Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Page 6

  “Yep,” she hollered.

  “DUI westbound on 14 between Cork Creek and Platts Landing,” I said.

  Sheriff Marge muttered something unintelligible. Her tires squealed in the background, and there were crunching noises.

  “You okay?” I shouted.

  “Course I am. Just turning around. Describe the vehicle.”

  “Brown F-150, very old and dented, dragging a muffler.” I flinched as the pickup made an abrupt right-hand turn and skidded nose first into the drainage ditch. “He’s in the ditch now. We might need an ambulance.”

  “That’s Amos Stanley’s truck,” Sheriff Marge said. “Not much of a drinker. Might be a medical problem. Are you close enough to check on him?”

  “Yep. I’m going.” I hung up and threw my truck into gear.

  I pulled around Amos’s truck and hit the brakes. “You stay here,” I needlessly told Tuppence as I slammed the door. I only knew Amos as the old guy who hawks loogies on the sidewalk in town, preferably when there’s a lady around to see it. I don’t know why he does this. I just give him a wide berth — normally.

  I slid down the four-foot embankment and yanked on the driver’s side handle. The door fell open with gravity pulling it, and I had to jump out of the way. The bottom corner of the door sliced into the mud and stuck fast. I landed a couple inches deep in mud too. Amos was face first into the steering wheel.

  I patted his shoulder. “Amos!”

  He moaned. Good sign. But was he having a heart attack?

  “Amos!” I yelled again.

  “Go ‘way,” he mumbled, still implanted in the steering wheel. “Takin’ a nap.”

  “Oh no. You have to wake up.” I shook him gently.

  No response.

  I pinched him — hard.

  “Yow!” Amos tried to sit up, but the angle was against him and he slumped over the wheel again. A trickle of blood ran from a gash across the bridge of his nose. “Leave me ‘lone, woman.”

  “Nope. You have to talk to me. Do you feel numb? Is your speech always this slurred?”

  “Jes’ like a woman. Chatter chatter.”

  “I promise I will be this annoying until the ambulance arrives. Do you know you drove your truck into a ditch?”

  “Did not.”

  “And you need to get your muffler fixed.”

  “Like it that way.”

  “Maybe you’re just lazy.”

  Amos turned to look at me, his eyes narrow. He ran his tongue around inside his lips, puckered and shot a stream of saliva through his teeth, missing me by mere inches.

  I glared back. “So you do do that on purpose.”

  Amos cackled. “Hee hee. Women.”

  “Where do you think you are?”

  “Well, I sure ain’t in church. Get outta my way.”

  Amos half lunged out of the truck trying to reach the door handle, which, I noticed, meant he hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt. I jerked my feet out of the mud with sucking sounds and staggered back. The door was wedged firmly, and Amos couldn’t budge it. He was also now stretched awkwardly, his hips in the seat but clinging to the extended door with his hands, his head lower than his backside. Essentially doing a 45-degree-angled handstand over a muddy ditch.

  “Aahhh,” Amos said. His arms began to shake. His back dipped and belly sagged like a sway-backed mare’s. “Aahhh,” and this sound was accompanied by a gurgle.

  I liked him incapacitated, but I didn’t want him to get hurt even more, so I stepped forward and scooped my arms under his midsection. “Want to get back in the truck now?”

  “Pfhuff.”

  I let him sag.

  “Yeah, yeah. Alright,” he spat out.

  “Tell you what,” I said, my nose uncomfortably near his armpit. “I’ll make you a deal. You stop spitting at or near or even in the presence of women — any woman at any time, and I’ll help you back into your truck.”

  “What iffen I forget?”

  “Oh, you won’t forget. You’ll remember the dark, bitterly cold night when you drove your truck off the side of the road in a fit of stupidity and were saved by a kindhearted, longsuffering woman.”

  Amos grunted.

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. Here he was, helplessly at risk of wrenching his back and much more while a woman held him up, and he still had to think about it. I hoped he’d hurry up because I was going to need to inhale in another couple seconds and I didn’t fancy doing so in such close proximity to him.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  I heaved. He pushed.

  I slipped.

  “Gaaargh.” But Amos had hold of the doorframe and slid back behind the wheel.

  I flopped against the open door, panting.

  The wailing of an emergency siren emerged in the distance, and I eyed Amos.

  He cracked a wry smile. “Alright. You’re alright, I guess.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Little dizzy.” He rubbed his forehead, then jerked his hand away when he saw the bit of blood he’d swiped from his nose. “What’s that?” Panic edged his voice.

  “Just a small cut. Probably won’t even need stitches.”

  “Huh. I must be a sight.”

  My eyebrows shot up. Amos cared about his appearance? I bit back a smile.

  “I see that.” Amos fished a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his face.

  Sheriff Marge rolled up, an ambulance glued to her bumper. They parked on the shoulder, and I caught people’s silhouettes in the flashing lights. Sheriff Marge’s thick, short form with the big Stratton hat was easy to pick out. She did a skateboard skid down the embankment, and I put out both hands to stop her.

  “Well then, Amos, what’ve you been up to?” She was breathing hard.

  “Not much ‘cept wreckin’ my truck.”

  “I see that. Need medical attention?”

  “Nope.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s dizzy.”

  Amos glared at me.

  “And ornery.”

  Amos chuckled. “Alright. Get me outta here.”

  The medics arrived and assisted Amos to the ambulance, leaving Sheriff Marge and me to scramble up to the road by ourselves. I found a prickly bush to hang on to and pointed it out to Sheriff Marge. We were both winded by the time we crawled onto the pavement.

  “Going to the fireworks?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  “Yeah. You?”

  She shrugged. “Depends on how many drunks and crazies are out tonight. How many people light something on fire they didn’t mean to — or did mean to. Not my favorite day of the year, but I’ll try to swing by later.” She turned to look at Amos’s truck. “I’ll get Verle to pull that beater out in the next couple days. Tow truck drivers are just about as busy as emergency personnel on New Year’s.”

  The radio on her shoulder crackled and the voice of the dispatcher, Nadine, garbled something about teen boys shooting off firearms behind someone’s house.

  “See you.” Sheriff Marge trotted to her Explorer, climbed in, pulled a squealing U-turn and sped off toward town.

  The driver of the ambulance honked and waved, and he pulled out too. I caught a glimpse of Amos through the lit widow in the rear door. He was pressing a bandage to his nose.

  I suddenly ached as though I’d been in a wreck myself. I rolled my neck and massaged my trapezius muscles. It was going to be a long night.

  Tuppence whined when I opened the truck door.

  “Sorry for the wait, old girl. I know you’re hungry.”

  Back in my cozy nest at the Riverview RV Ranch, I fixed another grilled cheese sandwich and settled Tuppence with her consolation prize for being confined all night. Then I pulled on a second layer of everything – long underwear, thermal t-shirt, sweatshirt, scarf, hat, puffy down coat, mittens.

  My phone rang.

  “Of all the—” I had to yank off several items to gain the mobility and dexterity necessary to pick up the phone and speak into it. “Hello?”
>
  “Hey, Meredith,” Greg said. “I heard back from my friend’s friend about the flower bulbs. Wanted to tell you now because it’ll be too noisy and crowded to go over the details at the fireworks tonight.”

  He had a point. I stretched for a pad of paper and a pencil.

  “Shoot.”

  “Most likely they’re all the same, and they’re all crocus bulbs or, technically, corms.”

  “Anything special or unusual about them?”

  “Hard to tell from the picture, but he said crocuses are very common, not native to North America, but they grow easily in the local climate zones. They’ve been cultivated for colors and shapes — lots of varieties, but the only valuable ones are saffron crocuses.”

  “Saffron?”

  “Saffron threads are the dried stigmas of one type of crocus — crocus sativus. The flowers and corms aren’t particularly valuable in themselves. The high labor cost required for harvesting three stigmas per bloom is what makes saffron so expensive.”

  “But saffron could be grown here?”

  “If you wanted to put in the effort. Yeah.”

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  “Sure. See you in a bit.”

  So Spence Snead came home injured from Vietnam and decided to take up crocus farming? Seemed far-fetched. Maybe he developed a taste for saffron-based sauces. Maybe it was a hobby. Maybe the bulbs belonged to someone else in the family. Not Wade, though. I just couldn’t picture him stooped over carefully plucking three tiny red stigmas out of each delicate flower.

  CHAPTER 8

  I found a parking spot close to the marina. I’d be blocked in later, but it didn’t matter.

  The wind whipped around and sliced through my layers — already. I pulled my scarf tighter and trotted down the gangplank toward the floating Burger Basket & Bait Shop. It’s a fun little diner during the summer if you don’t sit too close to the stinky bait coolers. Finney Hooper owns the place, and it’s closed in the winter with the exception of New Year’s Eve. In a goodwill gesture for the community, Finney turns on the heat and provides basic creature comforts and restroom facilities for everyone while they’re waiting for the fireworks to start.

  I spotted Sally and Mort through the Burger Basket’s wrap-around windows. They were moving long tables into a buffet line.

  At the door, I stopped and peered into the darkness beyond the docks. A bright white light bobbed on what I supposed was a corner of the fireworks barge. Every once in a while, a form would pass in front of the light, blocking it. The guys must be making final adjustments. Pete would have moved his tug out of the way, probably moored at the Port of Platts Landing pilings, and the firefighters would come and go from the anchored barge via someone’s private fishing boat.

  I stepped into the humid warmth of the Burger Basket.

  “Meredith, good to see you.” Pastor Mort’s face was shiny with perspiration. “You’re my cue to start shuttling in the cookies.”

  “Need help?”

  “Nope. I have my orders.” He smiled toward Sally then whispered. “I get to do the heavy lifting while you ladies do the arranging. Just set aside a couple of Mary Hardy’s peanut butter crispy bars for me.”

  I chuckled. “Will do.”

  I helped Sally spread tablecloths until Mort arrived with the first delivery of cookies loaded in a giant Red Flyer wagon. He had several containers tucked under his arm, too.

  “What’d I tell you? Heavy lifting.”

  “Genius.” I took the containers from him, and he piled the wagon’s contents on a table.

  Mort left for a second load.

  While Sally and I were popping open lids and arranging cookies on platters, I asked, “Did you know Spence Snead?”

  “Oh, goodness, yes. But it’s been a while since — one of the hardest funerals Mort’s ever done.” She cocked her head. “You’re asking for a reason.”

  “I met Wade a few days ago and got a little of the story from Sheriff Marge. You know how she keeps everything bottled up. I can’t imagine — but it was clear she really cared about Spence, and about Big John’s friendship with Spence.”

  “Yes.” Sally straightened and pressed an empty container to her middle, her arms crossed over it. “It was very hard for everyone, but they were especially close. Big John was a Vietnam vet too, saw action in some of the same places as Spence but at different times. Big John was devastated when Spence died, and I don’t use that word lightly. No one thought — no one expected that Spence was so close to — was considering suicide. I’m not even sure Spence knew. It might have been a spontaneous decision. He was depressed, despondent — often.”

  “Did he have hobbies?” What a lame question, but I was curious.

  “Hunting, fishing — the usual.” Sally shook her head. “I don’t know. He kept his cabin in good repair, so I expect he had carpentry skills.”

  “Gardening?”

  Sally’s brow wrinkled. “Just about everyone around here with enough land dabbles in gardening, but I don’t recall anything particular in that vein.” She gave me a half-smile. “What’re you working on, Meredith?”

  “I don’t know. Wade brought me some family documents, and I think he’s looking for things of historical or maybe collectible value. They seem rather ordinary, but I think I’m missing something.”

  “Hmmm. The family’s not wealthy, at least they never lived like it. Not poor, either — just modest, average.”

  A terrific metallic crash came from the kitchen.

  “Finney,” Sally answered my surprised look. “He’s starting both commercial coffee pots. No sense in messing around with twenty-cuppers when Finney has the equipment necessary to satisfy hordes of fishermen — and fireworks-watchers up past their bedtime.”

  In all, there were four wagon-loads of cookies, creating an amazing spread. Mort insisted I join him in a pre-event tasting of peanut butter crispy bars. I am now addicted. Sally assured me the recipe is in the coming-soon community cookbook.

  Frankie was one of the first viewers to arrive. She was swaddled up to her eyeballs. I guessed she knew how to dress for the cold if she survived Pennsylvania winters. “Oh, isn’t this marvelous.” She clasped her gloved hands together. “Quaint. Charming.”

  I was going to lose it if she offered one more adjective. I exhaled and went to check on Finney in the kitchen.

  He was stretched over a counter prying at the latch for the metal roll-up door. He hit the lever and the door shot up with a rackety clatter, ending in a bang.

  “There. That should keep ‘em going.” He handed me a bleach rag and pointed to the public side of the now open pass-through window. “Wipe down the grill and check the nozzles.”

  At the far end of the counter, the giant coffee urns sat hot and steaming. I flipped the handle on a nozzle, and a thick stream of dark coffee flowed freely. I slid a mug under it. Finney was notorious for his super strong, hair-on-its-back coffee, so I only filled the mug halfway.

  Finney shoved insulated pitchers of whole and non-fat milk through the window. “You want the good stuff?”

  I nodded.

  He slid me a smaller canister of cream and a cinnamon shaker.

  “Where’d you learn to make coffee like this?”

  “Navy. Cooked on a sub for four years.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Aren’t you too tall for a sub?” Finney’s a good foot taller than I am, which would put him in the mid-six-foot range. He’s scrawny to boot, probably a redhead at one point because his skin is more tan freckle than not. There’s a space big enough for a drinking straw between his front teeth. He looked like a grown-up scarecrow in plaid flannel shirt and baggy jeans.

  “Was in the Navy for twelve years. Got a growth spurt in my early twenties and thought it best to find something else to do, some place where the ceilings were higher.”

  “Which was?”

  “ASROC crew.” He must have seen the confused look on my face. “Anti-submarine rockets. Went to a special school for
it.”

  “So you went from living in a sub to firing at subs.”

  “Truth is, we never shot at anyone — well, except practice — while I was aboard.” Finney’s mouth twisted to one side, and I got the impression he was still disappointed over the lack of action on his watch.

  “Better for your head, though.”

  He grinned, and his green eyes turned merry. “Yep.”

  “I like your French fries, especially dipped in tartar sauce. I order them every time I eat lunch here.”

  Finney turned pink between his freckles and shuffled his feet. “I can do pretty much anything with a deep fat fryer.”

  “Do you cater?”

  “Huh?”

  “If we were to hold a big party at the museum, would you be interested in making food for the guests?”

  “Oh, sure.” Finney’s head bobbed. “So long as it’s simple stuff, but I can feed a crowd, that’s for sure.”

  “I’m just starting to think about it, but I’ll get back to you, okay?”

  “Yep.” Finney clinked his coffee mug against mine. “Bottoms up.”

  I sauntered into the main seating area. Frankie was sitting alone amid empty metal folding chairs. A few families had just arrived and milled around the door dealing with coats and hats and at least one stroller. I needed to give Frankie another chance and not let a few offhand comments dictate my opinion of her, especially since we’d be working together. I slid into a seat beside her.

  “How does Platts Landing compare, size-wise, with Reading?” I asked.

  Frankie laughed. “Reading’s population is close to 90,000.”

  “I’m afraid this will be quite an adjustment for you.”

  “I already love it. I’m amazed, though, that you have an institution of the Imogene’s caliber in such an out-of-the-way place.”

  I nodded. “It’s a good thing we’re not dependent on entrance fees for support. All our staff salaries and collection purchases are funded by the Hagg Family Trust. They’re committed to bringing arts and culture to this part of the Columbia River Gorge. In fact, Sockeye County residents get free admission at any time.”

  “Why do you need a fundraiser then?”

  “The bylaws of the trust allow only a small percentage of the trust’s funds to be spent annually for capital improvements. You probably noticed the mansion’s showing her age. The board of directors would like to pull in additional donors and expand interest in the Imogene’s preservation. People tend to be more committed if their pocketbooks are involved.”