like an enormous blue chicken.

  Lately, Pete Sills had been featured in my dreams — for completely different and much more pleasant reasons. He’d pulled me out of a cavern a couple months ago, but I’d been unconscious at the time and missed out on the tantalizing details. I cringed at the idea that things might become combined in my subconscious soup.

  I settled into the padded desk chair and let my gaze wander. The south-facing picture window was alive with wavering streaks of water. Three stories down and thirty yards away, the Columbia flowed high inside bouldered banks, her rolling surface dappled with raindrops. It was probably perfect fishing weather.

  Sharp rapping made me swivel around. Rupert leaned a shoulder into the doorframe as though it might fall over without his support, ankles crossed, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

  “Hey, where’d you disappear to?” I asked.

  “Got a call from my second favorite Les Puces dealer.” His cap was pulled low over his warm brown eyes. If Rupert was a foot taller and two feet less in circumference, he might pass for Sean Connery, until he opens his mouth. He has a deep, gravely voice, but no brogue.

  “Does that mean you booked a flight to Paris?”

  “It does.”

  “And you’re leaving me with this—” I waved my arm over the wood statues.

  “Better you than me. And I do hope you enjoy the other statues.”

  My brow furrowed, then I remembered. “Oh, yeah. Are they just like the Wind in the Willows illustrations?” I grinned. Toad, Mole and Ratty are my favorite talking animals in children’s literature.

  “So lifelike you'd expect them to invite you along for a picnic.”

  “Perfect,” I murmured. If I placed the characters in a sunny spot, visitors would naturally want to spread their blankets and enjoy boxed lunches in their company.