Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1)

by Jones, Jerusha

  CHAPTER 13

  I woke up eye level with corn chip crumbs embedded in the rough weave of the lime green cushions. Someone was jiggling my foot. Grey daylight seeped through the dusty aluminum-framed windows. And then I remembered.

  “Did you find him?” I asked, pushing myself upright.

  “Not yet,” Sheriff Marge said.

  A tall, muscular man stood next to her. He wore a felt Stetson, inside. It was probably glued to his head. He also wore a hefty canvas field jacket and creased jeans over scuffed cordovan cowboy boots. He had odd, golden eyes that gazed intently, rarely blinking — like an eagle. And permanently tanned, lined skin. An all-weather sort of man. The boots weren’t for show.

  “This is Julian Joseph.” Sheriff Marge gave a stiff nod in his direction.

  “Nice to meet you.” I darted a quick look at Nadine’s desk, but it was unoccupied. Missing the chance of a lifetime.

  “Seems we may have the same problem,” Julian said in a drawling baritone.

  I looked from him to Sheriff Marge. Obviously, I’d missed something while I’d been sleeping.

  “Julian’s son, Bard, may or may not have also been missing for a few days,” Sheriff Marge said.

  “Why?” I asked. Stupid question.

  “It’s possible he has more of a reason to go missing than Greg,” Sheriff Marge said. She held up a picture. “Is this the man you saw, who was knocked unconscious?”

  I took the head shot. It looked like a high school yearbook photo. A young man with dark hair and eyes trying to appear strong and manly by not smiling at the camera. His little scowl came across as a pout.

  “That picture’s six years old, but it’s the best one I have,” Julian said. His eyes bore into mine, and they weren’t hopeful.

  “Is he your height?”

  “A couple inches taller.”

  Tall, from a distance, same color hair. The assailant who turned to look at me — that face I’d never forget. But the man in the middle? “It all happened so fast. I just assumed it was Greg.” I squeezed my eyes shut and sighed. “I can’t be sure.” I handed the photo back.

  High heels clomped on the steps outside. Julian reached over and opened the door for Nadine, who carried a paper grocery sack. She performed a slow, slinky catwalk all the way to her desk. Julian seemed oblivious to her protruding breasts and swiveling hips.

  “I got y’all some breakfast.” Nadine even put on a drawl for him.

  She unloaded toaster strudel, toaster waffles and microwaveable sausage sandwiches, all in boxes. I recognized them from the freezer section of Junction General, the fastest food in town. Nadine plunked kiddie squeeze boxes of apple juice beside the entrees.

  “Can I get something started for you?” She batted her fake eyelashes at Julian.

  “No, thanks. I’ll stick with coffee.”

  Sheriff Marge tore open the strudel box. “Grab what you need, Meredith. Henry located two spots he thinks the dive team should check. You can come if you stay out of the way. They’ve cleared the area around the marina. No body.”

  I stood. “Okay, thanks. Bathroom?”

  Sheriff Marge waved a strawberry pastry toward the hallway. I locked myself in the spartan room and didn’t recognize the freakish specter in the mirror. My hair was plastered to the side of my head — the side I’d slept on, and the imprint of couch upholstery was still deeply embedded in my cheek. A trail of dried drool crazed from the corner of my mouth. I looked closer. My chin was a ghastly shade of aubergine and still very sore. Good thing I wasn’t trying to pull one over on the richest guy around. I flushed and washed and fluffed and rejoined the others.

  Sheriff Marge handed me the open strudel box and an apple juice. “They’ll thaw out on the way,” she said. “Julian, it’s your call.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” he said.

  I felt like I kept missing the important stuff. “So, Julian just reported his son missing now?” I asked once Sheriff Marge picked up speed on the highway.

  “He’s a private person. Always has been.”

  “So private you can’t tell me what’s going on?”

  Sheriff Marge looked at me over the top of my glasses. “Alright. Julian’s wife died about fifteen years ago. Good woman. He didn’t handle his grief in the best way for the boy or himself. Bard rebelled, mostly in passive ways, trying to get his dad’s attention. Didn’t work. Then he went off to college in California, dropped out, scrounged around, and, I think, ended up couriering drugs for a cartel — probably Sinaloa.”

  Sheriff Marge shifted to her left and hitched up on her gun belt to move her pistol out from under her bulging hip. “He’s only had intermittent contact with Julian for the past few years. Then he showed up, about a week ago, said he wanted to settle down, live at home for a while. Naturally, Julian was pleased but also wise enough to know Bard had ulterior motives.” She looked over at me again. “Okay. This is the confidential part, for now.”

  I nodded.

  “The marijuana grow we found a couple weeks back — it was on Julian’s property. Julian has so much property I’m sure there’s a lot going on he doesn’t know about. The grow was well hidden. So well hidden that we think someone who was familiar with the land planned it.”

  “Bard.”

  “Possibly. And then we raided it. Which could get him in a lot of trouble with people who don’t accept excuses or apologies.”

  “Wow.”

  “I haven’t made any public statements about the seizure because I wanted to see how things would shake out — see if we could find some of the workers. A grow that size meant several people were tending the place, plus they had to have a boss keeping tabs on them. It’s worth over $40 million.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. I talked things over with Julian, and he was keeping an eye on Bard, which was easy because he was hanging around the ranch, mostly. But on Thursday Bard told the housekeeper, Esperanza, he was going for a drive, and he didn’t come back. He’s done that before — tends to leave without explanation. Telling Esperanza was a new level of accountability for him. But now we think he might not have left of his own accord.”

  “Is Bard an only child?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow,” I whispered one more time.

  Sheriff Marge slowed and pulled off the highway into a gravel turnout. Then she followed muddy tire tracks that wound between the massive trunks of old growth fir trees. Underbrush scraped the sides of the Explorer as Sheriff Marge alternately gunned and eased the accelerator to fight through axle-crunching potholes. We emerged in a meadow clearing where the grass had been shorn to the nubs by deer.

  The clearing was full of pickups and cars marked with various search and rescue organizations’ logos. A van’s rear doors were wide open, forming a command center. A couple of wet suits were flopped over the doors. The few people standing around wore orange vests and radios clipped to their belts. Extra oxygen tanks lay in a neat row on the ground nearby.

  “We have to go on foot the rest of the way,” Sheriff Marge said. “This is the closest rendezvous spot.”

  Julian pulled up next to us in a brand new bronze-colored Ford F-450, the powerful diesel engine making a huge racket. He shut it down, jumped to the ground and opened my door.

  “Ever watched a dive team work?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  Sheriff Marge waved to the men by the van, then headed toward a trail of trampled ferns that disappeared into the trees. I picked up the rhythmic rushing sound of the river after a hundred yards. There was no bank — just a steep drop-off.

  A cluster of men stood near the edge. The burliest one was feeding a yellow nylon rope into the river. I stretched to see, and a few minutes later, a diver in scuba mask and hood popped up beside where the rope went into the water. He went back down just as quickly.

  The dive team’s boat was anchored twenty yards offshore. A second diver tipped over the side of the boat a
nd disappeared in the water.

  An uprooted tree, long denuded but still with an intricate pattern of crisscrossing branches at one end and crisscrossing roots at the other end was wedged perpendicular to the cliff face, probably pressed against boulders below the surface by the current’s force. Flotsam was trapped in the branches - fishing line glistening like cobwebs, the carcass of a Canada goose, chunks of lumber, an empty plastic two-liter bottle. The yellow rope inched toward the tree, and I guessed it was tied to the first diver.

  I stared at the muddy water gurgling around the tree until my eyes burned. I willed something to surface, some sign of Greg or Bard. Then I realized that if the dive team found anything, it would be a confirmation of death.

  I prayed with greater vehemence they would have to give up empty-handed. Better to keep hope than have it crushed. For how long, though? I glanced at Julian. He was focused on the point where the yellow rope entered the water — just as I had been. First his wife, now his son.

  Maybe watching wasn’t such a good idea. I didn’t want his last memory of his son to be whatever the divers brought up. I touched his shoulder.

  “I’d like to go back. I’m not sure I can handle this,” I gestured toward the river. “I know Sheriff Marge needs to stay. How would you feel about driving me to the museum? I understand if you want to be here.”

  Julian shook his head. “Glad to.” He took my elbow and led me back to his truck.

  We made the journey in silence. The throb of the diesel engine lulled me into a semi-trance as I nestled in the cushy leather bucket seat. I thought about staying there — right there — cocooned, until the horribleness was over. Julian could drive forever — to someplace where there weren’t rivers people drowned in.

  Julian pulled into the museum parking lot and turned off the engine.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I’m so sorry. If I had gotten there a little sooner, if I had dived in right away, things might be different. Whether it’s Greg or Bard, I let him go.” I stretched the fingers of both hands, then clenched them into tight fists as if reenacting what could have been. “I let him go.”

  Julian glared in a way that froze the words in my mouth. “The stupid thing about these trucks is the center console,” he said.

  He opened his door and jumped out, hurried around the front of the truck and wrenched open my door. He half lifted, half slid me out and pulled me hard into his chest.

  “It is not yours to bear. Do you understand? It is not yours to bear,” he said in a fierce whisper. “It’s mine. I drove Bard away. I made him come to this. And if it’s Greg,” he tipped my head up to look in my face, “you’re more to him than his own family. Sheriff Marge told me.”

  “Not enough to give my life for him. I thought about that, you know, at the edge of the dock.”

  He eased his grip, but kept his arms around me. “Guilt by omission is agony compared to guilt by commission. It has no boundaries — no edges. It poisons your soul.” He shifted his gaze to the river. “Meredith, don’t let your mind go there. God knows we are but dust, and He is gracious accordingly.”

  I wasn’t even sure I knew what that meant, but I nodded dumbly.

  “Are there people in there for you?” he asked, tipping the Stetson toward the museum.

  I nodded.

  The muscles in his lower jaw worked, and he released me. At the front doors, I looked over my shoulder. Nothing seemed real anymore. Julian was standing by his truck, watching back with those golden eyes.

  CHAPTER 14

  Lindsay, on the other hand, was very real, and very sick. Her nose was red and raw around the edges, her eyes bloodshot and watery.

  “Hey,” she said when I came in, then coughed — a dry, hacking fit that left her wheezing. “I heard,” she gasped. “They find anything?” She blew her nose on a shredded Kleenex.

  “No. Good grief, Lindsay. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “It’s not like there’s anybody else.” Lindsay managed a wobbly smile. “And we’ve had tons of visitors already.”

  I checked the clock — just before noon. It was Saturday. “Can you hang on for another half hour? I need to change and feed Tuppence, then I’ll come back and fill in for you. You should be in bed, or at least on the couch watching daytime television.”

  “Cooking shows,” Lindsay rasped. “That’s what my mom watches during the day.” Her eyes welled up. “I’m sorry, Meredith. It must have been awful for you.”

  I nodded. “I need to think about something else for a while. Minding the gift shop will be perfect. I’ll hurry.”

  I jogged to my truck which sat alone in the marina parking lot, my right knee reminding me of the pounding it had taken last night. Yellow crime scene tape still marked off the last twenty feet of the dock. It twisted and flapped in the omnipresent breeze that rippled down the gorge.

  I sped home, safe in the knowledge that all available law enforcement personnel were involved in the search effort.

  Tuppence was overjoyed to see me and to eat — mainly to eat, but she did leave her food bowl twice to check on what I was doing in the bedroom. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair and put on presentable, museum-worthy clothes. I left a rawhide chew toy with the neglected hound as consolation.

  I shooed Lindsay away after getting the scoop on how many visitors were currently traipsing about the museum. Standard procedure is to count how many enter and how many leave to make sure no one is locked in the building overnight.

  A family with three adolescent children came into the shop to browse, and I helped the youngest sift through a container of polished river rocks for just the right one to take home as a paperweight. The image of Greg’s body skimming with the current over a bed of river rocks flashed into my mind, and I had to walk quickly away — stare out the window for a while. It was a relief when the family finally left.

  The museum settled into its usual popping and creaking silence. The building seemed to exhale every time a blast of warm furnace air whooshed through the ductwork. Moldings dried and shrank a little more, widening cracks. Plaster chinked and sifted white powder down as dust. Windows whistled softly as drafts fingered their way in.

  Early in my tenure, I had decided the mansion is a girl, the same way ships are always referred to as ‘she.’ I felt an affinity for the old spinster. We both needed space to rest.

  I added to the exit tally as an older couple waved on their way out. I sat on the bar stool behind the counter and twined my feet around the rungs.

  I thought about Julian. He had been so intense — probably his normal mode. It was the eyes. Why did he say I meant more to Greg than his own family? Did I? Surely his mother … and yet, where was his mother?

  Clyde was my only avenue for contacting Greg’s family. I should probably call him. I hoped I’d startled him enough to make him reform. Maybe now he’d think twice before bedding the next enticing female student to come his way.

  No, I wasn’t ready to talk to Clyde. I’d wait to call until I had real news, encouraging news.

  A hunched man wearing a long trench coat entered the gift shop and started browsing the perimeter. People always do that — work from the outside in. I didn’t pay much attention except to register, vaguely, that his head was too big for his body. The disproportion was exaggerated by a large John Deere baseball cap.

  My stomach growled. I’d forgotten to grab any food on the short layover at home. I wondered if Gloria had any Granny Smith apples and Muenster at Junction General. She always has cheese and apples, but special varieties are hit and miss. Maybe I could recreate Dennis’s glorious sandwich. I shook my head. How could I think about food when the dive team was scouring the river for a body — maybe Greg’s body?

  “Pusht tha monr iner.” A gnarly hand shoved a stained pillowcase across the counter. Pungent menthol or eucalyptus aftershave odor floated with it.

  “Huh?” I wrinkled my nose and looked up, into the deep twin holes of a double-barreled shotgun. My mouth fell open.r />
  The John Deere man repeated the instruction, which I gathered to mean I should put valuable things inside the pillowcase. At first I thought he had a speech impediment, but no, his teeth slid around while he talked. It was some kind of denture fixture that he kept trying to suck back in while he was speaking. It crossed my mind that he’d stolen the teeth too, since they obviously weren’t made to fit him. He seemed too young to need false teeth.

  It’s weird, the things that pop into your head when someone’s pointing a shotgun at you. Like the fact that I didn’t know any men who wore aftershave, at least not the potent kind that creates an aura with a five-foot radius. My eyes watered. The stuff singed my nose hairs. I didn’t want to touch the pillowcase. It was filthy.

  I opened the cash drawer. There was hardly anything in it, and the bills were so light he would think I was handing back an empty bag. I needed something heavy — quick.

  The man swiveled his neck around, nervous. I opened the drawer below the cash register and tossed a tape dispenser in the pillowcase — the weighted kind with sand in the base. That should help. I grabbed a handful of the ladies’ name magnets and dropped them in. They clattered against the tape dispenser.

  The man swerved the gun back to aim at my chest. “Hurst ppt.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  I pulled my hand up to the cash drawer — where he could see it, and grabbed the pennies first. They jangled into the pillowcase.

  “Bllsp.”

  I removed the stack of ones from their slot. He jammed the shotgun against my sternum.

  The air in my lungs went ice cold, and I pulled away from the hard metal.

  Steady. Keep moving. I couldn’t let him see me shaking. I deliberately slid my hand over to the twenties and pulled those two bills out. There weren’t any tens. Three fives.

  The sound of children’s feet hopping down the ballroom stairs punctuated the robber’s asthmatic breathing. I realized I’d been timing my movements to his raspy breaths. He stuck out his hand for the bag, and I flung it over the counter.