Sheriff Marge jerked her thumb behind her. “Agent George Simmons, FBI, and Wayne Tubman, Treasury.”
I stretched to shake hands with each man.
“Do you have a place to talk?” Sheriff Marge asked, scanning the stacks of books covering the floor in a perfect grid like an urban development plan.
“Just a minute.” I bent and rapidly doubled and tripled up stacks to clear space.
I straightened, flushed, and pushed unruly brown curls out of my face. “Sorry, we don’t have a conference room. It’s either sit on the bed in the chamber pot room or here. I’ll just—” I squeezed past the men in the doorway, “— get some chairs.”
When I returned with three folding chairs from a storage room, I found the FBI man inspecting my empty bookcases. Sheriff Marge shrugged in response to my inquiring look.
“Here you go.” I handed out chairs, and my visitors unfolded them and sat, thigh to thigh, in the cleared space. Sheriff Marge folded her arms across her chest and scowled. I slid into the chair behind my desk.
The Treasury man, I’d already forgotten his name, was older, his charcoal-colored hair lightly salted. His coif was perfectly sculpted, with an arrow-straight side part and swoop over his forehead. It seemed to be shellacked in place — the way Clark Kent would look at fifty. He cleared his throat. “We understand you have some undeclared gold and—”
“Artifacts of possible historical significance,” FBI butted in. He was heavily freckled, with a paprika-colored buzz cut that was probably a carryover from a military career. His one obvious flamboyance — Andy Rooney eyebrows. But in red they looked more like Bobo the Clown's.
There was a jostling undercurrent in the navy-suited men. Somehow, while perched stiffly on their chairs, they gave the impression they were jabbing each other with elbows and knees like jockeys in a horse race, trying to shoulder ahead. There wasn’t actual movement; the competition was in their posture and tone of voice. Subtle, but the tension of their rivalry filled the room.
I nodded slowly. “I have them, but they are not mine. I agreed with Sheriff Marge to—”
“I need to see them,” Superman said.
I pushed away from the desk. “I’ll be right back.”
I retrieved the statues first, then loaded the gold bars into the tote bag, sliding them to the bottom. The bag strained at the seams with the weight, so I wrapped my arms under it and balanced it like a sleeping toddler against my chest.
The men stood upon my arrival, but quickly sat again when they saw it was just a dirty old tote bag. I eased my burden onto the desk and opened the flap. I lifted out the statues first and laid them in a row on the desk, then handed a gold bar to Superman.
Eyebrow’s fingers twitched as though he was about to snatch the bar from Superman, so I handed him his own. He balanced it across his open palm, then picked up a statue with his other hand.
“Do you know the country of origin?” I asked.
“African or Asian, I expect.” He pulled a small digital camera from his pocket and snapped a close-up of each statue.
I wrinkled my nose. I had guessed that myself. So he wasn’t an expert, or he wasn’t giving anything away.
“You’ve made contact with the dealer?” Superman asked.
“Mr. Rittenour? Yes. He’s expecting a call back to know when he can pick them up. He wants to come tomorrow.”
“No.” Eyebrows shook his head. “I need time. This room would work for the transfer.”
“What?” I asked.
“It makes sense.” Superman leaned forward, elbow on knees. “His point of contact is you. So you’ll keep that up. We’ll script a list of questions for you to ask him — all very casual, and we’ll be recording. When we get what we need, we’ll arrest him.”
“Wednesday afternoon — 2 p.m. Tell Mr. Rittenour that’s when he can pick up his statues,” Eyebrows said.
“But—” I glanced at Sheriff Marge who shook her head, still scowling. I turned back to the men. “Now?”
“Go ahead. Tell him—” Eyebrows pivoted toward Sheriff Marge. “Wasn’t somebody murdered on the grounds here? Yeah. Use that as your excuse for the delay. It’s interfering with normal museum operation or whatever.”
I swallowed and picked up the phone. I shot one more glance at Sheriff Marge who nodded this time. After dialing, I swiveled in the chair so my back faced my audience. Sounding calm and natural was not going to come easy, not with three sets of eyes on me.
Earl answered on the second ring.
“This is Meredith Morehouse.” My voice bounced off the walls of the small room. Someone behind me had poked the speaker button. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to picture the very worried man on the other end of the line.
“Meredith.” Earl was breathless. “I’m so relieved.”
“I’m awfully sorry I didn’t call you sooner. The museum was closed Saturday because an unfortunate incident — well, uh, a tourist was killed—”
“What?” Earl nearly shrieked.
“Outside, on the grounds — not actually in the museum,” I continued. “But we were all quite upset — I’m sure you understand — and I wasn’t able to keep my normal schedule, and actually—” I took a deep breath. “It’s still not back to normal—”
“Of course. Of course,” Earl murmured. “Dreadful. I’m sorry.”
“I was wondering — would Wednesday afternoon work for you? Around 2 p.m.?”
“Yes.” Earl leapt at the answer. “I have the directions. I’ll be there.”
“Ask for me at the front desk.”
“Alright. And thank you. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” said the spider to the fly. I groaned inwardly. No matter how shady Earl Rittenour might be, I hated what I’d just done. I whirled around and hung up.
I took a deep breath. “He’s expecting fourteen crates, which we don’t have. He’s already a very nervous man. The sight of a damaged semi truck and trailer at the far end of our parking lot might send him over the edge.”
“You boys check the trailer this afternoon if you want, then we can release it,” Sheriff Marge said.
“I need to get my crates out before it’s moved,” I blurted. “Jim said maybe Verle’s tow truck—” I stopped, not certain about the mechanics of unloading.
Sheriff Marge stood. “We’ll work it out.” She slid a small black object onto my desk. “Coming, boys?”
They marched out single file.
A cell phone! I poked through the menu. Sheriff Marge had had all my contacts transferred to the new phone — all my friends. I leaned back, drew my knees to my chest and hugged them. Bless that woman.
On a sudden impulse, I pressed the button for Arlene Wexler. I had to tell Ham’s mother I was sorry — sorry about everything.
“Oh, Meredith, I’m so glad you called.” Arlene sounded tired, without the usual spunk to her pleasant alto voice.
“How are you?”
“It hasn’t really sunk in yet. I didn’t see Ham very often anymore, with the campaign and all, but sometimes when a car drives by, I’ll think it’s him and hurry to the window before I remember.”
I sighed. “How did they — I mean, how did you — I should have called you right away.”
“It’s okay, honey. A couple Clark County deputies came by — a man and a woman, I don’t remember their names — and told me. They found me out back, separating daffodil bulbs, mud up to my armpits. If I wasn’t a mess before, I sure was after. But they were very kind. That must be the absolute worst part of their jobs. Then Sheriff Stettler — Marge Stettler, the sheriff where you live — called, and she was very kind too. We talked about losing our husbands for a while—” Arlene’s voice trailed off.
I stared at the ceiling. I’d forgotten. Sheriff Marge is a widow, too, and would know what to say. “Did she tell you I found him?”
“Yes. She was worried about you. I wanted to talk to you, but she said you needed some time.” Arlene broke down, s
niffling between her words. “I don’t want to make you relive it, but could you tell me — was he—” She sobbed.
I fought back my own tears. There was no way I would tell Arlene about the expression on Ham’s face. “Sheriff Marge said it must have happened very fast — very quickly.”
Arlene exhaled shakily. “I’m so sorry you were the one to find him. I didn’t know what he planned to do, but it makes sense he wanted to see you. You were always the solid person in his life, the one who gave him purpose. He’d go off on his escapades, but he’d always return to ‘What would Meredith think?’ or ‘Meredith would have loved that.’ You were his guiding light.”
I gritted my teeth. “Arlene, I—”
“I know,” Arlene whispered. “You were good for him, but he wasn’t good for you. No, my Ham wasn’t husband material. I guess I just wanted — wanted you for my own, too. The daughter I didn’t have.”
“Then I’m yours. If you’ll have me, I’m yours. I really need — a mother would be wonderful.” Tears leaked from the corners of my scrunched-up eyes.
“There, there,” Arlene murmured.
I let out a juicy half-chuckle and wiped my nose on my sleeve. I took a deep breath.
“When this is over, I’m going to come visit,” Arlene said. “Because that’s what mothers do — pester and nag and suggest and meddle. Are you ready for that?”
“Yes.” I smiled though my vision was still watery.
CHAPTER 14
I barely had time to blow my nose before my new phone rang.
“Got your carpet.”
“Oh.” I sniffed. “Thanks. When—” A loud metal screech made me jerk the phone away from my ear.
“Need to fix the roof while it’s not raining.”
“You’re at my trailer now?” I asked.
Jim sighed into the phone.
“I’m coming.” I hung up and thought perhaps his wife had left him because he failed to inform her in advance of important plans. The comforting weight of the phone nestled in my palm. Maybe he had called, and I’d missed the message.
Realizing the suits had been hustled out by Sheriff Marge before giving instructions about what to do with the gold and statues, I quickly returned them to their hiding places.
I stopped by the gift shop. “How’s it going?”
Lindsay had papers spread across the counter and her laptop open. “I printed out everything for one last check, then I’m submitting the application. I made the changes you suggested.” She shuffled the pages together. “Who were those guys with Sheriff Marge?”
“Um, outside agency representatives. Our county’s so short-staffed, sometimes Sheriff Marge gets outside help for, uh, things.”
“Well, I knew they weren’t from around here.” Lindsay smirked. “Suits and briefcases. And did you see the eyebrows on the red-haired guy?” She rolled her eyes. “Are they helping with the murder investigation?”
“Sheriff Marge hasn’t really — I’m not sure she can — since I’m a suspect, you know.” I inhaled.
“Oh, right.” Lindsay nodded. “I know you didn’t do it, but it must be awful to have that hanging over you. Kind of creepy, don’t you think?” Her eyes darted back and forth. “Somebody did it.”
“But probably not anyone we know. I think Ham was specifically targeted, possibly because he’s a deputy prosecuting attorney in Clark County.”
“I’m still leaving before it gets dark.”
“Good idea. Call your mom, too, and let her know you’re on your way.”
I stopped halfway to the front doors and wheeled around. “Were there any unusual visitors Friday?”
Lindsay pursed her lips as she pulled out a beat-up spiral notebook — the visitor log. “We had twenty-eight visitors, which is a lot, especially for a winter holiday weekend.” She ran her finger down the times of entry and number of people per party. “Yeah. All were families or retired couples, except — around 2:45, two men came in together. That’s sort of odd, because they clearly weren’t together, if you know what I mean. Dudes don’t usually tour museums with their buddies. But these guys did. And I mean they looked at everything — read every placard. They left just before we closed at 6.”
“What did they look like?”
“Jeans, sneakers. One wore a zip-up windbreaker type jacket. The other wore a gray hooded sweatshirt. The sweatshirt guy was pretty cute. That’s another reason I know they weren’t together — he kind of flirted with me.”
“Hair color, eye color, any distinguishing marks?”
“Well, the cute one had short brown hair, brown eyes. His front teeth overlapped a little, not bad — probably not worth getting braces for — just, you know, kind of cute. The other guy I didn’t talk to. He kept sniffing like he had allergies or something.”
“Youngish?”
“Late twenties — maybe.”
“Did you see what they were driving?”
“I didn’t notice. Sorry.”
I bit my lip and stared at the floor.
“What’s wrong?”
“My phone was stolen Friday.”
“We have to talk to Rupert about getting better security. This is too much, Meredith. Murder, theft—” Lindsay shook her head.
Mentally, I added gold smuggling and art theft/forgery to the list.
o0o
On the drive home, I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. The sooner the statue and gold problem was resolved, the better. With all the questions and suspicions flying around the museum, the truth, or the part of the truth I wasn’t supposed to mention, was going to pop out of my mouth — I just knew it. Lying has never been in my skill set — at least not successful lying.
My campsite looked as if a single-minded tornado had passed through. The tarp had been flung over the picnic table, bungee cords scattered. Buckets, hand tools and gloves were dumped haphazardly on the ground. Tuppence wagged expectantly at the base of a stepladder. A scraping sound came from above.
I climbed the ladder. Jim knelt on my roof, spreading thick tarry gunk along the split seam.
“Your dog get into a skunk?” he asked.
I assumed it was a rhetorical question. “Need help?”
“Nope.”
“Lunch?”
“Okay.”
I unlocked the fifth-wheel’s door and blocked Tuppence from entering. “Not yet, old girl. Sorry.”
Most of my pantry shelves were down to the bare wood, but the old stand-by — bread and cheese — remained. I hoped Jim wouldn’t mind eating the kind of lunch normally served to a five-year-old. While the sandwiches sizzled, I started the coffee maker and chopped a Granny Smith apple and a few pecans for a quick Waldorf salad.
The trailer shook as Jim moved around, thumping and generally sounding as though he was about to put a foot through the ceiling. I clutched the edge of the counter for a second to steady myself, then flipped the sandwiches over.
A power tool — maybe a drill? — whirr whirwhirwhirrred in a high-pitched whine. Several more loud bangs, then the ladder squeaked as Jim descended.
He opened the door and came in. “Roof’s fixed.” He dropped into a chair at the dining table.
“Thank you.” I slid a plate and mug in front of him. "We have to remove the crates from the semi-trailer at the museum in the next day. Do you think Verle—”
“Thought Sheriff Marge wouldn’t want me working on the murder site till she gives the all-clear.”
“I’m sure that’s right. But we need to store the crates somewhere else so they can move the semi.”
Jim nodded, his mouth full.
I took a bite of my sandwich while standing at the kitchen island.
“You going to sit?” Jim mumbled around a wad of cheese and sourdough.
I eased onto a chair opposite, careful not to bump his knees under the table. “Thanks for helping on Saturday when — you took care of everything, and I really appreciate it.”
“You were shell-shocked.”
> I kept my head down and chewed.
“Well.” Jim shoved his chair back and slurped the last of his coffee. “Carpet won’t take long.”
He hauled the fans out to his truck and returned with an unwieldy roll of confetti-colored foam under his arm — the carpet pad. I saved my mug just in time as he swiped the roll across the island counter and marched up the steps to my bedroom.
Grunting and ripping sounds, more thudding — I cringed and tidied the kitchen. I thought about offering to help, but the bedroom was too small to afford elbow room for a second, and inexperienced, carpet layer.
Jim made a another trip to the truck. “Sandstorm,” he announced upon returning with a second roll. “Crazy names those people come up with for brown. The other option was tira— teerameesu. What the heck is that? Sounds like somethin’ you wouldn’t want to step in.”
My phone rang.
“Good, you got the phone. Thanks for going along with the feds today,” Sheriff Marge said.
“Thank you. I didn’t realize how much I used my phone until I didn’t have it.”
“I tried to call you yesterday and about scared Archie’s pants off. He was in the evidence room, checking stuff in, when your phone rang in a box.”
“How’s the investigation going?”
“Val’s clear. Betty alibied for her. Been talking with the Sidetrack Tavern patrons. The only person everyone didn’t know was this Ferris, who you also mentioned. What do you know about him?”
“He’s staying here at the campground. I thought maybe he went to the potluck yesterday because I stopped to check on him after church and he wasn’t here. He’s looking for work at a wind farm.” The trailer bucked. “Whoa.” I grabbed the refrigerator handle.
“What was that?” Sheriff Marge asked.
“Hang on.”
I poked my head into the bedroom. I couldn’t see Jim. “Everything okay?”
He popped up on the far side of the bed. “Just checking if I could wedge the carpet under the bed frame.” He frowned. “Can’t.”
“Meredith?” Sheriff Marge’s voice sounded tinny coming from the phone in my hand.
Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Page 12
