Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Read online

  Herb returned with a mug of mint tea for Harriet and coffee for himself. He settled into one of the pair of recliners angled toward the television.

  We watched the last ten minutes of a Rockford Files rerun. By the end, Harriet had slumped against the sofa arm and begun snoring not too softly. I carefully pulled the half-empty mug from her limp hand and nodded to Herb. We crept down the hall to the kitchen.

  “How is she, really?” I asked Herb in a low voice as I set the dishes in the sink.

  “Right as rain.” Herb ran his thumb along the edge of the counter. “I’m worried she’ll outlast me.” His eyes were as bright blue as Harriet’s, but they didn’t have the same sparkle, the same inquisitiveness. Herb was the worrier of the two.

  “Have you made plans for—” I didn’t want to say it, not sure what it was.

  Herb rubbed at his thin white hair as though trying to slick it down. “Meeting with a lawyer this week. It’s time.”

  Time for what? My stomach plummeted. “Are you sick, Herb?”

  “Not that I know of. Just feeling my age. Getting hard to keep up with this place.”

  “Harriet hasn’t noticed yet, has she?”

  “She knows, but for her scaling back is admitting defeat. She doesn’t want to leave the farm.”

  I touched Herb’s elbow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything, won’t you? Rides, meals cooked, if Harriet needs personal care — please tell me.”

  “We’re too stubborn for that, now. But when the time comes—” Herb’s chin trembled a little as he nodded. He pushed the screen door open and held it as Tuppence and I slipped outside and descended the porch steps.

  “Take care,” Herb called.

  I waved. Our kitchen conversation had been the most I’d ever heard Herb talk in one session. The twins didn’t have other siblings, and they’d never mentioned extended relatives. At least they had each other.

  oOo

  The pot roast was a hit all around. I gave Tuppence the bone and shooed her outside to enjoy noisy gnawing and grease smears elsewhere. Pete insisted on doing the dishes.

  I curled up on the sofa and watched as he meticulously scrubbed each pan and plate. “The dishwasher works fine.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and flashed the smile that turns my knees to rubber bands. Good thing I was sitting down. “I have my methods.” He kept smiling, kept looking at me, while the tap water coursed over his hands.

  I arched an eyebrow. “What?”

  He shook his head and turned back to the sink. “Nothing.”

  “I thought we had a deal. You get to know what’s going on in my head, and I get to know what’s going on in yours.” I quickly brushed my hands through my unruly curls, thinking maybe one of them was sticking up and Pete had been smiling at my rooster tail.

  He turned the water off, wiped his hands dry on a dishtowel and slid in beside me on the couch. He enclosed me in a tight hug and pulled me sideways onto his lap. “We haven’t done this much,” he murmured against my cheek.

  My pulse hammered. He’d surely hear it if not feel it. Much? Never was more like it. I clutched a handful of his flannel shirt and took a shaky breath. I needed to collect my thoughts, fast.

  “I haven’t shaved for a few days. Do you mind?”

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Pete had never asked before, but he must have picked up on my hesitation about scratchy neck nuzzles. At the moment, it was the last thing I was worried about. His eyes, deep sapphire blue, held me, and I forgot the question.

  He dipped his head, leaned in, his breath warm on my ear. I closed my eyes.

  A cruel jangling pierced the silence. I jumped about a mile and clunked my forehead into Pete’s nose.

  “Mmmrf.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I whispered. I scooted off his lap.

  Another jolt ran through my skin as the phone rang a second time. I held my aching forehead and checked the caller ID — Dale Larson. I groaned.

  Pete, still tenderly pressing his nose with one hand, rose and wrapped his other arm around my middle. He pulled me close and looked over my shoulder. “Better answer that.”

  He was right, of course. Dale doesn’t call for frivolous reasons. In fact, when Dale calls it’s usually about a crime. My shoulders slumped, but I pressed the button and raised the phone to my ear.

  “Hey, Meredith. You’re not busy are you? With the holiday and all? Because I have a couple searchers lined up, and they’re free this afternoon. We’ll need to hurry because it’ll be dark in another two hours.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I dug my rubber boots out of the closet. Pete called Tuppence, and we all crammed into my pickup. Once we were out on the highway, I noticed Pete had a wry smile on his face.

  “What?”

  “It’s never a dull moment with you.” Pete tousled Tuppence’s ears.

  “I’d have really preferred if Dale hadn’t called.”

  “Me too.” Pete chuckled. “But since he did — what’s this about?”

  “A glass eye I found back when Greg was missing and we searched a marsh along the highway.”

  Pete cocked his head. “A glass eye? What’re the odds of that? The only person I know with a glass eye was Spence Snead, but that was years ago. Extremely realistic, though. Wouldn’t have known it was fake unless you knew his history.”

  “The eye I found was creepy realistic. I thought it was a costume prop or something.”

  Pete stretched across Tuppence and put a hand on my knee. “I have a job tomorrow. Be gone about a week.”

  I gave him a doleful look — a look I’d learned from Tuppence.

  “I know,” he said. “I know.”

  I spotted Dale’s mud-splattered Ford Ranger parked on the shoulder and pulled off behind it. Pete opened his door, and we all exited from the passenger side. I held Tuppence’s collar until I could snap on her leash. Drivers on Highway 14 regularly go 80 miles an hour, and Tuppence is accustomed to the leisurely pace in the campground.

  Dale, in jeans and Carhartt jacket, huddled at the open liftgate of an old burnt orange Volvo station wagon with another man and a woman. They were fiddling with what appeared to be a couple fancy weed whackers.

  “Hey, Meredith.” Dale nodded. “Pete. Thanks for coming. This here’s Delores Swygart and her son, Yonder.”

  “As in the wild blue—?” The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them. I cringed.

  “Yep.” Yonder was in his late teens and had a scraggly beginner beard that extended about four inches from the tip of his chin. It looked like the dried, frizzled ends of corn silk. He wore a dark green knit cap with ear flaps pulled down.

  His mother was proof that gravity defies spandex, although she was giving spandex every conceivable opportunity to hold things up. Spandex couldn’t possibly be warm enough, which accounted for the multiple pairs of legwarmers that swelled her calves to match her generous thighs. She had a bright red scarf around her neck, but otherwise we were treated to the vision of smooshed and merged horizontal fat rolls clad in gleaming, skin-tight black elastane. I had no idea where you could even buy an outfit like that. Her wiry hair was a shade darker than Yonder’s beard.

  Delores acknowledged Pete and me with a brief nod, then dove into the backseat of the station wagon. The car shifted from side to side as she heaved bags of equipment from the floorboards and pawed through them. She emerged with two headsets.

  Yonder’s beard flapped when he talked, and his open mouth revealed small pearl teeth. “You work up at the museum? Been meaning to come in and have a look-see.” He gestured jerkily, reinforcing the impression that he was a tall stalk with an upside down ear of corn where his head should be.

  “You’re welcome anytime.”

  “Maybe go over the grounds with this baby.” Yonder patted his weed whacker affectionately with a long-fingered hand.

  “Uh, well, we have a groundskeeper who might be concerned you were taking over his job.”

  Pet
e elbowed me. “It’s a metal detector.”

  “Oh. Sorry. What kinds of things have you found with your detector?”

  Yonder’s face lit up. “Old stuff — buttons, buckles, coins, jewelry, bits and bridle parts, farm equipment, keys, couple knives. Even got me a meteorite, not a big one, but still—” Yonder framed his hands around an imaginary chunk of space rock to indicate the size. “Ma’s best find so far is a cannonball.”

  “Wow. Ever think of putting your finds on display? I’m sure we could work out a way to do that at the museum.”

  “Yeah?” Yonder’s grin slowly spread. “In a jumble. Hafta polish ‘em up. But I know where everything came from.”

  “I could help you do research on any items you haven’t been able to identify.”

  Yonder hooked a headset around his neck and plugged the wire into his detector. “I’d like that.”

  “Sorry to interrupt the chitchatting, but we should to get going.” Dale led the way to a gravel ramp that sloped the fifteen or twenty foot drop from the highway surface to the marsh below.

  We skidded behind him. Tuppence balked and did a sitting slide, front feet splayed. She shook herself to normalcy at the bottom and launched out, nose skimming the ground.

  Dale laughed and trotted beside me as I stumbled along at the end of the leash. “Looks like she remembers.”

  “I hope so,” I puffed. “Her scenting reliability is a little sporadic. Could be a rabbit.”

  Tuppence came to an abrupt halt at the first large cattail clump and jammed her muzzle into the reedy stalks. She backed out, sneezed violently, and sat panting.

  “See what I mean?”

  Dale squatted and scratched Tuppence behind the ears while we waited for the others to catch up.

  “You’re not on duty today?” I stomped my feet. In spite of two pairs of wool socks, my toes were already freezing.

  “No. This is off the record. Just satisfying my curiosity about something.” He stood and said in a lower voice, “If we find anything, let’s meet up at the Sidetrack later — just you, Pete and me. I’ll explain then.”

  “Sure.” I flashed a smile at Pete who ambled over. Just standing next to him warmed me up.

  Delores and Yonder arrived, holding their metal detectors angled at their sides like long scabbard-clad swords.

  “Okay, folks. I’m headed for the clump of firs on the far side of this flat area, just under that rocky outcropping.” Dale pointed to the northeast. “When we get there, Meredith’ll scout for anything that looks familiar.” He turned and started striding through the marsh, spreading cattails and forging a trail we hurried to follow.

  My boots sank a couple inches deep in muck with each step. Tuppence stuck close to Dale’s heels, the white tip of her tail my beacon through the dense reeds. Delores’s ragged breathing lagged behind me.

  About twenty minutes later, the ground rose slightly and became drier. The vegetation switched to thick prairie grass, and we entered a clear area just before the tree line.

  I remembered the grouping of three trees of staggered height. They looked like a father, mother and toddler posing for a family picture.

  I stopped and scanned my surroundings, picked out a spot high on the highway embankment across the field, and plunged back into the cattails a few paces. Tuppence nosed around, snorting, but didn’t offer any directional suggestions. Cattail clumps all look the same.

  “Dale?” I called. “I’m not sure, but somewhere near here.” I pivoted, checked my bearing markers. “Yeah, maybe in a ten or fifteen foot radius from where I’m standing.”

  Delores and Yonder waded through the weeds to stand beside me.

  “We’re going to work in arcing quadrants out from you,” Delores said, “so stay here.”

  They settled headphones on their ears, large olive green nodules like growths on either side of their heads. They flipped switches on their detectors, made a few exploratory passes over the mud, and nodded at each other. Delores started on my right — east, Yonder on my left — west.

  I shifted from one foot to the other, fidgeting against the cold. It would have been more interesting if I could hear the beeps Delores and Yonder were hearing — or not. Neither one stopped to examine the soggy ground. They advanced in expanding sweeps.

  I caught movement among the trees on the hillside, then picked out Pete’s red and black buffalo plaid jacket. Pete and Dale were climbing the hill, stopping every few minutes to confer and point in different directions. They abruptly turned east and skirted a rise then disappeared over a ridge. What were they looking for? Dale’s secrecy about this search had my nosiness antenna on high alert. And here I was stuck in the mud.

  Tuppence wedged between my legs and shivered.

  “Poor dog.” I rubbed her briskly with my gloved hands. “Maybe I should have let you sleep in the truck, huh? I didn’t think we’d be standing still so long.”

  Delores and Yonder returned. Yonder popped off one headphone and said, “Nothin’ yet.”

  They began working arcs north and south from me, heads down, entirely focused on the ground at their feet and the swinging detector coils.

  Dale and Pete reappeared much farther east at the base of a bluff and strode in my direction.

  Tuppence whined and licked her chops, her tail drooping.

  Delores and Yonder trudged back.

  “Is it normal to search for a long time without finding anything?” I asked.

  “Usually tag something,” Delores replied. “Even if it’s small change or worthless bits. Don’t expect many people come this far out and wander around losing stuff.” She sighed and readjusted her grip on the metal detector.

  We sloshed out of the marsh and joined Dale and Pete.

  “Got something else for you to check,” Dale said. “Gotta hurry, though.” He craned his neck toward the setting sun. “Probably have half an hour of decent light left.” He beckoned and took off at a fast clip toward the bluff.

  I hung back with Pete. “What’s going on?”

  “Not sure. Dale’s pretty tight-lipped. He was estimating distances and trajectories.”

  “For what?”

  “Didn’t say, but I expect for a rifle shot.”

  My jaw dropped. “Hunting this close to the highway?”

  Pete shrugged. “The Snead property includes part of Beane Bluff, runs parallel to the highway for a stretch. You can hunt on your own property out here.”

  The Sneads again. They’d been popping up in many of my conversations lately. Of course, I’d been the one to introduce the topic most of the time. Their history seemed to be intertwined with several members of the community – to be expected in a small town, I guessed.

  Delores and Yonder had donned their headsets again and were scanning the rise at the base of the bluff. Dale led the way, turning and stopping occasionally to sight back toward the tree line and the marsh. He seemed to be checking angles.

  Pete and I waited under an ancient fir. The bark released a crisp, sweet, sappy odor. Tuppence flopped on the needle cushion at our feet. I leaned against Pete, and he rested his chin on the top of my head.

  “How’s your nose?”

  “I’ll live.” He wrapped his arms around me. “Hey.” His muscles tensed. “Looks like they found something.”

  Dale and Yonder were digging at the base of a tree, pulling up handfuls of loose sod and brushing the area clear. Delores hovered near them, detector poised. Dale removed a clear plastic bag from his jacket pocket and dropped something into it. Yonder continued poking into the soil and pointed out another item to Dale.

  Pete shifted, turned and looked back to the marsh. “Clear shot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders and moved me over a couple steps. “See that? From where Dale is to where you were standing in the marsh? Straight, slightly downhill. Great line of sight. A clear shot.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I have a hunch, but
I think I’d better let Dale explain.”

  “We’re not talking about a deer or an elk, are we?”

  “Not unless it also had a glass eye.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Pete and I found a small table in a dim corner of the Sidetrack Tavern. Most of the patrons crowded around the big screen television featuring the Rose Bowl. The game was a minute into the fourth quarter, and the Ducks were looking strong with a 17 point lead.

  We’d both ordered coffee at the bar and set our steaming mugs on the wood tabletop. The varnish had nearly been worn away from years of wiping down, but the surface had a smooth patina. Pete grabbed an empty chair and scooted it over so we could huddle as a trio when Dale arrived. He sat and wrapped his hands around his mug.

  “Thanks for going with me. I didn’t know what to expect,” I said.

  “Any chance the eye you found was a taxidermy eye?”

  “The iris was blue-gray with a round pupil.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Sorry to make you wait.” Cold air accompanied Dale as he hurried over. “Needed to wrap up with the Swygarts. Coffee? Good idea. Be right back.” He made a beeline for the bar.

  “Where’s your job?” I asked.

  “Potash to Astoria. I’ll have to wait a day there for the next load going to The Dalles.”

  Dale returned with his own mug and dropped into the empty chair. He took a gulp of the scalding liquid and sighed. “Beats the stuff at the office.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.

  The three of us must have appeared as though we were planning a bank robbery, heads together, knees almost touching under the tiny table, talking low over a ring of coffee mugs.

  “I don’t like it,” Dale said.

  “What’d you pick up?” Pete asked.

  “Shell casings. Two of ‘em. Thirty-aught-six.”

  “But no bullets in the marsh?”

  “Nope. Could have embedded and been carried out. Trajectory could have altered dramatically on impact with something hard and bounced who knows where. Delores said marsh soil turns over rapidly — lots of animal activity, rooting, growing, decaying — so something weighted like a bullet would sink faster than where it’s drier. Could be buried deep and they missed it.” He shrugged. “Could be we didn’t have the right spot or,” he shifted and stretched his legs out to the side, “could be nothing at all.” He rubbed his forehead and stared into his mug.