Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Page 7

  Archie laughed. “Naw, I recognize them from the Sunday potlucks, and I make sure to grab a couple every time I see them. I’m a meat and potatoes and bread kind of guy.” He pursed his lips. “Okay if I save this for later?”

  “It’s all yours. How are things in there?” I tipped my head toward the steel door to the cells.

  “Quiet. That little gal can get fired up, but I think she’s worn herself out now. Sort of don’t know what to do with her except give her tissues. She’s kind of weepy.” Archie looked uncomfortable and hitched up his pants again. “They’re talking about letting her out, so that’d be good.”

  “Out?”

  “Yeah. Gloria doesn’t want to press charges and neither does the fellow she hit with the can. Sheriff’s been working on the prosecutor’s office to drop it with maybe some restitution fees or something. Gloria just wants her to promise she’ll never go inside Junction General again.”

  I laughed. “I can understand that.”

  “Say, I heard you know the guy — what’s his name? Some meat. Anyway, that you’re, uh, friends — from way back.”

  “Not exactly. How’s Terry?”

  “Quiet too. Calls his mom a couple times a day. Seems nice enough, keeps to himself. I’d go crazy if it was me — I’d never voluntarily spend time in jail. ‘Course, he’s not locked in.”

  I pointed to the plates. “Can I take these in to them?”

  “You didn’t hide knives in the cranberry sauce or anything?” Archie laughed at his joke but stopped when he saw my scowl. “Sure. I just need to wand you.” He looked uncomfortable again.

  I pulled my keys from of my pocket and tossed them in the picnic basket. I held my arms out while Archie rapidly waved the metal detector wand along my limbs. I tried to keep from smiling. Archie is downright fidgety around women.

  “I’ll buzz you through.”

  Plates in hand, I pushed the door open with my behind. Terry was in the closest cell in the row of six concrete block cubicles. His barred sliding door was open, and he sat on a folding chair with his feet propped on the lower bunk. He was reading a John Grisham novel.

  “Learning anything?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Terry stood quickly and tossed the book on the bed.

  I handed him a plate. “We crammed as much as we could on one plate, so hot and cold foods are mixed together. Sorry I can’t microwave it for you.”

  “For me? Looks great.” He peeled back the plastic wrap and inhaled, holding the plate just inches under his nose. “Wanna sit down?” He gestured toward the folding chair.

  “I’m going to deliver this plate to the other inmate, but I’ll stop by on my way out.”

  “Yeah, Val.” Terry nodded. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I’m worried about her. I think that good-for-nothin’ broke her heart.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Terry — the relationship counselor?

  “I’ve been trying to cheer her up, but that ain’t exactly my strong suit.” He scratched the back of his head with his free hand.

  “Hey, your bandage is gone.”

  “Nick came and checked it. Said the cut’s healing okay. Itches like h— crazy.”

  I grinned and walked toward the makeshift curtain strung across the aisle before the last cell. Women’s quarters.

  “Val?” I called. “Okay if I come in?” I poked my head around the edge of the fabric.

  “Yeah,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  Val sat curled on the bottom bunk with her feet tucked under her. Her face was blotchy and devoid of makeup, hair pulled back in a long ponytail. Still in the pink designer sweat suit but no longer sparkly.

  “I brought you Thanksgiving dinner.” Val’s cell door was closed and locked, so I pushed the plate into the rectangular food tray slot.

  Val slowly unwound her legs and shuffled over. “Thanks,” she sniffed.

  “You probably don’t know me — I’m Meredith.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Val stood with her arms limp at her sides, her head hanging as she gazed at the floor. “You’re the one Ham really loves.”

  I snorted. “Ham doesn’t really love anyone except himself. I found that out the same way you did a couple years ago.”

  “But he came back for you. He wants you. He said you’d make the perfect judge’s wife.”

  I spluttered. There just weren’t words.

  I stamped my foot hard on the concrete floor, then winced when the pain registered. “Aaargh! That man is so self-absorbed he doesn’t hear ‘No’ when it’s shouted in his face.”

  Val looked up, startled. “You mean he does that to you too?” She returned to the bunk and sat on the edge. “Oh.” She stared at her feet and wiggled her toes inside jail-issued slipper socks. “I thought he wasn’t paying attention.” A little smile slid across her face. “So I threw things for emphasis.”

  I giggle-snorted.

  Val giggled.

  “You might be the only woman Ham’s dated brave enough to actually give him what he deserves,” I said.

  “Oh no. He deserves way worse.”

  I sat cross-legged on the cold floor and leaned toward the bars. “So what is this about a judgeship?”

  Val came over and sat facing me. She laced her fingers through the bars. “He’s running against Anita Hadley for a Superior Court seat.”

  “Anita Hadley? Ham dated her when they were both in the prosecutor’s office. She hates his guts.”

  “Exactly. The campaign’s getting nasty. Ham figured having a respectable soon-to-be wife by his side would help dispel some of Anita’s allegations. My family’s too blue-collar, so I’m not qualified for the position.”

  “You wanted the position?”

  Val shook her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just hate the back-handed way it all happened.” She sighed. “Campaigning isn’t really my thing, anyway. I want to be an executive assistant during the day and play with my dog in the evening. That’s enough excitement for me.”

  I nodded. Yep, a good job and a dog — all a girl really needed. “What allegations?”

  Val’s eyebrows arched. “You’d think Anita lives under a slimy rock with all the things she’s suggested — bribery, general fiscal irresponsibility, philandering, cronyism — just because she’s not the one getting the favors.” Val picked at her nail polish. “She’s nasty, but I wonder if some of her claims are true. Ham just breezes over it. He won’t explain, at least not to me.”

  I wrinkled my nose. I didn’t want to tell Val that I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the allegations were true. My experience with Ham was that he danced along the edge of morality and every once in a while he tripped over the line.

  I heaved a sigh. Maybe Val had made a narrow escape, the way I had. “Well, if you’re still here this weekend — which I hope you’re not — but if you are, I’ll bring my dog in. She’s really good at letting people pet her.”

  Val smiled. “Thanks. It was awfully nice of you to bring food.” She stood and brushed off the seat of her pants. “Awfully nice to come at all.”

  I smiled back.

  Terry was scraping the last gravy from his plate when I returned.

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Fretting.” Terry shook his head.

  “You can go home, can’t you?”

  “Yeah. Probably just get a slap on the wrist for parole violation. But I’m staying.”

  “Why?”

  Terry spread his arms. “Best alibi around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m no dummy. There’s something going on with the stolen shipment. Sheriff keeps asking me questions.” He ran a finger inside his shirt collar. “Something big — and I don’t know nothin’ about it. I don’t wanna to get blamed for something I didn’t do.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. I couldn’t agree or disagree. What did he know about the shipment? Maybe more than he was so adamantly denying.

  “Thanks for dinner. Best I�
��ve had since Mom’s goulash.”

  I nodded and rapped on the door for Archie to let me out.

  o0o

  I nearly did the splits on the sidewalk. An invisible ice glaze covered everything. The rain was coming faster now, adding layer upon layer. I slid my feet slowly, heading for the grass and bark dust in the dormant flowerbeds where the surface was rougher and safer.

  I pounded on the truck’s door handle to break the ice shield. Tuppence whined as I scooted into the seat.

  “I know, old girl. I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”

  I'd had studded tires put on the truck a few weeks back, but the ice was probably thicker than the stud depth. I let the truck roll straight back out of the parking spot. Now was not a great time to put a dent in Archie’s cruiser.

  We crept through town — which didn’t bother anyone because no one else was out. Locals know better than to drive in these conditions. On the highway, I was glad to see the few other cars on the road were moving as slowly as I was. No impatient tailgaters tonight.

  The pickup slid a few times, and the windshield coated over even with the wipers going full speed. I pulled onto the gravel shoulder, stepped out of the truck and inched around the hood to scrape the ice off. My hands were painfully stiff, and I rubbed them until I could grip the steering wheel again.

  Shoulders scrunched into tight knots, I leaned forward, peering into the dark. The headlight beams lit up the slanting rain — the drops looked like a rapid meteor shower through the black night. Ice chunks clicked and crackled as they slid around on the truck’s surface and broke free.

  At last, I pulled into the Riverview RV Ranch’s drive. As I followed the circular road through the campground, I tried to pick out the blue Datsun pickup in the tent area, but it was too dark to tell if Ferris was still there. I nosed the pickup close to the fifth-wheel’s overhang.

  "Whew.” I kneaded my neck muscles. “Come on, Tupp. Be careful when you jump.”

  I grabbed the side mirror to keep my balance. Tuppence scrabbled on the pavement, legs splayed. We skated to the steps. I beat on the door with my fist to loosen the ice and finally pried it open. The door snapped shut behind us like an airlock. The ice coating muffled sounds and insulated the trailer into a cozy cocoon.

  I slid my arms out of my dripping coat and tossed it in the bottom of the shower. The alarm clock in the bedroom flashed — the power had already gone out at least once. I snagged a bath towel and rubbed Tuppence down.

  I checked the time on my phone — 10:38 p.m. Awfully late, but Pete had insisted. I dialed.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  He exhaled.

  “I’m fine. Sorry to make you worry. How are things on the tug?”

  “Dogged-down.”

  “What?”

  “The watertight door clamps are called dogs. Dogged-down means I’m floating safe and dry.”

  I sighed and massaged the back of my neck with my free hand. After a few seconds, I realized I should probably say something. “When will you be back in town — after the run to Boardman?”

  “A week probably.”

  “Want to come for dinner then?”

  “Yes.”

  I pictured him leaning against the galley counter, broad shoulders stretching his buffalo plaid jacket and those deep blue eyes. Mmmmm.

  “Meredith?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you falling asleep?”

  I yawned. “Just dreaming, but that’s a good idea. ‘Night.”

  o0o

  I awoke in a cold sweat — miserably damp and chilly. I groaned and reached for the comforter. My hand splatted on saturated fabric — frigid, saturated fabric. I sat up and clicked on the light, except the light didn’t turn on. Groaning louder, I thrashed the covers off my legs and rolled out of bed. The carpet squished beneath my feet and instantly froze my toes.

  “No,” I moaned. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  I rummaged through drawers in the dark until I found a flashlight. Shivering, I directed the weak beam around the room and caught something twinkling on the ceiling. A line of dangling droplets stretched from one side of the room to the other. While I watched, half of them shimmied free and were replaced by new, growing drops. The whole roof seam must have popped open.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. This kind of thing didn’t happen in real houses. Living in a fifth-wheel didn’t feel so glamorous right now — not so free-spirited and fun.

  I gave myself a mental kick in the seat. Quit that. I love where I live and how I live. It’s a fact of life that bad weather wreaks havoc on RVs. What’s a leak once in a while? I pushed straggly curls out of my face and clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering.

  Okay, so my problem was more like Niagara Falls. Everything was soaked — pajamas, blankets, pillows, mattress, carpet. The vinyl wallpaper at both ends of the ceiling seam bulged to about halfway down the wall. A grand mess — a freezing cold grand mess.

  It looked as though the dresser and closet were safe for now. I stripped and threw my pajamas in the shower, then pulled on a sweat suit and two pairs of socks. I hopped around on the bathroom linoleum, trying to warm up.

  “Brrr, brrr, brrr.” Not good enough. I stumbled down the steps to the kitchen.

  No power meant no furnace heat. Maybe the gas fireplace would still work since it ran off the propane tank. I scuffed into the living room and tripped over Tuppence’s big pillow bed, plunging to a soft crash-landing on the sofa. The dog groaned and stretched.

  I fumbled for the switch, found it, and blue flames flickered behind the glass screen. I hugged my knees to my chest and stared into the fire. Tuppence nudged my foot and whined softly.

  I rubbed her ears. “Sorry for the intrusion. My bed’s all wet.” I wrinkled my nose. “You don’t snuggle as well as Pete does, but I’ll let you on the furniture for one night.” I patted the sofa cushion, and Tuppence clambered up beside me.

  I pulled her warm, furry weight across my lap and scratched her belly. “You’re a good dog,” I murmured. “Better than a blanket.”

  Tuppence shifted awkwardly, and her cold nose found a gap between my sweatshirt and pants.

  “Yow! Not that. Keep your nose to yourself.”

  Tuppence yawned.

  I settled back, working my fingers through her silky fur. I realized how much I liked Val’s honesty about missing her dog. There was no reason why two women who had dated the same man couldn’t be friends, was there? Especially if they agreed the man was a cad.

  When it was light, I’d figure out who to call. Maybe I should have spent the night on the tug, dogged-down and warm. Pete was protective of my reputation, though, and thoughtful — a vast improvement over Ham’s callousness. I couldn’t stomach the idea of what rumors would fly if I had spent the night.

  Nevertheless, I wished Pete was here.

  CHAPTER 8

  I waited until the semi-decent hour of 8 a.m., then called Mac MacDougal, owner of the Sidetrack Tavern and cabinet maker for the museum. Along with Sheriff Marge, Mac knew nearly every person in the county — at least every beer-drinking, football-watching male. I figured the best person to fix my leaky roof would also have those three traits.

  I stood in the bedroom doorway surveying the damage and explained.

  “Jim Carter,” Mac said. “Best handyman around.”

  I wrote down the number. “Thanks, Mac.”

  “Hey, do you need a place to stay? You could stay here. No strings or anything — I mean unless you want, but, uh, well, yeah — you could have my bed.” My mouth fell open. “I have an old army cot to sleep on,” Mac added quickly.

  I inhaled. “Um, thanks, but my sofa’s pretty comfortable. I’m fine.”

  “Well, my offer stands if you ever need it.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, can you stop by sometime? I want to show you a new display case design I’m working on.”

  “Um, sure. In
the next couple days?”

  “Sounds good. Tell Jim he gets a free drink from me for helping you out.”

  I hung up without replying. I didn’t know whether to laugh or be irritated. Poor Mac. He needed a girlfriend — but some other girl. Val was newly available. Hmmm.

  I dialed Jim Carter’s number.

  “Jim’s Rental Center.”

  I described my predicament. “Do you think you can fix my roof?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Uh, could you come out to look at it, or should I tow the trailer to you?”

  Jim sighed noisily into the receiver. “I guess I could come out.”

  “Great. When is good for you?”

  Jim shuffled through papers and muttered. I held my breath, fearing he would say his next opening was in two weeks. “I can probably get there in half an hour.”

  I almost dropped the phone. “Oh, thanks. Spot C-17.”

  “Hafta rearrange my deliveries,” Jim grumbled and hung up.

  I wrinkled my nose and stared at the phone. What a crab. Half an hour. I tossed the phone on top of the dresser, grabbed an armload of clothes and dashed for the shower, grateful the power was back on and the rain had stopped.

  I rushed through an abbreviated morning routine and started a full pot of coffee hoping the aroma would make Jim more amiable.

  Metal clanked outside, then thuds shook the trailer. I poked my head out the door. Overall-clad legs stood on the top rung of a stepladder. The man’s top half rested on the fifth-wheel’s roof.

  “Hello,” I called.

  A horrible ripping sound stopped my greeting, and a strip of flashing sailed over my head. I ducked.

  The ladder wobbled, and I grabbed it. Jim grunted and pushed himself farther onto the roof. More ripping and crunching — a wood splintering sound.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled.

  Jim scooted to the edge, found the top of the ladder with his foot and peered down. The skin under his brown eyes drooped in wrinkles, reminding me of a bloodhound. “Grab the blue tarp from my truck. And bungee cords.”

  I scowled. But since I know nothing about RV repair, I decided to follow orders. And prayed Jim knew what he was doing.