Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2)

by Jones, Jerusha

  But not hard enough. He jerked back and twisted the gun barrel into my side. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

  “Where is it?” His hot breath came in bursts against my cheek.

  “I can’t reach far enough. It’s on the left, hanging from a knob.”

  “Sit.” He shoved me to the floor. “Against the wall.”

  I scooted around his legs until I leaned against the wall just to his right.

  “Don’t move.” He tapped the gun on my skull.

  I flinched. Focus. I forced a deep, slow inhale. Exhale. Compared to the laundry chute, the corridor was bright — Snaggletooth stood out in sharp relief against the white wall.

  He knocked me on the head with the gun one more time and leaned into the opening.

  My head pounding, I bunched my leg muscles and slowly eased into a squat. I crab-walked a couple feet and turned, directly behind Snaggletooth. He leaned farther. Timing would be everything.

  I planted my feet, praying my socks would provide enough traction, and lightly fingered the hem of Snaggletooth’s jeans.

  His back disappeared — he was hinged over the edge of the opening at the waist.

  “Got it.” His voice was muffled.

  I scooped my hands inside his pant legs, grabbed his skinny ankles and stood, pulling his legs up — just high enough — he tipped over the edge and gravity took care of the rest. His scream reverberated inside the chute and trailed off.

  A tremendous crash from the direction of my office shook the whole third floor.

  I slammed the laundry chute panel closed and ran.

  “Missus Morehouse,” Ford shouted from the top of the main stairs.

  I almost collided with him.

  “Missus Morehouse.” He was panting. “There’s burglars.”

  “I know, Ford,” I gasped, still sliding toward my office.

  I sprawled over a chair that was lying in the doorway and tumbled to a stop on a firm body. Ferris — still out.

  Three more bookcases had fallen, creating a mound of books — some spread open with pages wavering in an unfelt breeze, others in teetering stacks where they’d landed on each other. I scanned them quickly, looking for — there. Red and black buffalo plaid. Which was moving.

  I tackled the pile, flinging books out of the way.

  Ford dove in beside me. “What’re you lookin’ for?”

  “Pete.”

  Muttering came from under the pile. Then a sharp shift in the mound, and Pete rose — books toppling — with two pistols in his hands.

  He stared at me, chest heaving.

  Then he gently set the guns on the desk, never taking his eyes off me. “I thought it was you. The scream—”

  I shook my head for a long time before the words would come out. “Not me.”

  Ford scratched behind his ear. “There’s burglars.”

  Pete stepped over the book avalanche, took my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Not you.”

  Ferris groaned.

  “This one of ‘em?” Ford asked.

  “Yeah. Will you keep an eye on him? There’s another one under the bookcase.” Pete captured my other hand.

  Ford deftly pulled the bullet magazines from both pistols and dropped them into his coveralls pocket. He righted the chair then hauled Ferris up and sat him in it. He pulled a couple lengths of jute rope from another pocket and tied Ferris’s wrists to the chair arms.

  Pete rubbed circles on the backs of my hands with his thumbs. I forgot about everything except his sapphire blue eyes and smooth cheeks and chin.

  Ford fished Mike out from under the bookcase then plunked him on the floor next to it and tied his wrists to different shelves.

  “Anybody else?” Ford asked.

  “Yeah. Me,” said a voice from the doorway.

  CHAPTER 18

  Pete spun and stepped in front of me, making a kind of corral with his arms. Once again I was tucked behind his back. I peeked around his shoulder.

  Snaggletooth, with blood running down the side of his face from a gash above his left eye, had the tote bag slung across his body. His gun hand was steady.

  “B-but — you—” I stuttered.

  “Had a nice, soft landing in a laundry cart. The big ones have springs, you know.” Snaggletooth sneered. “Think you’re clever, huh? Piece of cake. I’m a certified rock climbing instructor.”

  He took a step into the room and gestured with the gun. “Come on, sugar. I am not playing. Take me to the gold or someone dies.” He swung the gun toward Ford’s legs and fired before anyone could blink.

  “No!” I shouted, but my voice was lost in the blast.

  Ford jigged — too little, too late — and sagged against the file cabinet, his face contorted in pain.

  Ears still ringing, I pushed forward. But Pete was moving too, and I stumbled across the back of his legs.

  Pete head-butted Snaggletooth before he had a chance to re-aim the pistol, and they crashed to the floor.

  I scrabbled over them and grabbed Ford around the middle. I tried to help ease him to the floor, but he pushed up to standing.

  “Ford, sit. It’ll be better — stop the bleeding.”

  “Jes’ winged me,” Ford grunted.

  “What?”

  “Got my steel-toed boots on.”

  A khaki-colored blur joined the fray on the floor, and the pile of bodies rolled against the desk legs.

  “You sure?” I backed Ford into the corner so he could hang on to the two remaining bookcases.

  A second khaki form charged in the room — this one much bulkier and imposing, even though shorter.

  “Got it, Dale?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  “Yep.” Dale’s voice was muffled from bending over. He grunted and clicked — a metal ratchet sound. “That’s it. Thanks, Pete.” Another click. Dale straightened.

  Snaggletooth lay on his stomach, handcuffed and still, his face turned away from us.

  Pete rose, another gun in his hand. He set it carefully on the desk by the other two. He blew out a deep breath, quickly scanned the people in the room and found me. His eyes locked on.

  No time for falling apart.

  I knelt to examine Ford’s feet. A channel cut through the leather of his right boot, starting at the outside edge of his toes and down the side for a couple inches, just above the thick sole. I ran my pinky fingertip in the channel and felt hard metal inside. There was a divot and grooved tail in the steel. But no hole.

  I rose and wrapped an arm around Ford. “Ford needs medical attention. Bruises for sure, maybe broken toes. What took you so long?”

  Sheriff Marge checked her watch. “Eighteen minutes.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Do you know how big this county is?”

  Heavy boots thundered up the stairs, and Archie rushed into the room, one hand clutching his waistband — or maybe his gun belt. It was hard to tell.

  “Shucks. Did I miss the fun?”

  Dale grinned. “Yep.”

  “But you can take Ford down to the ambulance,” Sheriff Marge said.

  “Use the elevator,” I called as Ford limped away with his hand on Archie’s shoulder for support.

  “Well, well, well,” Sheriff Marge said, taking in the three restrained men. “Mmhmm.” She stepped in front of Ferris and bent to peer at him over the top of her reading glasses.

  He glared back sullenly.

  “Would you care to make a statement?”

  “I was set up.” He spat out the words.

  “Mmmm.” She moved on to Mike, still affixed to the fallen bookcase. “And you are?”

  “Mike — Michael Burton.” His eyes shifted from side to side, then settled on the spot of bare floor between his knees.

  Dale scrawled quickly in a small notebook.

  “And you?” Sheriff Marge squatted beside Snaggletooth.

  His body stiffened, and he refused to turn his head toward her.

  “I see.” Sheriff Marge rose. “You are all under arrest — attempted bur
glary, assault, suspicion of murder—” she pointed at Ferris. “There will be more charges, but that’s enough of a list for now. Dale?”

  “Yep.” Dale snapped his notebook shut. “Hobart’ll be here in a few minutes. We’ll book ‘em.”

  “I need the tote bag and its contents back,” I said. “By tomorrow morning, anyway.” Enough time for a quick glue job if the statues had been smashed, maybe. Images of toothpick-sized smithereens flitted through my mind.

  Sheriff Marge tipped her head, opened her mouth, closed it and nodded. “Dale, leave the bag here in Meredith’s office. You two—” she indicated Pete and me, “come with me.”

  We opted for the bright lights and gleaming white surfaces of the staff kitchen. I measured grounds and poured water into the coffee maker. Pete scooted a few folding chairs around the table.

  “I take it you two were together for the entire episode?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  Pete nodded.

  Sheriff Marge leaned back in her chair. “Okay. Walk me through your evening. Meredith, go first since you know what’s at stake.”

  I slid into a chair beside Pete, propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin in a cupped hand. I closed my eyes.

  I was about to prove to Pete — as if he didn’t know already — why he couldn’t trust me. Too many secrets. Too much jeopardy. I shouldn’t have involved him — should have turned down his offer of a ride, a date. It would have been better to block him out completely, and much, much sooner. What a mess I always made of things.

  I took a deep breath and started talking.

  Sheriff Marge did not interrupt until I got to the part about tackling Ferris. “Repeat that. What did he say about Ham?” Sheriff Marge pulled out her notebook.

  “Had it coming,” I repeated. “That pig made plenty of enemies. Should’ve seen his face. Coward.” Ferris’s words will be etched in my memory forever.

  “And then what?”

  “Then Pete hit him and, uh — he didn’t talk any more after that.”

  Sheriff Marge’s steely gray eyes darted Pete’s direction.

  “He was on top of Meredith. Hurting her.” Pete said, his voice steady.

  Sheriff Marge rubbed the side of her nose with her forefinger. “Continue.”

  I hurried through Snaggletooth’s threats and helping him dive down the laundry chute. The side of my face burned under Pete’s stare, but I dared not look at him.

  “Let me get this straight.” Sheriff Marge removed her glasses and polished them on a paper napkin. “You tipped this guy into the laundry chute by lifting him by his ankles?”

  “He was already halfway hanging in the chute. His center of gravity was off — worked in my favor.” I ran my finger around the rim of my coffee mug. “Four stories, counting the basement. I thought I’d killed him.” I looked into Sheriff Marge’s serious eyes.

  “Would’ve been justified,” Sheriff Marge muttered. “But you didn’t, because he was alive and sullen when I saw him.”

  “He climbed back up.”

  “What?”

  “Toeholds and knob grips. Probably the first climbing wall ever built — inside the laundry chute. It was meant as a safety feature for children playing hide and seek.”

  Sheriff Marge replaced her glasses. “So the two — Mike and Mr. Silent — they were looking for—”

  “Yes.” I nodded.

  “Gold,” Pete said.

  Sheriff Marge’s eyebrows shot up, and I swiveled to look at him.

  Pete shrugged. “He said it. You didn’t. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Did they find it?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “Their truck’s out back. We’ll run a trace on the license, go over it for evidence. This is the break we needed to get to the next level.” Sheriff Marge hunched forward. “I’ll let you get home since tomorrow’s another busy day. We’ll lock up when we’re done and secure the basement door. You can tell Pete what you need to. It’s alright.”

  Sheriff Marge pushed her chair back, rested her hands on her thighs and sighed.

  “You need to rest too,” I said.

  “Tell that to the criminals.” Sheriff Marge stood and placed her mug in the sink. “Oh. I think I can also say you’re no longer a suspect.” She gave me a wry smile. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure about that.”

  I fiddled with my mug in the silence created by Sheriff Marge’s absence.

  Pete’s chair scraped on the floor, and he stood. “Come on.”

  I caught sight of his extended hand out of the corner of my eye. I set down my mug and rose. Pete pulled me into his arms. I fit — my head just under his chin. He was warm, very warm. I closed my eyes.

  “Those chairs won’t hold two, or I’d have scooted you onto my lap,” he murmured into my hair.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “What for?”

  “For getting you in this mess — more than one mess, actually. For just assuming—”

  “Hey. I make my own decisions.”

  “But I was a suspect — my ex-fiancé.” I shuddered. “That wasn’t fair to you.”

  “Don’t argue.” Pete started swaying.

  I tipped my head back to see his face. “I’m not arguing—”

  Pete took a step forward — straight into me — and I slid backward along with him. “Shhh,” he said.

  Another step forward, then side, side, fast.

  “Are you — dancing?”

  “Shhh.” He raised his hand to my head and nestled my cheek against his shoulder.

  I scrunched up my face and hung on, trying to keep my feet out of the way.

  Pete chuckled. “You don’t know how to foxtrot.”

  “And you do,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  Pete slowed. “Alright. We’ll save this for later. You’re so tired you’d fall over if I wasn’t holding you up.”

  “What about the gold? I want to tell you.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You have a job.”

  Pete sighed. “Yeah, I do.” His head lowered until his nose rested on the top of my ear. His breath rippled across my cheek. “Call me, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  Pete followed me home, all the way into the campground. He slid off the motorcycle, opened my truck door and walked me to the RV. We stood in the circle of light cast by the yellowish fixture over the steps.

  “I enjoyed riding on your bike,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll plan a rain-check ride.” He bent to pat an exuberant Tuppence then straightened. “See you.” His blue eyes sparkled.

  I grinned. He really did look dashing.

  He straddled the bike and pulled on his helmet.

  I waved and waited until the motorcycle roar drifted down the highway before climbing the stairs with a hungry hound at my heels.

  CHAPTER 19

  I awoke stiff and sore. The glaring bathroom light revealed faint yellowish-green and lavender bruises on my arms and legs — and the mirror showed another bruise on my jaw line. My eyes were bloodshot. Not bad for having been in a couple wrestling matches yesterday, but not great for a supposedly professional meeting.

  I showered quickly and towel dried my short hair. Curls sprang up, and I tried to finger-comb them in place. Rummaging in the back of a drawer produced a bottle of rarely-used foundation. I smeared the beige liquid over the bruise. Not perfect, but it’d have to do. I flicked blush over my cheeks and swiped on mascara.

  Brown corduroy pants and a t-shirt under a cream-colored sweater, plus loafers — the best-looking clothes I could muster for both returning my office to order and trapping a possible criminal in conversation. I grabbed a scarf to spruce up my style later, before the meeting.

  Tuppence sat in the kitchen waiting for breakfast.

  “Did you enjoy sleeping inside again, old girl?”

  The dog thumped her tail on the hardwood floor.

  I let Tuppence out and filled her bo
wls with dry kibbles and clean water. The dog trotted around the campsite, nose to the ground.

  “Any intruders in the night?”

  Tuppence snorted and stuck her nose in a hole — probably a gopher hole.

  “How about a hike this weekend?”

  But Tuppence was too preoccupied to answer.

  I returned to the warmth of the trailer and heated oatmeal in the microwave. Brown sugar, a little half-and-half and a handful of golden raisins and chopped pecans — should keep me going for a while.

  No sense dilly-dallying. I cringed at the thought of the condition my office was in last night. Lots of heavy lifting to do before 2 p.m.

  I grabbed my coat and hat and trundled down the stairs. Tuppence was not in sight.

  “That crazy dog,” I muttered. “She’d better not come home skunky again.”

  The truck’s windshield was coated with a thin layer of feathered ice. I cranked the defroster to full-blast and returned to the trailer for gloves. Thanksgiving’s freakish ice storm was just the beginning. Winter would settle in for good now.

  I scraped generous peepholes and backed out of the campsite.

  o0o

  Sheriff Marge had been as good as her word. The Imogene’s front doors were locked, and everything appeared normal at the visitors’ entrance. I strolled around the building and down the narrow ramp to the basement door. A sheet of plywood was screwed in place over the opening. Had the whole door been destroyed? Maybe Jim could fix it. I made a mental note to call him later.

  No vehicle was parked beside the big dumpsters behind the museum, but Sheriff Marge had probably already had the burglars’ truck towed. How soon could the evidence be analyzed? Before Earl’s appointment?

  I returned to the front, let myself in and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Early morning light angled through the windows, illuminating stripes of wood flooring, cross-sections of banisters and dust. The old building seemed to be sleeping. She’d had a late night, too.

  A slip of paper was propped on top of the tote bag on my desk. The boys will arrive at 8 to help restore order and reinstall cameras and microphones. Marge.