Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1)

by Jones, Jerusha

  Greg perused for another half hour while I e-mailed Rupert to let him know the shipment had arrived at last and intact. I included a reminder nudge about a textile exhibit and suggested tapestries since he was, or had been recently, in Germany. Rupert’s itinerary was as impulsive as his purchases.

  And, I couldn’t resist looking up a few of the chamber pots to scan for histories and dates — just something to get us started in the morning.

  We clumped down to the main floor and crossed the ballroom exhibit hall in the gloom. The after-hours lighting system kept us from banging our shins on things, but it made the display cases look like encircling giants waiting for the signal to pounce. I could walk through the museum blindfolded, so they didn’t bother me. The giants were old friends.

  Greg shuffled a little, as though distracted.

  Our footsteps bounced back from all directions. The room felt smaller when you couldn’t see the walls.

  “You seem tired,” I said, missing his usual banter.

  “It’s a long drive. Guess I’m ready to crash.”

  “So, are you going to the game tomorrow?”

  “Uh, I’d like to. Are you?”

  “I think so. Now that I’ve seen what’s in the shipment, I think it’s manageable. The annual school tours start next week, and I’d love to have the display ready for them. I’ll warn the principal so she can head off any parental complaints about the, uh — basic — nature of the exhibit.”

  “Aw, they’re kids. They’ll be fascinated.”

  Greg looks like a vertically-stretched version of the one owlish, bookish kid in every fourth-grade class who can seriously recite Thomas Crapper’s contributions to sanitation.

  I set the alarm and bolted the doors behind us.

  Greg inhaled deeply as we walked to the parking lot. “Early?”

  “I’ll be here at seven. Come when you’ve had enough sleep.”

  Greg lodges with Betty Jenkins on the weekends. The Jenkins homestead is humble but sturdy enough to withstand the vibrations from the two-, three-, and four-engined freight trains that thunder by all hours of the night and day.

  The Columbia River Gorge is a commerce thoroughfare — by barge on the water, by rail, and by Jake-braking semi-trucks on highways along both banks. Sounds carry miles over the water. The residents are accustomed to the noise, forget to notice after a while. But Greg has to work at getting acclimated every weekend.

  I climbed into my pickup and listened with satisfaction as the engine came to life with a throaty growl. Greg accordioned into his Toyota Prius. When his headlights came on, I pulled out of my spot and drove along the access road to Highway 14. The museum property borders the county park, and they share the large parking lot.

  I turned left onto the highway and watched in my rearview mirror until Greg turned right, toward town. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bothering him.

  CHAPTER 2

  When I pulled into spot C-17 at the Riverview RV Ranch, a leggy, long-eared hound eased her lean body through the open door of her kennel, tail wagging in a lazy clockwise circle.

  “Hey, Tuppence, old girl, sorry I’m late.” I scratched the dog’s white and black speckled back while she took inventory of my pant legs and shoes.

  Inspection complete, I unlocked the door to my fifth-wheel trailer and let Tuppence climb the two steps ahead of me. The hound is a recent addition to the home landscape. She’d been Wirt Maple’s dog. But last spring, when, for the first time in thirty years, Wirt failed to show up at the Junction General Store on a Saturday to do his weekly shopping, Gloria Munoz, owner of the Junction, called Sheriff Marge Stettler. And Sheriff Marge drove forty-eight miles into the hills to find the leathery old farmer dead in his rocking chair with Tuppence, nose on paws beside him, starting to starve.

  Sheriff Marge brought the dog back and dropped her off at my place, saying she “knew of two girls who could use each other’s company.” And that was that. I named the hound after one of Agatha Christie’s curious sleuths — I’d happened to be reading By the Pricking of My Thumbs that night.

  The RV’s a hand-me-down from a dead guy, too, sort of. When I took the curator position at the museum and started looking for a place to live, I discovered rental housing was non-existent in Platts Landing. A snarky colleague — actually the man who was stepping in to fill the coveted director of marketing position I had just quit — joked that living in the boonies meant you had to take your home with you, like a turtle. And, he was right.

  I found a deal on a six-year-old, but never used, luxury fifth-wheel trailer from the widow of the man who’d bought it for his retirement and then promptly died of a massive heart attack. It’d been parked in the widow’s driveway until she could bear to part with it, the memories of their dreams and plans for travel too strong to fade quickly.

  The 1972 fully restored burgundy Chevy Cheyenne to tow the trailer came the next day, from a macho young man oh-so-sorry to see the baby that was older than he was drive away. But he was desperate for cash, and I needed the horsepower.

  I had a fifth-wheel hitch installed in the pickup’s bed, packed the few belongings I hadn’t given away, turned the house keys over to the realtor and bid good riddance to my city life.

  I hadn’t regretted it for a moment.

  And I wouldn’t let myself do that. No matter what.

  “You want some of the stinky canned stuff of questionable origin?”

  Tuppence answered with a few tail thumps.

  “I thought so. You’re so predictable.” I plunked Tuppence’s metal food bowl on the hardwood floor.

  I arched my back and stretched from side to side while a cheese sandwich sizzled on the griddle. Chamber pots aren’t heavy, but all the stooping and rummaging through boxes had taken their toll on my neglected muscles. Tuppence and Greg were right — I needed to get out more. Maybe when the new exhibit was finished.

  I sank into one of the recliners and poked a button to turn on the gas fireplace. The big picture window above the fireplace showed a black hole tonight, but the inky Columbia River slid by a few feet away.

  Tuppence swung her long body over, front and back halves working independently, and sat with her nose resting on my knee. She watched every bite, eyebrows raised to track my hand from plate to mouth.

  “Yes, I do feel guilty, but I’m not sharing. I only had two slices of pizza and that was hours ago.” I wiped my fingers on my jeans, and Tuppence consoled herself with sniffing the greasy streak for crumbs.

  My body had stiffened in the semi-bent position. I groaned, kicked the footrest down and pushed out of the warm depths of the chair.

  I tidied a few things while Tuppence made her nightly rounds. When she snuffled at the door, I let her back in and pulled her dog bed from under the sofa. She sniffed all over to make sure it was the same as last night, then flopped down, ears splayed, eyes closed. I would let her sleep in the bedroom except she snores. Sometimes she dream sniffs and snorts like she’s flushing out a rabbit or fox — or an elephant if volume is any indicator.

  I patted the dog’s side, then padded upstairs to the bedroom and slid the pocket door closed. Living in a fifth-wheel is like living in a split-level — up half a flight of stairs to the high portion that extends over the towing pickup’s bed.

  The alarm buzzed before daylight, but I rolled out of bed without hitting the snooze button, my brain already leaping ahead to what the day held in store. I showered fast in the narrow cubbyhole of a shower stall and welcomed the coffee aroma drifting in from the kitchen.

  I finger-combed my wet brown curls in a fruitless effort to tame them. Barbara, at The Golden Shears, had called it a no-fuss pixie cut. I only cared that it was wash-and-wear.

  I leaned into the mirror for a closer look at the freckles that had popped out over the summer. But what was the point in bothering about them since nothing changed anyway? After swiping on mascara and blush to give my pale face some color, I dressed in layers for a day that
would go from cold to hot to cold and then downright freezing on the metal bleachers at the football game.

  When I slid open the bedroom door, Tuppence raised her head, realized nothing exciting was happening and let her head drop back on the pillow. I poured a mug of coffee with whole milk and brown sugar and ate in front of the laptop. Remembering the chamber pot label claiming a US patent, I did a quick patent search. Expired — of course.

  Tuppence staggered over and sat with her chin on my thigh. I stroked her head, making a mental checklist for the day.

  I don’t have the educational background to be a museum curator — my MBA is a long way from a degree in anthropology, history or archeology — but curating is in my blood. I have to work harder at research than someone who has been trained to the profession, but I love everything about my job — fact finding, categorizing, creating order and meaning from mismatched objects, solving puzzles and sharing discoveries. Seeing visitors’ reactions when they learn what life was like for people just like them but generations ago gives me a rush of satisfaction. If Rupert wasn’t paying me, I’d still find a way to volunteer.

  I glanced at the clock and jumped from my seat, sending Tuppence sprawling. “Sorry, old girl.”

  I scrambled to clean up the breakfast mess and dashed outside to fill Tuppence’s bowls with kibbles and clean water.

  “Eat up before the squirrels get it.”

  Tuppence snorted.

  I drove out of the campground as quietly as possible. There were no signs of life yet outside the cluster of tents staked in the Russian olive grove or around the huge bus RV from Tennessee. Tourist traffic was dwindling and soon I’d be the only resident of Riverview Ranch except Herb and Harriet Tinsley, the elderly twins who live in the original farmhouse and maintain the campground that had been their grandparents’ homestead.

  I brought the Chevy up to speed on the highway and scanned the misty pink horizon where it filtered into gold, pale blue and then deep cobalt with tinges of violet. I leaned forward to peer up through the bug-splattered windshield and couldn’t keep from smiling. Sunrises in the city are dismal affairs compared to this.

  Just as I turned onto the tree-lined city park road, bronze rays flashed over the distant hills and chased all the other colors away. Brilliant light strobed between tree trunks as I wound closer to the river’s edge and parked.

  Mica in the Imogene Museum’s greenish-gray stone walls sparkled in the sun. The mansion staggers up and up, three stories above ground like blocks a toddler had arranged in a pile — a surprisingly modern form for having been built in 1902. Cubism in architecture a few years before cubism showed up in paintings by Picasso and Braque — probably unrelated, but I like to dream that the museum’s anonymous architect was a friend of Picasso’s.

  I arranged a work station in the basement with my laptop on a card table and a couple of folding chairs. I pulled over a spotlight on a rolling stand and used a digital camera to click documentation photos of all 72 chamber pots. Greg arrived and set about assigning identification numbers to each piece.

  I called Mac MacDougal as soon as I thought it was polite, considering he’s the owner of the only tavern in town and likely awake until the wee hours. Mac’s first love is his woodworking shop behind the tavern. He lives in the loft of the big pole building and spends his free time puttering around with power tools.

  “Yeah?” Mac croaked into the phone.

  “Sorry, Mac. Did I wake you?”

  “Nope. Just hadn’t used my voice yet today. Got a job for me? I heard you got a shipment.”

  “Yup. Five standard display cases with three glass shelves each, full lighting.”

  “I’ve worked ahead, so I already have three standards on hand. Just waiting for the glass shelves. I can finish the others by Tuesday, probably.”

  “Mac, you’re a wonder. I owe you.”

  “You could come have a pint with me.”

  “Oh, uh, well, I’ll see you Sunday at the potluck.” I hung up.

  Shoot — not Mac, too. As a single woman in Sockeye County, I’m overwhelmingly outnumbered by single men. The ratio in the thirty-to-sixty age group is probably five to one. I’m surrounded by lonely farmers, wind farm technicians, mechanics, truckers, railroad workers and bartenders. Although surrounded is a loose term, given the sparse population.

  I went back to shuffling chamber pots into chronological order.

  I took Greg to lunch at the marina’s Burger Basket & Bait Shop. While we waited, Greg stared out the window at the few fishermen who dozed in lawn chairs on the floating walkway. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his face was slack. I know graduate school can be tortuous, and most graduate students have a dazed appearance that increases the closer they get to giving their defense. But Greg had appeared to be handling the pressure with equanimity — until now.

  When our food arrived, I dunked a couple fries into tartar sauce and stuffed them in my mouth. Greg, who normally ate like he was packing Mary Poppins’ carpetbag, dismembered his parsley sprig garnish.

  “You’ve been quiet today. Rough night?” I asked.

  Greg didn’t respond, so I kicked him under the table.

  His head popped up. “Huh?”

  “What’s wrong? Trains keep you awake?”

  “Nah. Angie e-mailed.”

  “And?”

  “Ever since she got to Turkey, she’s been raving about this guy, Lorenzo — a professor of something or other from Florence who’s on the same dig. She thinks he’s a genius.” Greg ran his thumb through the condensation on his water glass. “With my luck, he probably has those dark, Italian good looks, wears pointy shoes and drives a Ferrari.”

  “I think he’s short, balding, flat-footed, has an enormous hook nose and drives his mother’s Fiat. His belly hangs below his belt, and he’s bow-legged. He has halitosis and obvious ear wax.” I cocked my head. “Shall I keep going?”

  Greg snorted. “No. But thank you.”

  “Any time.”

  As we sauntered back to the museum, I caught a glimpse of the Port of Platts Landing’s grain elevators through the trees. Pete Sills’ tug had a barge bumped against the pilings. He usually managed to be in town for the home football games. I considered hunkering in my trailer tonight instead.

  CHAPTER 3

  I spent the afternoon weaving facts and anecdotes into descriptions for the chamber pots. A detailed history of pre-indoor-plumbing days emerged, showing how manufacturers tried to spruce up the basic equipment with more and more elaborate designs.

  Greg took on the task of entering the pots into the database and matching the identification records with the photos. I looked up several times to find him staring into space, mouth drawn into a frown.

  Angie’s infatuation with another man must have been gnawing at him. Or was there something else? I considered asking but hated to be openly nosy. He’d talk when he was ready, I hoped.

  I stretched my arms toward the ceiling, then rubbed the back of my neck.

  “Ready to call it quits?” Greg asked.

  “Yeah. I love how this exhibit proves anything can be interesting if you learn enough about it.”

  “That’s how it is for me and football. Never played, didn’t understand the rules, but the enthusiasm in this town is contagious. Now I know a touchdown is seven points.”

  “Six,” I said. “Then one more point if they kick the ball through the goalposts afterward. Or two more points if —”

  “Oh.” Greg shrugged. “Well, I’m getting there.”

  “If you need a tutor, sit by Lindsay. She’s a football encyclopedia.”

  I packed my laptop but left everything else in place for tomorrow’s marathon session.

  “See you at the game,” Greg said, making a break for the door.

  “Mmmmm.” I kept my mumble noncommittal.

  I locked up and trudged to my truck. The game might be just the thing to cheer Greg up, help him forget his girl trouble for a few hours.

/>   But at the age of thirty-three, I don’t consider myself eligible to have man trouble. How could I have man trouble when the man is oblivious anyway? Sure, I thwart the half-hearted requests for dates from lethargic, lonely males — that’s easy. But then there’s Pete. He isn’t lethargic, doesn’t seem to be lonely, and barely acknowledges my existence. All terribly irritating.

  “Oh, grow up,” I muttered as I turned the key in the pickup’s ignition.

  After feeding Tuppence and grilling another cheese sandwich, I pulled on my rattiest old sweats and wool socks.

  “Don’t you think avoidance of Pete Sills is the best course of action?” I asked the dog.

  Tuppence swung her tail in a low arc.

  “Yeah, I figured you’d side with him. But you’re not rendered weak-kneed by crinkle-cornered blue eyes and chronic three-day stubble, are you?”

  Tuppence licked her chops.

  “Oh. So maybe you are.”

  I sat on the floor in front of the fireplace with Tuppence’s head on my knee and the laptop open beside me. Next up was an enameled graniteware chamber pot, bucket-style, with lid. Lids on chamber pots really were innovative, at the time. I slid into curator mode and typed:

  What would you do with a chamber pot in the morning? If you were wealthy, you probably had a maid who would empty it, clean it and slip it back under your bed. If you weren’t rich, you had to do the chore yourself. At first, people took the easy way and flung the contents of the chamber pot out the window. That was generally not appreciated by other folks in town if there was a walkway under your window. Common courtesy demanded chamber pots be emptied in the privy or outhouse. Lids were a fairly late addition to chamber pot technology and ensured the contents remained secure on the journey to the privy.

  Sharp rapping rattled the door. I jumped, and Tuppence let out a muffled “Mmmrf,” as if embarrassed she’d been caught napping. I pushed Tuppence off my lap and creaked my sore joints to standing.