Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2)

by Jones, Jerusha

  I wrinkled my nose.

  “I guess they have a lot of goats and cows,” Sheriff Marge said.

  “Regarding the other matter, one of the boys mentioned Ferris — uh, Fulmer, was pointing fingers.” I raised my eyebrows.

  Sheriff Marge sighed. “I don’t like it, but we’ll have to investigate his allegation.”

  “Which is?”

  “That a woman named Anita Hadley promised to pay him $50,000 if he killed Ham.”

  I pursed my lips in a silent whistle. “Anita? She’s his opponent — for the Superior Court seat. She also has other reasons — like Val and me — not to think fondly of Ham. But she offered to pay?”

  “She got cold feet or something, probably when she found out he’d actually done it, and reneged. Being tight for cash, he decided to come back and lift the valuables he’d heard were at the Imogene while he figured out a way to force her to pay. Expected it would be a one-night deal, so he wouldn’t have to show his face in town again.”

  “Whoa.” I shook my head. “That seat’s going unfilled.”

  “You sound as though you’re sure she did it.”

  “I know Anita. A viper in a pit of snakes.” I wrinkled my nose. “Well, you know what I mean. She can be vicious. With words, anyway. Had a reputation in the PA’s office.”

  Sheriff Marge grunted.

  “You know,” I continued, “she assisted Ham with the Ozzie Fulmer trial. Maybe that’s how she met Ferris.”

  Sheriff Marge pulled out her phone. “’Bout time I called Clark County.”

  I gazed out the window and listened to Sheriff Marge run through Ferris’s crimes with her counterpart. It sounded as though Anita would be brought in for questioning ASAP.

  Jim was making tracks. Three crates in the trench already. The grass would grow back in the spring, in plenty of time to be cool and inviting for summer picnics. Birds singing, the omnipresent breeze rippling the edges of colorful blankets, baskets of food and jugs of lemonade. My perfect world. Nope, one more thing — Pete on one of those blankets. That would be perfect.

  Sheriff Marge hung up and sighed. “I’m afraid it’s going to be he-said, she-said with Ms. Hadley. Unless Fulmer can produce proof of a deposit.”

  “Or witnesses to their conversations. Phone records?”

  “Mmmm.” Sheriff Marge nodded.

  Lindsay’s head popped through the doorway. “Can I come in? I’m bursting.” The girl was actually hopping.

  I laughed. “Out with it.”

  “I got in! Accepted! Oh, thank you.” Lindsay squeezed Sheriff Marge, knocking her glasses askew.

  Sheriff Marge huffed.

  “So soon? That must be speed record. They knew they had to snatch you up fast so some other school wouldn’t get you.” I sashayed around my desk and hugged Lindsay. “Congratulations.”

  Lindsay’s smile faded. “But it means I’ll be leaving in January. I could work summers if you want me, but—” She let out a little whimper.

  “Don’t worry about that. And of course I want you — are you kidding? Summer’s our busiest time. We’ll definitely need you. We’ll find a temporary replacement, just while you’re at school.” I patted Lindsay’s shoulder. “Have you told your parents and Greg yet?”

  “No. I just got the e-mail.” Lindsay rebounded with a squeal. “I’ll call them.” She darted from the room.

  I plopped in my chair and shot a wry glance at Sheriff Marge. “Not even my kid, but I feel like a baby just flew the nest.”

  “It’s called aging. Pretty soon you’ll start getting weepy when you see a kid learning to ride a bicycle or drive a car or get married. And it doesn’t matter whose kid it is.”

  “You do that?”

  Sheriff Marge waved her hand dismissively. But then she said, “Hallie, Ben’s wife, is pregnant.”

  Lindsay’d already broken the ice, so I jumped up and gave Sheriff Marge another squeeze. “Your first grandchild!”

  Sheriff Marge chuckled and wiped the corner of her eye. “Maybe I should learn to knit.”

  After Sheriff Marge left, I wandered outside to check on Jim’s progress up close. He was in the trench, back to me, shoveling. I was almost within greeting range when my phone rang.

  “Hey there.”

  “Sorry about earlier,” Pete said.

  “No worries. I don’t want you distracted when you’re operating cables and winches and stuff. I like you all in one piece.” I veered away from Jim and the trench, heading for the river bank.

  “Me too. How are you?”

  “Relieved. It’s over. The gold’s safe with the U.S. Treasury Department, and Ham’s killer — you met him last night, Ferris — has more or less admitted to the murder.”

  “So you’re a free woman.”

  I chuckled. “So to speak. How long will you be gone?”

  “A week — ten days maybe. I have another job lined up after this one.”

  I sank onto a boulder, letting my feet dangle a few inches above the water.

  “You’re quiet,” Pete said. “Miss me already?”

  I smiled. “Yes, I do. Already.”

  “Good.” A steady thrumming filled the line, as though Pete had moved closer to the tug’s engines. It was a rhythmic sound — lulling, like the river itself.

  “Are you dreaming again?” Pete asked.

  “Hmmm?”

  “A few days ago, when you had a quiet pause, you said you were dreaming.”

  “Oh, that.” I wrinkled my nose. “I suppose it’s better if some things stay inside my head.”

  “We’re going to have to work on that, because I am very interested in what goes on in there. Are you going to let me in on your thoughts?”

  I gazed at the new winking lights on the Oregon shore — semi truck headlights in the early dusk, traveling east on I-84. The breeze lifted a curl, and it tickled my cheek.

  I closed my eyes. “Yes.”

  SNEAK PEEK

  SIGHT SHOT

  an Imogene Museum mystery — book #3

  When asked to research old documents for a local family, Meredith Morehouse, curator of the eclectic Imogene Museum, jumps at the chance. As if she didn’t already have enough to do — hiring a new gift shop manager, keeping tabs on Rupert Hagg, the museum director, who may have been hoodwinked by a woman Meredith suspects is after his money, not to mention finding time to see Pete Sills, the hunky tugboat captain she’s just started dating.

  Then Meredith’s investigation unearths hints that a decade-old suicide might not have been suicide after all. So many secrets in the small, riverside town of Platts Landing, Washington. Will someone kill again to preserve a secret?

  I plopped in my chair, then froze, hands hovering over the keyboard. After two years as curator of the Imogene Museum, I know all her noises — old building noises — creaks and clacks, the moan and rattle of loose, wood-framed windows, floorboards squeaking as they settle deeper on rusty nails.

  This was a new noise. Regular, but not so regular as to be mechanical. I held my breath. The sound rose in volume — softly, louder, gurgle, gurgle, then died.

  I counted slowly to fifteen. There it was again — pitching up at the end as though ratcheting into a higher gear.

  Did I mention I had unlocked the front doors myself, and locked them again behind me? I was supposed to be alone in the old mansion, at least until the new cashier/gift shop attendant, Edna Garman, arrived at 9:45 to prepare the museum for its 10:00 opening.

  I quickly scanned my office for some measure of protection. Where’s a baseball bat when you need one? I settled for an old map tube. Flimsy, but four feet long.

  I tiptoed out of my office and waited, listening hard.

  Gkgkgkawkaw tchkaw gork shhheww.

  I cocked my head. Where was it coming from?

  The Imogene has so many nooks and crannies and hard surfaces — lath and plaster walls, oak floors, stairs and banisters. The sound bounced and ricocheted, but it was too muffled to be on the thir
d floor.

  I snuck down the stairs one step at a time, avoiding the creaky spots.

  Gkgkgkawkaw tchkaw gork shhheww splack eeeka squeeeeak, sigh.

  My heart thumped faster. The last few notes were definitely the sound of squeaky springs in an old mattress.

  The only bed in the mansion’s fourteen bedrooms is in the chamber pot display room on the second floor. I hugged the wall and inched down the hallway.

  The door to the chamber pot exhibit was open a few inches. I clung to the doorframe and slid sideways until I had an eye at the opening. Two swaddled forms lay on the bed.

  I slid a little farther. One of the forms was topped with disheveled white hair. The other head was bald and shiny, with a bulbous nose protruding above the sheet.

  I should have expected it, but I didn’t.

  Gkgkgkawkaw tchkaw gork shhheww.

  I jumped and dropped the map case. It clattered on the floor.

  One eye in the bald head popped open.

  NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Imogene Museum mystery series is a tribute to the Columbia River Gorge and the hearty people who live in gorge towns on both sides of the Oregon/Washington border. It’s an extraordinary piece of God’s real estate, and I savor driving, sightseeing, picnicking and camping its entire length. Hitching a ride on a tug run from Umatilla to Astoria is on my bucket list.

  If you are familiar with the area, you may realize that I have taken liberties with distances in some cases. Mostly I squished locations (albeit fictional) closer together to move the story along and also to showcase the amazing geologic and topographic features of the gorge. In real life for many gorge residents, the roundtrip to a Costco or a bona fide sit-down restaurant might well take a full day. This kind of travel time is not helpful when you’re chasing a fleeing murderer. But, if you’re not Sheriff Marge and have time to enjoy the scenery, the gorge is spectacular, and I encourage you to come experience it for yourself.

  However, please don’t expect to actually meet any of the characters in this book. All are purely fictional, and if you think they might represent anyone you know, you’re mistaken. Really. I couldn’t get away with that.

  o0o

  Profound thanks to the following people who gave their time and expertise to assist in the writing of this book:

  The wise, good-humored and eagle-eyed ladies in my writing critique group — Diane Cammer, Sandy Stark, Anne Taylor and Karen Williams.

  My insightful beta readers — Debra Biaggi, Sharon Freiwald and BJ Thompson.

  Sergeant Fred Neiman, Sr. and all the instructors of the Clark County Sheriff’s Citizens’ Academy. The highlights had to be firing the Thompson submachine gun and stepping into the medical examiner’s walk-in cooler. Oh, and the K-9 demonstration and the officer survival/lethal force decision making test. And the drug task force presentation with identification color spectrum pictures and the — you get the idea.

  I claim all errors, whether accidental or intentional, solely as my own.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I live in the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. After too many years as a VP of inventory and analysis, I find writing mysteries much more stimulating than squinting at spreadsheets. When not typing, doodling or staring out the window, I’m usually planning my next local tourist adventure, listening to NASCAR races and Mariners, Seahawks and Trailblazers games on the radio, or sneaking dessert for breakfast.

  I post updates on my website http://www.jerushajones.com

  You can also follow me on Twitter (@JerushaJones), Pinterest and Facebook.

  For information about new book releases, please sign up for my newsletter.

  I love hearing from readers at jerushajonesmystery@gmail.com