Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) Read online

  A voice outside called, “Hellooo?” Pete Sills’ voice.

  My heart went into spin cycle, and I looked down at the torn knees of my sweatpants. Classy, suave, sophisticated — not. I took a deep breath. Why worry about what Pete Sills thought?

  I flung open the door.

  Pete, in his rough red and black buffalo plaid jacket, Carhartt pants and steel-toed work boots, looked straight into my eyes. “You going to the game? I could use a lift.”

  I sighed. Since my reason for avoiding the game was standing on the doorstep, there was no need to maintain the charade. “Yeah. I need to change first.”

  Pete took a step up, meaning to come in. “I’ll wait.”

  “No,” I snapped. “Outside. You’ll wait outside.”

  Tuppence wriggled through the doorway to greet Pete. Of course, she loved him. She had a thing for men, the dirtier the better. Pete’s pants were stained with machine grease.

  Pete arched his brows, an amused smile flickering across his face. He shrugged and stepped back to the welcome mat and stuffed his hands in his pockets. I slammed the door and dove for the bedroom.

  I yanked off my comfortable, lounge-around clothes, pulled on the jeans and sweater worn earlier and stuffed my feet into my warmest hiking boots. A quick look at my face and hair in the mirror — but there was nothing I could salvage in short order.

  I cringed, remembering how thin RV walls are. Pete probably knew exactly what all the shuffling and lurching inside was accomplishing. I muttered silently about his persistent inopportuneness while I grabbed a puffy down jacket, hat and a rawhide treat for Tuppence.

  Pete was leaning against the passenger side door of my truck. He’d already loaded his bicycle in the bed with one handlebar hooked over the tailgate. He kept the bike on his tugboat and used it for trips into nearby towns when he stopped to load and unload barges. I realized the high school football field was too far away to pedal to in the dark.

  He smiled. He had very white teeth against his dark stubble. Probably wore braces as a kid. Maybe I should go easier on him. Maybe.

  I opened the driver’s door and climbed in. Pete slid onto the bench seat from the other side, smelling faintly of licorice and dusty wheat. His large frame took up more than his half of the seat. And then I discovered I didn’t have the keys.

  I tumbled out of the truck, found I hadn’t locked the trailer door either, grabbed the keys from the hook inside and locked the trailer, a residual big-city habit. Probably not necessary out here, but it made me feel better — when I remembered to do it. Although it would have been deathly mortifying tonight if I had remembered to lock the trailer with my truck keys still inside. The image of Pete pedaling to Junction General with me balanced on the handlebars so we could borrow jimmying tools made my stomach lurch.

  I scooted back into the truck. Pete didn’t say a word, which irritated me even more. Why did the man make me so flustered? It was just so stupid. I clamped my gloved hands around the steering wheel and resolved to be more mature.

  We drove to the stadium in silence. I thought about starting a conversation, but everything seemed ridiculous after my brainless escapade. It wouldn’t be helpful to reveal more scatteredness by opening my mouth. Good thing my truck is kind of noisy.

  Pete paid for my ticket before I could argue and led me toward the packed bleachers.

  “Meredith! Over here.”

  Greg’s arms windmilled about halfway up at midfield. I hoped he’d saved only one seat. But when the friendly crowd saw two were trying to squeeze in, they moved over and adjusted their seat cushions to make room. Pete pressed in, fitting on the end of the bench — shoulder, hip and thigh tight against me. My stomach flip-flopped.

  Lindsay reached across Greg and patted my knee. “I’m so glad you came.”

  I was only able to nod back over the roar of the crowd as the home team took the field.

  The Platts Landing Polecats gave the Sheldon Senators the walloping Ford claimed they needed. Lindsay hollered like the cheerleader she used to be, getting our entire section into the groove. Lindsay’s boyfriend, the quarterback, ran in for the team’s fifth touchdown with just seconds remaining in the half, and the team went to the locker room ahead 35 to 3.

  Pete stumped down the metal stairs into the celebrating throng. I shivered in the sudden chilliness caused by his absence. I’d forgotten he was there in my enthusiasm for the game and hadn’t realized he’d been blocking the wind. I hunched into my coat and listened to Lindsay explain the offsides penalty to Greg.

  “Brilliant. You should do sports broadcasting. Your explanations are easy to understand,” Greg said.

  I leaned in. “Yep. I told him he should sit by you so he could learn the game.”

  Lindsay beamed, then flushed. “When you grow up with a bunch of brothers and a dad who are crazy about football, you can’t help it. It’s the only thing I know much about.”

  “Aw, come on.” Greg wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I bet you know lots of stuff. You just haven’t had the chance to show it yet.”

  This time Lindsay’s blush went deep into her hair. I leaned back and smiled. Good-bye, Angie — maybe.

  Pete reclaimed his spot and handed me a loaded hot dog and a can of Barq’s root beer. “You don’t like cola, right?”

  “Right. Thanks.” How did he remember that? Was he paying attention, or was it a fluke?

  Anyway, the hot dog was great. Ambiance is vital for hot dogs. They only taste good when charred over a campfire or at football games when your team is ahead. Smothered in sauerkraut, onions and mustard, this one hit the spot.

  I licked my lips and grinned at the fact that I certainly wouldn’t have kissable breath tonight. Take that, Pete Sills. Not that he’d ever tried. Maybe he didn’t like my freckles. Or how I always acted so ditsy around him. Well, if those were his problems, he was too shallow to waste time thinking about.

  Yeah, right.

  The Senators staged a short-lived rally late in the third, causing a fumble near the goal line and intercepting a line-drive pass, but the Polecats pulled off a 42 to 17 win. The crowd slapped each other on their backs, yawned, stretched and cascaded down the bleachers.

  A man in a blazer, khakis and loafers stood on the sideline, talking to Lindsay’s boyfriend. He was definitely not a local — not in that get-up. He had to be a college scout. I felt a twinge of pity for Lindsay. The girl was about to be left behind by a boyfriend already two years her junior. She needed a stick of ambition dynamite lit under her. Maybe Greg could do that. Maybe he already had.

  Pete and I moved with the flow toward the parking lot. My behind was numb from the cold, hard bleacher seat and tingly from fresh blood flow. No hip-sashaying motion here. More like a chicken waddle.

  I wrinkled my nose at a whiff of marijuana wafting from the group in front of us — a mix of high-schoolers and parents. Didn’t people have sense enough not to smoke pot at such a public event and in front of kids? Or maybe it was the kids. Then where were their parents?

  I sighed — I was sinking into indignant old woman mode.

  The slapping sound of big, flat feet pounding the pavement rushed up behind me. I side-stepped quickly.

  “Missus Morehouse,” Ford panted.

  “Hi, Ford.”

  “Can I get a ride with you? Mac brought me, but he has to stay for a while. I don’t want to wait.”

  “Sure. Your prediction about the game came true.”

  Ford grinned and tapped his temple. “I know things.”

  Pete chuckled. “Do you predict final scores, too? ‘Cause I know a guy who could set us up if you have that kind of information.”

  “Pete. Don’t you dare.”

  Pete shrugged and grinned.

  “I don’t gamble,” Ford said. “That’ll get you in trouble. And if you do that, they take things away, like your house and your car and your family. Course, I don’t have those things, but jes’ the same, it’s wicked, and I don’t do it.”r />
  “Hear, hear,” I muttered and wondered how Ford had gained this knowledge.

  “Point taken,” Pete said, quickly serious.

  “That’s right.” Ford nodded.

  We crammed into the pickup, with Ford in the middle. I turned the heater on full-blast, and gradually became aware that Ford’s hygiene lacked a little something. Hints of irate raccoon plus the permeating odor of moldy potatoes made my eyes water.

  I really shouldn’t know what irate raccoon smells like, but thanks to Tuppence, I do.

  After a few miles, I decided the tangy fragrance might not emanate from Ford personally, but rather his clothes. Perhaps they just needed a good scrubbing. The image of the unused avocado washer and dryer in the museum basement popped into my head. I’d talk to Rupert when he returned, see if they could be installed in Ford’s cabin. But didn’t he already have laundry facilities?

  I turned onto the straight, wide road leading to the port. Ford’s cabin was closer to the port than to the museum parking lot. It didn’t have an access road, so Ford would have to walk no matter where I dropped him off. I pulled up next to the dock where Pete’s tug was anchored.

  We all climbed out. Ford took off cross-country at a fast clip, waving his hand once. Pete hoisted his bike out of the truck bed.

  “Do you think he’s okay, living by himself in that shack?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Pete grunted. “I forgot. We’re not the best people to judge. You live by yourself in an RV. I live alone on a tugboat. We’re probably all a little crazy.” He wheeled the bike down the dock.

  I climbed back into the truck and drove home with the windows down. I resented Pete’s observation. I couldn’t possibly be crazy because I don’t live alone. I live with Tuppence.

  CHAPTER 4

  Still steamed from Pete’s comment, I knew I wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. So I decided to focus my restless energy on carrot cake. The day had been productive. If Saturday went just as well, Greg and I could take Sunday off.

  Tuppence hid under the dining table while I whacked pecans into tiny pieces with a butcher knife.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  She thumped her tail but did not come out. I gave the chopping board another bang, making nuts bounce all over the counter.

  “Oh.” I put the knife down and peered under the table. “It’s not me, is it? Am I making you nervous?”

  Tuppence whined and stuck her cold nose in my face.

  “I see. Sorry, old girl. You know I get worked up about Pete.”

  I grated carrots, drained a can of crushed pineapple and measured out raisins and the other ingredients. After placing the cake in the oven, I sat on the floor and pulled Tuppence onto my lap. The big dog worked her bony knees and hips into a comfortable position and let me stroke her long, silky ears.

  I bent my head down to look in Tuppence’s sad eyes. “I’m not crazy, am I?”

  Not normally a licking dog, she swiped my chin with her tongue.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. I slumped back against the refrigerator and closed my eyes.

  The timer jolted me awake. The RV smelled of cinnamon and a fruity sweetness. My legs had fallen asleep under the hound’s weight. I slowly rose and pushed my fists into my lower back muscles.

  “I have to improve my posture,” I groaned. “I cannot be getting old.”

  I set the pans on a rack to cool. After snitching a corner of cake, I tumbled into bed.

  The alarm came too soon, but the lingering spicy scent reminded me of the waiting frosting job. I rolled out of bed and rushed through my morning routine.

  While coffee brewed, I whipped cream cheese with powdered sugar and an overdose of vanilla. A dollop of frosting in my coffee was my splurge for the day. I hummed “Louie, Louie” — still stuck in my head from last night. It was the only song the high school marching band had fully mastered, and they played it with gusto.

  Greg would be driving back to school in Corvallis tomorrow, so I cut the cake into quarters and packaged each section in its own airtight plastic container. Then I collected my things and made the short commute to the museum.

  When Greg arrived, we resurrected a bed frame and mattress from the basement, loaded them into the freight elevator and dragged them into a bedroom on the second floor — the new chamber pot exhibit room. Then Greg ran heavy-duty extension cords for the display cases Mac was building.

  I found an ancient coverlet and a couple down pillows in the stash of family linens still housed in the original servants’ quarters. I made the bed and slid the enamelware specimen just under the edge so it was still visible.

  “Perfecto,” Greg said.

  I stood back to survey the effect. “Yeah. I thought it would be a nice touch.”

  “History isn’t stuffy and boring when it’s interactive.” Greg nodded. “This makes me glad I switched majors.”

  “I didn’t know that. From what?”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Well, you’ll be amused, anyway. Music — piano performance. I have the hands for it —” he wiggled his long fingers “—but not enough talent.”

  “That explains your comprehensive knowledge of early jazz.”

  Greg grinned. “Music is an important part of culture, so I guess it wasn’t such a big leap to cultural anthropology.”

  “I’ve seen how excited you get about research — I think you’ve found a home.”

  “And you need an oak Victorian throne-style chair with a hole in the seat for holding a chamber pot to round out this collection.”

  “So — find us a good one on eBay.” I shook my head, grinning. “And remind me never to break into song in your presence. I might offend your musical sensibilities.”

  After lunch we finished the individual descriptions for each chamber pot and printed them on heavy card stock. Greg laminated the ones that would be hung on the wall or tented to stand next to the chamber pots that were out for public handling. I sorted the rest of the cards into order.

  “That’s it. Can’t do anything else until Mac delivers the cases.”

  Greg set the stack of laminated cards on my desk. “I’m bummed I’m going to miss the final set-up.”

  “I’ll send pictures to your phone. Oh, and these are for you.” I pulled the cake containers out of the mini-fridge under my desk. “Thanks so much. I know the school kids are going to love this exhibit. I couldn’t have had it ready in time without you.”

  Greg cracked a lid open. “Carrot? Meredith, you’re the best.”

  “Really? I’ve been thinking I might be crazy.”

  Greg scowled. “Something I should know about?”

  “Overactive imagination, I expect. So, tomorrow, I don’t want to see you, at least not here at the museum. You’ve earned a day off.”

  “You’re not going to do something desperate, are you?”

  I looked up, startled.

  “Tomorrow, I mean.”

  “No, of course not. Tomorrow I’m taking your advice, and I’m going to be social. Football potluck at Mac’s tavern.”

  Greg chuckled. “This town is an enigma to me.”

  “Me too, which is why I love it.”

  o0o

  On Sunday morning, I slept in until Tuppence’s whining at the door reached the urgent pitch I had learned to take seriously.

  While Tuppence chased squirrels and reestablished her perimeter around the campsite, I prepared ingredients for my signature potluck contribution known as cheesy potatoes. I spooned the whole fattening conglomeration into a casserole dish and set it in the oven for a nice low bake.

  With a sweatshirt pulled on over my pajamas, I strolled to the river’s edge. Large boulders lined the bank and provided a hard but ring-side seat to enjoy the view. Tuppence clambered after me, tongue hanging, the white tip of her tail perked in the air.

  High horsetail cirrus clouds feathered across the sky. Rain would co
me in a day or two. It was time. The season changes were more dramatic, and somehow both faster and slower than in the city — probably because I couldn’t help but notice them now in my exposed living conditions while they went unheeded amongst the gray concrete barriers of the city.

  Trees go from green to yellow and then to bare in a matter of days, pummeled by stiff gorge winds. If cold nights linger before the rains come, vine maples will highlight the deep blue sky with flickering red-orange leaves — one of my countless favorite sights.

  I inhaled the briny smell of freshwater algae and mud along with recently cut grass. Herb must have been out on the riding mower yesterday. I hoped to have as much energy as he did when I was almost eighty.

  When the rains arrive, Herb and Harriet will turn off the irrigation system. I always miss the nighttime tick-tick white noise of the sprinklers. I’ll wake up in the wee hours because of the silence until I become accustomed to it, a sort of seasonal jet-lag.

  Then the storms come — raging wind and pelting rain that shudder my poor little trailer down to its jacks. I love those nights, provided I can sit in front of the fireplace and drink Earl Grey tea. Tuppence doesn’t share my enthusiasm for eventful weather.

  The timer in my pocket buzzed, and I reluctantly returned to the trailer. Bubbling cheesiness greeted me, prompting my stomach to growl. I took the casserole out of the oven and hurried to shower and dress.

  With the hot dish nestled in an old, clean blanket, I drove to Mac’s Sidetrack Tavern. The parking lot was filling up with the late-riser and after-church crowd.

  I had been a bit shocked when I learned Mac hosted community potlucks at his tavern. But it all made sense when Pastor Mort explained the tavern was the only place in miles that had reliable NFL and college football coverage. Television reception is a tricky thing in the gorge. Mac wisely assessed that it’s vital to his business, so he has satellite dishes from all the carriers stationed on his roof, antennas jabbed in every direction. He guarantees every single broadcast football game can be seen on one of his big screens.