Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2)

by Jones, Jerusha

  Rapid popping — tat tat tatatatat — sounded, then a thud and Sheriff Marge breathing hard — whooshing like she was running.

  “Are you okay?” I yelled.

  “Yeah. I gotta go. He’s actually firing this time.” The line went dead.

  I slumped, pressed my hands over my face and offered up a prayer for Sheriff Marge’s safety, and for Dale and the other two deputies. With such a small department, they were probably all on the scene or would be soon.

  I thought about calling Sandy, Dale’s wife, but maybe she didn’t know yet. And knowing might be worse. I shook my head. I’d wait. The sheriff and her deputies dealt with this kind of stuff all the time.

  I stretched my fingers and watched them shake. My insides were a zinging bundle of nerves, all because of eight gold rods and gunfire on the phone. Oh, and Ham. His proximity was the nagging dread I’d been feeling. My stomach clenched and considered vomiting. Nope — empty. I needed food, but first I had to hide the gold.

  Where?

  Where, where, where?

  Certainly not in plain sight. The museum’s security system was lousy. The rods had to go someplace unexpected. But where?

  The freezer in the staff kitchen? A toilet tank? An air vent? A linen closet?

  I went back to the toilet tank idea. The chamber pot exhibit was in one of the family bedrooms and had an attached private bath. To prevent leaks, the water had been turned off, so the tank should be dry. The mansion had fourteen private baths in addition to the public restrooms on the main floor. Even if potential thieves hit on the idea of a toilet tank, they’d have a lot of places to check.

  I stuffed the rods in a messenger bag I kept on hand, cracked the door open and peeked into the hallway. The museum closed an hour ago, so all visitors and Lindsay should be gone. With the bag slung over my good shoulder, I tiptoed down one flight of stairs to the chamber pot room. The wood floor creaked with each step, the noise echoing off the walls and high ceiling. So much for stealth.

  The bathroom door squealed like a disgruntled baby pig as I pushed it open. It only locks from the inside, so we never lock it — but we keep the door closed to discourage unsanctioned exploration by visitors.

  Rust powder lined the bone dry toilet tank and stuck to my skin as I set the rods one by one in the bottom. I replaced the lid then used my sleeve to wipe my dirty handprints off the white ceramic. Anyone who saw me now would know I had done more than research today, but the museum was dirty enough that I could probably brush off their questions by saying I’d been working on a display. Which might be true, depending on how you looked at it.

  While washing my hands in the main restroom, I thought about the statues. If I left them out, anyone would be able to see they’d been tampered with and know the contents had been removed. They had to be hidden too. Somewhere else. But where?

  Ahhh. The place every kid would know and every adult would forget. I hurried upstairs.

  Wedging the plugs back into the bottom of each statue wasn’t as easy as I expected. More of a mind puzzle to match up jagged edges and smooth bumps. I kept one plug for research purposes and packed the statues into the messenger bag.

  In a hallway in the servants’ quarters, I opened a hinged wall panel and suspended the bag from a knob inside a dark cavity.

  The knobs were there for just that reason. Rupert’s great-great-uncle had planned on having a large family when he built the mansion. He thought of everything, including an escape route should a child happen to tumble into the laundry chute. Two sides of the chute are like an early version of a rock climbing wall, studded with knobs and toeholds. The housekeeping records are peppered with staff complaints about clothing and linens hanging up on the way down. I felt a rush of gratitude for the ancestral Hagg’s foresight.

  Food. My stomach could no longer be ignored. And I needed ingredients for tomorrow’s feast.

  I dashed off a short note and stuffed it along with the wood plug into a padded envelope. No harm in a little inquiry — Sheriff Marge had other things to worry about. I collected my purse and walked through the empty museum. The place was becoming quite a keeper of secrets.

  The phone rang as I pulled the seatbelt across my lap — and reveled in how much easier it was to do without the sling.

  “Hey Meredith,” Greg said. “The forestry department — well, pretty much the whole school — has cleared out for Thanksgiving. I found one graduate teaching assistant who thought they could do microscopic wood analysis, but she told me to check back after break. Sorry.”

  “No problem. Sorry to make you run around. I’m sending you a wood sample anyway. Maybe next week they’ll be able to look at it. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  “Getting together with a couple friends from Thailand. We’ve never cooked a turkey before, so we’re going to give it a shot.”

  “Remember to remove the neck and gizzard from inside.”

  “The what?”

  “You don’t have to eat them. Just take them out. They’re usually wedged pretty far into the cavity. And keep an eye out for a gravy packet too. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Greg laughed. “You’re making me nervous. Is your date with Pete still on?”

  “It’s not a date. There’ll be a boatload of people, literally.”

  “Tell yourself that if you want — but the rest of us, we know what’s really going on.” Greg hung up before I could argue further.

  Huh. It was not a date. It was one of those nice things people did to make sure singles weren’t alone for the holidays. That’s all. Really. Pete had invited me, but Sally Levine must have suggested it to him. He had to ask because we were gathering on his boat. No big deal.

  My stomach rumbled like a freight train, reminding me of more pressing matters.

  o0o

  I parked next to a flashy red Corvette in Junction General’s lot. The sports car was so new it still had a temporary license taped in the rear window. It definitely did not belong to a local resident since the trunk wasn’t big enough for hauling firewood, fertilizer or even an economy pack of toilet paper. I opened my truck door carefully, not wanting to give the shiny paint its first ding.

  Junction General carries about a million products two deep. Gloria Munoz, the proprietress, does an amazing job of keeping the small town of Platts Landing supplied with essentials. Thanksgiving — when everyone wants to buy a lot of the same few items — is a little trickier. I hoped Gloria had stocked up on cranberry jelly and stuffing mix.

  I grabbed a plastic shopping basket and wandered down the canned goods aisle. Gloria knelt on the worn black and white checkerboard floor, refilling the cream of mushroom soup spot on the bottom shelf.

  She looked up and smiled. “Selling like hotcakes. Can’t stand the stuff myself.”

  “Me neither. I was assigned a vegetable dish, but I think I’ll make some kind of salad and skip the green bean casserole altogether.”

  “Good call. Hey, I met your friend Hamilton Wexler.”

  I almost dropped the basket.

  “I just finished fixing up the studio apartment upstairs, and he’s my first renter. He reserved it for a week, for the holiday. Said he was in town to visit you. He sure seems like a nice guy.”

  I hadn’t even known there was an apartment above the store. My mouth hung open. Gloria was fishing for gossip. She settled on her haunches, waiting for a juicy detail.

  But my brain still hadn’t kicked into gear. Why did Ham make me speechless? When I got angry at anyone else, my vocabulary exploded, but even the mention of his name had a horrible, stifling effect on me.

  “Uhh,” I said.

  “And you’re having Thanksgiving dinner with Pete Sills.” Gloria’s eyebrows arched.

  Of course she knew — everyone knew. Good grief. I was single-handedly providing soap-opera programming for the whole town. And it wasn’t even my fault.

  Metal bells clanked against the glass door as someone barged inside.

  “Gloria
,” a voice called — Ham’s voice. “The light bulb over the dining table just burned out.” He came around the end of the aisle and halted.

  “Meredith! But of course we’d bump into each other, wouldn’t we — in a town this size. You’re buying food. How about dinner? I’m just whipping up a little stir-fry upstairs. Chop. Chop.” He aimed his fingers like pistols and jerked them, gunslinger style.

  I had no idea what that had to do with chopping.

  “What do you say?”

  “No,” I grunted.

  “Aw, come on. I’m a great cook. When we’re married, I’ll cook for you all the time, whatever you want.”

  Gloria knocked over several soup cans and one kept rolling — woowr, woowr down the aisle.

  “Married? I—”

  I was cut off by the metal bells clanking violently, like someone whacking a wind chime with a baseball bat.

  A petite blond stormed past the end of the aisle, skidded and turned back. A blur of flying pink and yellow and sparkles — glitter eye shadow, dangly earrings and rhinestones on flip flop straps. She was wearing flip flops in November? And fuchsia toenail polish.

  “You bastard! Do you think you can hide from me?” Miss Glitz screamed. Her hand closed around a can of chili. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you? Your little mid-life crisis in the parking lot was a dead giveaway. How dare you!”

  “Now, Val, I told you I needed a break. There’s no need to get excited.” Ham’s voice skipped up an octave.

  Val slung the can sidearmed and nearly clocked Ham except he dodged at the last nanosecond. He seemed familiar with this kind of target practice.

  The can sailed past my shoulder, and I hit the floor beside Gloria, sending a painful jolt through my ribs and collarbone.

  The next can plowed into a shelf above us, shattering a pickle jar.

  Gloria’s brown eyes widened, and she started to rise. “Hey! Watch it! You can’t—”

  I grabbed her and pulled her back down. A box of spaghetti broke overhead, and pasta sticks rained on us.

  I felt for my phone in my jeans pocket, then realized I’d left it in the truck.

  “My store—” Gloria moaned. “Thanksgiving. What’ll I do?”

  I squeezed her arm. “Go the other way, toward the back. Scootch on your stomach.” I gave Gloria a shove to get her going. “Lock yourself in your office and call Sheriff Marge. Go!”

  Gloria army-crawled down the littered aisle, through tomato sauce and mustard — the colors of the USC Trojans. I always think the players look like picnic condiment sets when they take the field. I shook my head. Focus, I needed to focus.

  When Gloria seemed safely out of reach, I followed, dragging the shopping basket with me. Val and Ham continued their shouting match, but my mind raced through options for putting a stop to it, safely.

  Apparently, Ham’s smooth, lawyerly manner didn’t mollify some people. Val certainly had grit — she was no pushover. But she was also a really good pitcher, and somebody was going to get hurt. I had to catch Val from behind — that arm was a deadly weapon.

  At the end of the aisle, I crawled to the next row — the beer and soda pop aisle — and trotted to the front. I took a quick peek and saw Val’s skinny bottom stick out past the potato chip display as she bent to pick up another missile.

  “I even grew out my hair for you,” the girl screamed.

  I had a feeling Val was beyond being pacified by diplomacy and negotiation. I glanced at the shopping basket in my hand — too light and clumsy to throw accurately. Instead, I plunked it on my head like a helmet and charged.

  I meant to round the corner, tackle Val in a tight embrace and take her down, but a slick of something — alfredo sauce? — turned the linoleum into a skating rink. I streaked past, behind an oblivious Val, and smacked into the sturdy, buffalo-plaid-jacketed Pete Sills who had just stepped through the front door. He caught me and kept me from a headlong slide into the checkout counter.

  A wild pitch — orange marmalade — took out a row of cereal boxes on the top shelf and splattered at our feet.

  Pete dragged me outside and removed my headgear.

  “Do those people need help?” he asked.

  I felt my cheek. Grid marks from the shopping basket were imprinted in my skin from my collision with Pete. I was also sticky. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s better to let them have at it. I’m sure Ham deserves whatever he gets, and he can pay for the damage.”

  “Ham?”

  “Hamilton Wexler — my ex-fiancé.” I gulped, but it was too late to take the last part back. I hadn’t discussed much of my past with Pete, particularly not any previous romantic attachments. “We’re not — absolutely no way—” I shook my head. The right words wouldn’t come. “Never.”

  “Okay.” Pete pulled me against his chest.

  I pressed my nose into the scratchy wool of his jacket and inhaled the scent of licorice and dusty wheat.

  “You want to tell me about the shopping basket?” Pete’s low voice rumbled in my ear.

  I scrunched up my face, glad he couldn’t see. How mortifying. “I watch a lot of football. I needed protection,” I mumbled. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Pete’s muscles quivered ever so slightly. He cleared his throat.

  Gravel sprayed in all directions as the sheriff’s Ford Explorer skidded into the parking lot.

  Sheriff Marge popped out of the vehicle like a pinched watermelon seed. “What’s going on?”

  I reluctantly pulled away from Pete. “A couple’s fight. From what I could gather, he jilted her, and she doesn’t appreciate it.”

  Sheriff Marge moved toward the store.

  “Watch out — she has a great throwing arm,” I called.

  Sheriff Marge kicked the door open and bellowed, “This is the sheriff. Hands where I can see them. Now!”

  I moved to follow, but Pete held me back.

  “Just give her a few minutes to do her job.” He wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head. “Besides, you’re still shivering.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned into him. Were we actually cuddling? There might have been cuddling a couple months ago when he’d carried me out of the cavern, but I’d been unconscious and missed out on how good it felt. Since then, we’d seen each other when he was in town, talked some but never touched — not even a handshake. Maybe I needed to throw myself at him more often. It seemed to produce good results.

  “Ready?” Pete said.

  “Huh?” I snapped out of my reverie.

  “I don’t hear any more yelling inside. But I did hear your stomach growl.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Ham and Val sat on the floor, propped against opposite ends of the checkout counter with their hands behind their backs. Ham had the beginnings of a doozy of a shiner, and his face was already swollen around a small gash on his cheekbone. Mascara streaked Val’s cheeks, and her hair was disheveled. One flip flop was missing.

  Ham opened his mouth to speak, but I glared at him. For once, it worked — he stared at the floor.

  I almost smiled and darted a quick look back at Val. I’d been tempted to throw things at Ham a time or two (or three) myself. And Val’d done it. I admired her spirit, but she looked crushed at the moment.

  Gloria, shaky but standing, arms clenched across her abdomen, nodded as Sheriff Marge gently asked questions and scribbled in her notebook. Gloria was a living Jackson Pollock painting — discordant red and yellow smeared her turquoise shirt and khaki pants. I looked down to find I could pass for Gloria’s twin. I noticed for the first time that I reeked of dill pickle juice.

  Pete placed a few dollars on the counter and led me to the hot foods display. He grabbed two shriveled corndogs off the rotisserie and handed one to me. I held it dumbly.

  “Eat.”

  I nibbled.

  “You hate corndogs, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  He squirted mustard on a paper tray. “Have some. It
helps.”

  “I’m wearing enough to slather a hundred corndogs.”

  “This is clean.” He thrust the tray toward me, and I dipped.

  “Mmmm.” I dipped again.

  “What’d I tell you?”

  But all I could think about was that I was double-dipping with Pete.

  Sheriff Marge joined us. “Alright. Fill me in.” She looked haggard, more wrinkled than yesterday. Her gray eyes were tired. But she held her stubby fingers poised, ready to take notes.

  I kept it short and left out the part about my attempted tackle. I figured Sheriff Marge only wanted to know what Val and Ham had done.

  “You know Val—” Sheriff Marge checked her notes, “—Valerie Brown?”

  “Never seen her before. I’m a little surprised. She doesn’t seem like Ham’s type.”

  “Which is?”

  “Uh — classier?” I glanced at Pete, but his deadpan face didn’t offer any encouragement. “I mean — well, it’s just that Ham’s a lawyer, and he’s sort of picky about his image. He usually dates women who enhance his reputation.”

  “I understand he dated you.”

  “Yeah, but that was before — and anyway, I dumped him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He was two-timing, three-timing — I don’t know how many of us he had going. I got out as fast as I could when I figured that out.”

  “Know why he’s here?”

  “He stopped by the museum today and talked for a while. Honestly, I didn’t listen very much — you know, with everything else that’s been going on.”

  “Did you know he was coming to see you?”

  “No. And I really wish he hadn’t.”

  Sheriff Marge pushed up her Stratton hat brim and tucked the notebook back into her chest pocket. “Okay. That’s enough for now.”

  “What about the incident at the Randalls’?” I asked.

  Sheriff Marge exhaled. “My deputies are wrapping up the scene.”

  “What does that mean?”