Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) Page 6

  I rubbed Betty’s shoulder. “It probably doesn’t matter. I expect Greg used his laptop for important things.”

  “Oh, yes.” Betty perked up. “That’s what he always did. Sat at the desk and typed on his computer, for hours and hours. Sometimes he would chat with me in the living room, but mostly he studied.”

  Sheriff Marge drained her coffee cup. “Thanks, Betty. If you think of anything else he said, anything out of the ordinary, let me know.”

  Betty stood on the porch and watched us leave.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “For you, nothing. Stay near your phone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sheriff Marge eyed me over the top of her glasses as we bounced along. “My deputies and I will be driving the county roads — Highway 14 and all others generally heading west, keeping a lookout for places where Greg might have gone off the road. WSP and OSP have their eyes peeled on the rest of his expected route.” She turned on the blinker and slowed. “Until we have a reported sighting with a more specific location, that’s all we can do. The Portland TV stations will be running his photo and the Prius’ license number on the news tonight.”

  I stewed in silence. I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t going to argue with Sheriff Marge either since I didn’t have any better ideas.

  Sheriff Marge dropped me off in front of the museum. Lindsay was behind the gift shop counter when I entered.

  “Did you find him?” Lindsay had twirled knots in her long blond hair.

  “Not yet. Did he say anything to you Friday at the game — or any other time — about plans he had for going somewhere?”

  “No, just football talk.” Lindsay sniffed. Her brown eyes were puffy and pink-rimmed. Had she been crying about Greg?

  “I’m sure they’ll find him, Lindsay. Sheriff Marge has everyone on it, searching the roads.”

  Lindsay nodded and swiped at the glass case with her cleaning rag.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Uh-oh, tears. I wanted dissolve alongside Lindsay, but I had to hold myself together, had to be the responsible one. And think clearly.

  “You want to tell me?”

  “You know when Greg said those nice things about me, about how I can explain football?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, after that, after a touchdown, I hugged him. I was just so excited and happy and jumping up and down, and I hugged him. Mark saw it, and we had a big fight. He doesn’t understand that when I’m happy I hug people. I didn’t mean anything by it.” Lindsay wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Do you think Mark did something to Greg? He was really angry.”

  “When was the last time you saw Mark?”

  “Saturday morning, when we had the fight.”

  “Don’t worry about it, okay? I like that you’re an indiscriminate hugger. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And if Mark can’t figure out how wonderful you are, you should ditch him.”

  Lindsay managed an uncomfortable half-smile. “You don’t think Greg is into drugs, do you?”

  My mouth dropped open. “What makes you say that?”

  “A guy I know, Bard Joseph — he was a few years ahead of me in high school — got into drugs and disappeared. I heard he’s back in town. But he’s been gone for a long time. Everybody says his disappearance devastated his dad.” Lindsay chewed her lip. “And sometimes Mark — well, I know he smokes pot sometimes.”

  “Lindsay. Why are you going out with him?”

  Lindsay shrunk into her shoulders, her face apprehensive.

  “Look, I don’t think Greg’s ever had anything to do with drugs. And you need to take care of yourself, kiddo. It doesn’t sound like Mark’s good for you.”

  “I know.” Lindsay sighed.

  I stomped up the stairs to my office, frustrated with Lindsay for not seeing her own worth. But maybe gullible, naive Lindsay had more backbone — sticking it out and hoping for the best. I’d fled from the life surrounding my ex-fiancé, precisely because I hadn’t the backbone to face all my family and friends and their expectations. With my track record, I certainly wasn’t qualified to offer relationship advice.

  I dialed Sheriff Marge and filled her in on Lindsay’s worries.

  “Huh. Those Mason kids are not exactly the cream of the crop. Mark’s older brother, also a good quarterback, is serving time for possession and distribution. His sister is probably using too, but she’s not my problem since she skipped to Las Vegas for a quickie wedding and stayed there.” Brakes squealed in the background. “I’ll drop by the Mason farm. Probably find a few baggies of dope, but I’d be real surprised if Mark actually assaulted Greg. He’s mostly hot air.”

  Next, I called Dr. Elroy and left a message when he didn’t answer.

  I stood at the window, watching the Columbia flow by, serene and gray-green today. Was Greg also staring at the Columbia right now? I wished the river was telepathic, taking my thoughts to him, or bringing his to me.

  “Where are you?” I whispered.

  My phone rang.

  “Meredith, this is Clyde Elroy. And, please call me Clyde. Your message was so formal. I have no news either. I went with an OSP trooper to check Greg’s apartment. He wasn’t there, and everything looked normal. Most of his neighbors weren’t home, but one girl did say she saw him leaving on Thursday, about mid-afternoon.”

  “That fits with when he arrived. We worked here at the museum for a few hours Thursday night.”

  Clyde sighed. “OSP says the only thing we can do now is hope the news segments tonight turn up valid tips. The Eugene station is going to air it, too.”

  “That’s pretty much what Sheriff Marge told me.”

  “I’m thinking about coming your way. I can’t stand sitting around here doing nothing. And since he was last seen up there — well, am I crazy?”

  “No. I’d feel the same way. I should warn you, though — there isn’t a motel within 40 miles.”

  “I’ve already been searching the Internet. There are some decent places to stay in The Dalles.”

  “I’ll be here at the museum tomorrow. You know where it is?”

  “Yeah, Google Maps. See you.”

  I returned to the window. A couple hours of daylight left. I didn’t care what Sheriff Marge said — doing nothing was just not an option.

  CHAPTER 7

  I hurried home and opened the truck’s passenger door for Tuppence. The dog scrambled in and thumped her tail on the seat while I cranked down the window.

  “Use that nose of yours, old girl. If you smell Greg, let me know.”

  Tuppence’s yawn ended in a whine.

  We drove west on Highway 14 with freezing wind barreling in the open windows. What other route would Greg have taken? I slowed before every drop-off, checking for tire tracks in the gravel at the edge of the pavement and fresh scrapes on guardrails. All the roadside brushy growth looked intact. Tuppence snorted and sneezed into the wind, her ears flapping back.

  I love the peace and solitude of driving — it helps me think. The easy rhythm of guard rail posts and the dashed yellow line calmed my swirling thoughts, although worry still weighed heavily.

  I had only been on one road trip as a child, to my stepfather Alex’s law school reunion in Michigan. I’d sprawled in the backseat and spent the miles reading and drawing, separated from the tension between Mom and Alex in the front seats. I knew better than to comment on landmarks and tourist signs we passed. Keep quiet. Be invisible.

  Not that my mother and stepfather ever actually fight. No shouting or slamming of doors because that isn’t appropriate. And appropriateness is the standard by which they measure their lives. What would other people think?

  I didn’t realize it then, but appropriateness is usually the source of tension in their marriage. You’re not going to wear that dress to the fundraiser, are you? It’s too short. Your gray’s showing. Get your hair done
before Senator Schmidt comes for dinner.

  And Mom has complaints as well. You monopolized Mattie Donald over cocktails last night. It was all I could do to keep her husband from making a scene. If you keep playing golf with Ralph DiMarco, the bar association will think you’re on his other payroll too.

  What would other people think? What was Greg thinking? He was careful and precise in his research, so that must carry over into his everyday life. He wouldn’t do anything rash or stupid. It had to be an accident. Maybe he was in a hospital right now. Maybe he had amnesia.

  I kneaded the muscles in the back of my neck. Sheriff Marge would have checked the hospitals. Our best chance was the televised announcement tonight. Someone must have seen Greg.

  I drove until dusk, coming closer and closer to real civilization and more drivers frustrated by my varying speeds. I got honked at more than once. When a black BMW tailgated and then passed, the angry driver flipping me off with one hand while pressing a cell phone to his ear with the other, I decided to turn around. My teeth chattered, and the rearview mirror showed that my lips were the purplish blue color of a deep bruise. Tuppence curled on the seat with her nose tucked inside her haunch.

  “Had enough, old girl?”

  She blinked.

  I took the next exit and stopped to roll up the windows.

  We covered ground on the way home much faster. I pulled into Junction General’s gravel parking lot. Metal bells clanked against the glass door as I pushed it open.

  Gloria turned from where she’d been stocking cigarettes behind the counter. “Hey, Meredith. You look windblown.”

  “Been driving Highway 14, hoping for a sign of Greg.”

  Gloria nodded. “You and everyone else.”

  “Everyone else?”

  “Law enforcement, anyway. I’ve had two sheriff’s deputies and a state trooper stop in this afternoon, asking if I’d seen him. Mac asked, too. Sheriff Marge called.”

  “So, you didn’t see Greg then? I thought maybe he’d stopped for gas or something.”

  Gloria shook her head. “He probably only has to fill that Prius up once a month.”

  “Oh, right.” I looked around the store absently, trying to remember why I’d stopped.

  “You need dog food?” Gloria asked.

  “What? Oh, no. People food.”

  “The heat and serve stuff is in the freezer at the back.”

  That grated on me. Did I look like I couldn’t cook?

  Maybe Gloria was right. Not tonight.

  I found individually wrapped bean and cheese burritos and bought two. Enough heavy carbs and fat to send me straight into a comatose slumber. Something to temporarily stifle the dull throb of worry.

  Back in the RV, I nuked the burritos and checked my e-mail, hoping for a note from Greg. “Hey, I decided to go exploring. Here are some great photos I took of _______.”

  Nope. Greg didn’t do that sort of thing. Come to think of it, he almost never e-mailed me. He was a texting man. I was grasping at anything, nothing, and no longer thinking straight.

  The phone rang.

  “I checked on the Mason boy,” Sheriff Marge said. “Got an invitation from a college scout on Friday night to visit U-dub, so he and his dad drove up to Seattle on Saturday and stayed the weekend.”

  “He was here on Saturday, arguing with Lindsay.”

  “Yeah, in the morning. They left right after. His mom’s upset. She likes Lindsay. No remorse from the boy.”

  “Any other leads?”

  “The TV tips are starting to come in, and we’re sorting through them. Everything from a sighting at a gas station in Yreka to an alien vaporization right before the witness’s eyes.”

  “Anything valid? Yreka’s not too far.”

  “It’s 250 miles past Corvallis. We’re focusing on our corridor, and state troopers are already out checking on a few tips. I’ll keep you updated. Get some sleep.”

  The first bite of burrito turned to gummy paste in my mouth, reminding me of the flour and water concoction Mom made when I was little and wanted to glue stuff. Edible, non-toxic and relatively easy to clean up. All it really needed to do was outlast my four-year-old attention span.

  Which the burrito succeeded at as well — my appetite vanished. I dropped the burrito on the floor for Tuppence who nosed it but didn’t sample.

  I slid into bed, fully clothed and cradling the phone, just in case.

  CHAPTER 8

  I awoke to the patter of rain, big fat blops that collected on tree branches overhead then splatted on the fiberglass roof. My eyelids were glued shut with the crusty eye gunk that happens when I don’t sleep normal hours like a normal person. I rubbed them open and peered at the clock — 5:37 in red numbers. I exchanged yesterday’s clothes for a comfortable old sweat suit. Maybe if I exercised I could get rid of the fitful nervous energy that made my limbs twitch.

  Tuppence stood at the threshold for a minute watching the rain, then opted to stay inside and continue her beauty sleep. So much for faithful companionship.

  I started off at a slow trot, counting strides between pools of light cast by the lamp posts spaced every third campsite. The drizzle quickly coated my face and neck with a sheen that wasn’t yet sweat, but exertion kept my skin from feeling clammy. When was the last time I had gone for a run?

  Hikes are good; running is bad. I remembered this after about a quarter mile when my side cramped and my sinuses ached from inhaling cold air. I walked back to the RV, shivering as I cooled down. Pathetic.

  A steaming shower revived me. Plus coffee.

  I decided to direct my energy toward making the chamber pot exhibit shine as a tribute to Greg and drove to the museum. Lindsay found me in the display bedroom a few hours later, dust-streaked and disheveled but making progress.

  “Any news?” Lindsay didn’t look like she had slept much either.

  “No. Except you don’t have to worry about Mark. He was at the University of Washington after you fought Saturday and all day Sunday, so he couldn’t have done anything to Greg.”

  “Good riddance,” Lindsay muttered.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and about what Greg said. Washington State has a sports management program that includes broadcasting. There are all kinds of options — marketing, working with Boys and Girls Clubs and youth teams, public relations. That would be so cool.”

  “You’d be perfect. Sounds like it suits you.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely. When are you going to apply?”

  “I downloaded the form last night. Can I list you as a reference? And would you look it over before I send it in?”

  “Yes, to everything.”

  Lindsay had a determined glint in her eyes while she scanned the room. “This looks good.”

  “Yeah, well,” I pushed curls off my forehead and took a step back. “It’s getting there. I should have given the room a thorough cleaning first. I don’t know why I didn’t notice how bad it was when Greg and I moved the bed in here.” I stomped on a dust ball as it skittered across the floor. “But first I need to run an errand. How are things downstairs?”

  “Quiet. I can hold down the fort.”

  I cleaned up in the public restroom on the main floor. The ancient hot water pipes clanked and vibrated but produced what I needed for a quick face and hand wash and hair pat-down. The radiator ticked under the frosted glass window. It was cold out there.

  What had Greg been wearing when he left? I hugged my arms across my chest and hoped he was warm enough, wherever he was. Maybe Betty would remember. That’s right — he’d packed all his clothes. He could have pulled on everything — multiple layers — unless he got separated from his luggage. I leaned my forehead against the window. Where was he?

  o0o

  Betty met me on the front porch again. She seemed to have a sixth sense about visitors. “Come inside, honey. Have you heard anything?”

  I s
hook my head.

  “I keep thinking he would have talked to me if I’d kept my mouth shut.” Betty filled the percolator from the tap.

  “He told you about Angie and Lorenzo. We usually just talked about work and research, his classes. He didn’t say much about his family, but I got the impression he had sisters — he certainly knew how to tease like a younger brother. But his professor only mentioned a mother.”

  “Oatmeal raisin?” Betty opened a Tupperware container.

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks.” I accepted a cookie and chewed slowly.

  “He has twin sisters, a few years older. His dad left when the kids were little, and the mother sort of held things together. But I got the sense she was relieved when Greg moved out. Both of the girls married military men, and they’re living overseas now. I think he’s trying to figure out what a family should be like, before he starts one.”

  Greg was thinking about starting a family? I exhaled. Well, Greg could get a much better definition of family from Betty than he ever would from me. I bit back a smile. How like him to find the best source of information. I washed the cookie down with a slurp of hot, strong coffee.

  “The reason I stopped by was to ask about the wash basin and pitcher in Greg’s room. Have they been in your family long?”

  “Oh my, yes.” Betty adjusted the paisley scarf around her neck. “I think my grandparents received them as a wedding gift, or at least early on in their marriage. Isn’t that funny? I guess like giving newlyweds a blender today. There used to be a chamber pot, too, but it’s long gone. Probably broken on a trip to the outhouse.”

  “That’s the thing. Our new display at the museum — the one Greg and I were working on this past weekend — is a collection of chamber pots.”

  Betty leaned back in the dinette chair and dissolved into peals of tinkly mirth until her eyes watered. I couldn’t help but join in.

  “That Rupert Hagg,” Betty finally sighed. “What will he think of next?”

  I grinned. “Well, you should see one of the chamber pots. It has exactly the same design — the blue Dutch windmills — as your wash basin and pitcher.”