Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1)

by Jones, Jerusha

  A thick-set man about my height gazed at me with impenetrable black eyes. Deep lines from the sides of his nose to the corners of his mouth lengthened his dark brown face. His salt and pepper hair was parted in the center and cut to his shoulders. He wore a denim shirt, jeans and black rubber boots. The band of a gray t-shirt peeked out above the top shirt button.

  “I’m George Longshoe.”

  “Thank you, for all you did. For helping us know.”

  “You want hot tea?”

  I ducked my head. “Very much. But I think I should stay until his father arrives.”

  “Of course. You are his mother?”

  “No. I am waiting for someone else to wash up.”

  George nodded as though that made sense.

  “But I hope —” I wanted to explain that my person might still be alive — maybe.

  The rumble of a diesel engine gearing down came from the mud track behind the parked vehicles.

  I moaned, and George looked at me with increased concern. “His father.”

  George eased my arm through his. “We’ll meet him.”

  He led me over rough grassy ground so I didn’t slip, and we faced Julian between two police cruisers before he could see the blue tarp.

  Julian dipped the brim of his Stetson. “George.”

  “Julian.” They clasped hands.

  Julian looked at me. Those golden eyes plunged deep and found the answer. His face did not change. “Where is he?”

  I held out my hand, and he took it. The assembled officials hadn’t noticed us yet. George accompanied us and did the honors of folding back the tarp.

  “My son.” The words were clenched, tight, and came from the back of Julian’s throat.

  George replaced the tarp. Julian stared out over the water, at the trees in their fall brilliance reflected in the little harbor’s calm ripples. Out to the forested edges of the opposite bank. The fog had lifted. I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back and kept a tight grip.

  I wanted to bury my face in his shoulder and cry for him since his tears wouldn’t come. But I couldn’t fall apart. Not now. He was draining my strength — from my hand to his, and I couldn’t let him down.

  “Julian?” Sheriff Marge had come up quietly.

  He shifted his gaze to her. “Yes.” Then he said it again to answer the unspoken question.

  “The medical examiner needs to speak with you.”

  Julian followed her.

  George walked around the body and stood beside me. He studied the river with me, a solid, steady presence.

  “You know him,” I said.

  “An acquaintance. He buys salmon from me every year, more than he can eat. He is a generous man. I never knew his son, or I would have handled this differently.”

  “You did right, George.”

  He turned toward me. “Right or good? But this is not the time to be philosophical.” He placed his hands on the outside of my shoulders. “I will pray that the one you seek will be found safe.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Meredith.” Sheriff Marge was back. “Take Julian home.”

  He was walking toward the parked cars, and I hurried to catch up with him.

  “Do you trust me with your truck?” I asked and held out my hand.

  Julian flashed me a quick glance, fished in his pocket and dropped the keys in my palm.

  CHAPTER 16

  I climbed into the driver’s seat. It felt like a cockpit with all the dials and knobs and buttons and took me a while to adjust the seat so I could reach the pedals. Julian tried pointing to levers and things I needed, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. I found the ignition and did an eight-point turn without bashing into any of the shanty trailers. I slid it into drive and rolled up to the main road.

  Now I understood what Julian meant about the center console. I didn’t really know this man, but I wanted to crawl over there into his lap and wrap my arms around him. Nothing romantic about it. He needed holding together. I’d never seen such quiet, penetrating distress — fissures running through that tough veneer.

  I was supposed to be driving. The truck didn’t have autopilot. I stared at the dashed yellow line as it flew under the left corner of the hood.

  As I slowed to take the Platts Landing exit, Julian roused. “Please go to your house. I can drive the rest of the way on my own.” He noticed my short grimace. “Is that alright with you?”

  “Sure. It’s just that, technically and figuratively, I live on the other side of the tracks. It’s, uh, humble.”

  Julian snorted softly. “I do not care about that.”

  “I know.” I shouldn’t have said it.

  Mort and Sally’s minivan was parked in front of my truck and trailer. I brought Julian’s truck to a stop on the grass beside their van. I hoped Herb, my landlord, wouldn’t mind, just for a little while. He was picky about his grass.

  Sally waved with one hand, casserole cradled in her other arm. Mort was holding Tommy up to his face, and they were rubbing cheeks while Tuppence happily sniffed the new pant legs. The cat was probably purring like a lawn mower.

  “Will you stay?” I asked in a low voice, after I turned off the engine but before we made a move for the door handles. “I can’t eat that casserole all by myself.” I watched the shift happen, when Julian’s thoughts caught up with real time and the needs of the living. He drew a breath, gazed at me several seconds, and nodded.

  Should I have placed a demand on him that way? So soon? Mort and Sally were waiting. I nodded back and hopped out of the truck.

  “We were just leaving a note,” Sally said.

  “And trying to figure out a place to put the casserole where Tuppence couldn’t get into it. This little cat added a new wrinkle, since I assume it can climb?” Mort asked.

  I tried to answer in the affirmative, but Sally was giving me a big, muffling hug.

  “I’m very sorry,” I heard Mort say and peeked over Sally’s shoulder to see Mort shaking Julian’s hand with both of his. So they knew.

  “Will you do the service?” Julian asked.

  “Of course. Of course, I will.” Mort put his arm around Julian’s shoulders. He had to stretch up to do it, but he held the embrace for a manly few seconds.

  “We’ve just come from the potluck,” Sally murmured to me. “I made two casseroles and saved this one for you. It could use a few minutes in the oven to reheat.”

  I unlocked the trailer and ushered everyone, animals included, inside. I’d never had so many people in my RV before, but they all found a place to sit without too much trouble. Tommy made himself comfortable on Mort’s lap.

  “I think you brought dessert, too, didn’t you, honey?” Mort asked.

  “Yes, it’s still in the cooler.”

  Mort handed Tommy to Julian and bustled out. Tommy’s purring was audible from where I was leaning against the kitchen counter. I dumped a can of tuna on a plate and passed it to Julian. Tommy dug in.

  “He showed up last night. I don’t have all the trappings for a cat, so it’s a good thing I do have a stash of canned tuna,” I explained.

  Sally helped me set out plates and silverware, and we all crammed around the dining table. Mort and Sally took modest helpings.

  “We just ate a couple hours ago,” Sally said.

  “That doesn’t matter, honey,” Mort said. “You’re the best cook in the world. Oh, you and Meredith are, I mean.”

  “I quite agree with you. Sally is the best.” I helped myself to a steaming mound of chicken, peppers and onions rolled in flour tortillas and smothered in a cheesy cream sauce, like enchiladas but better.

  Julian didn’t say anything, but he inhaled his food, which I took to be a good sign.

  “I don’t want to be pushy, but would it help to talk about it yet?” Mort asked.

  I waited for Julian. The muscles in his jaw rippled again, as if he was restraining words until they could be measured.

  “I expected it. I think I knew.” He
turned toward me. “I’m sorry you had to go through that today.”

  I shook my head. “I wanted to be there.”

  “He came home — my prodigal boy. He tried to seek shelter, but his past followed him.” Julian pushed his Stetson back, rubbed his forehead then resettled the hat. “I should have protected him more.”

  “Yet he was a man, and he made his own decisions. There are always consequences.” Mort replied. “What-iffing will rob the usefulness from your life.”

  Julian nodded. “I know that well, but I think I need to ache for a while.”

  “Yes, you do. It is sometimes good to sense the magnitude of sin, the results of sin. Then we treasure salvation all the more.”

  I pondered in silence. Pain was good? Death was good? An example to the living to take heed? Some people seemed to get more examples than others, like Julian. A man of wealth, prestige — and deep sorrow.

  Sally looked around at our somber faces. “Dessert?”

  I ate the chocolate cherry something without appreciating it. I was suddenly leaden. My body moved at a sluggish pace, as though sleepwalking — my brain lagged even farther behind, failing to give the right commands at the right time. Whatever spurt I’d had earlier, when Julian needed it, was gone now. Julian seemed to be suffering from the same malaise.

  Mort and Sally kept up a conversation. The sound was distorted as though filtered through the narrow end of a funnel. I knew I wasn’t responding properly. I did manage to scoop half the remaining casserole and dessert into containers for Julian to take with him. He moved stiffly toward his truck, climbed in, nodded the Stetson, and drove off.

  “I hope he makes it home,” I murmured.

  Mort heard me. “He will. We have yet to see the depths of his fortitude in God’s grace, I think.”

  “Someday, I’ll know what you mean. I only get snippets now.”

  Mort looked a little embarrassed.

  “No, no,” I patted his arm, “I like it. How did you know — when we arrived? I couldn’t think of a way to signal you.”

  “There was only one reason you’d be driving his truck.”

  o0o

  Full stomach, warm fireplace, and a drowsy cat in my lap whose purring had tapered off to a minor vibration. Tuppence’s heavy head rested on my right foot. This was how life was supposed to be. Sharp rapping at the door broke into my stupor. Had someone driven up? How long had I been dozing? Was it Julian?

  I dumped Tommy, who hit the floor with a squeak. “Sorry,” I whispered and scrambled for the door.

  A worn out Sheriff Marge stood on the step. There was a new darkness under her eyes, and her skin had more wrinkles as if she’d deflated a little.

  “Come in,” I said. “I have casserole.”

  “Of course you do. Sally?”

  I nodded and popped a loaded plate in the microwave.

  “This time I’ll ask you. How’s Julian?”

  “He’s hard to read. Mort says we haven’t seen the depths of his fortitude in God’s grace yet.”

  “I expect Mort’s right.” Sheriff Marge devoured the casserole. She pushed the plate away and sighed.

  “Dessert?”

  “No. I’ve got something else to tell you. I’m looking forward to the day when we’ll be able to chat about potlucks and break-ins again, but right now I have more bad news.”

  I sat down.

  “Pete Sills called. He was coming back empty from a trip upriver. You know those turnoffs along Highway 14 where the heritage trail markers are?”

  “Yeah. There’s a bunch of them. I went out to one on…” When was it? Ages ago. Less than a week ago. “Monday,” I finished.

  “At the first one east of Lupine, he noticed a large swath cut through the brush down the side of that steep bank into the river. Not a mud slide because the vegetation was still rooted in place, but like something large had crashed through it.”

  I waited, my body rigid.

  “He anchored the tug and took the dingy out to have a closer look. There’s a light colored car in the water below the parking spot. He couldn’t tell make or model or exact color. It’s too deep to see clearly.” Sheriff Marge pressed her lips together. “It’s getting dark, and the car’s not going anywhere tonight, so I’m arranging for the dive team to come out first thing in the morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you think of any reason why Greg — and I’m not saying it’s his car — would drive east last Sunday instead of west?”

  I shook my head. “I drove by there on Monday, and I’m sure there weren’t any cars at that marker, especially not Greg’s.”

  “Okay.” Sheriff Marge rubbed her large hands on her thighs as though she was trying to generate the energy to carry on. “Normally we don’t let family watch or participate in the rescue efforts. We keep them a safe distance away to spare them. Julian was an exception because I knew he’d keep it together. You’re an exception, too. You’re not technically family, but you’re closer to Greg than any of his real family. You can come if you want, but I’m reserving the right to send you home if I think it’s best.” She rose, and I watched her leave.

  What I’d said to George about waiting for someone to wash up — that was real, wasn’t it? The words had just come out. And now they seemed prescient. I was going to have to do it again — identify a body. Was there any hope left?

  I climbed into bed, my throat scratchy and my head pounding.

  CHAPTER 17

  I sat bolt upright, heaving air in through my mouth. My head felt too heavy to hold up, and my body ached as though it had come out on the losing end of a wrestling match.

  I staggered into the bathroom and squinted at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror. A futile effort to blow my nose only exacerbated the headache. My sinuses felt clogged with cement. Lindsay’s cold had caught up with me. Did we have Lysol at the museum? I wished I had thought to spray the entire gift shop.

  My body plodded through getting-ready-for-the-day motions. It was still dark out, so hurrying wasn’t necessary. Eventually, I would need to think about what was coming, but if pain could be procrastinated — that seemed the better course. When necessary, I’d settle into the grief, like Julian, and devote time to it. Would it ever end?

  I stood under the hot shower for a long time. The start of Day Nine. Maybe there was no longer a need to count.

  It was easy to figure out which heritage trail marker Sheriff Marge meant. The small gravel turnoff overflowed with emergency vehicles. They lined the edge of the highway before and after the marker. I parked past another pickup with a volunteer firefighter sticker in the window and walked back to the scene of action.

  People swarmed all over the place. I recognized a few members of the dive team.

  Pete’s tug was anchored close in. Several ropes trailed into the water from the cliff above the river and from the tug’s stern. I found Sheriff Marge talking with a fire captain.

  “The cliff’s too unstable here to winch the car up the side. Several members of the dive team are on their way out to Pete’s tug which they’ll use as their base. Pete has several winches and all the cable they’ll need.” Sheriff Marge shielded her eyes from the rising sun. “These guys hold down other jobs. We’ll try to get this done quickly so they can still work most of a normal day.”

  I sneezed — a debilitating explosion.

  Sheriff Marge stepped back. “You look terrible.” She squinted. “I can’t afford to have any of my crew get sick. Stay out of the way and keep your germs to yourself.”

  Mindful of Sheriff Marge’s no-family-present lecture, I retreated to the heritage marker and sat on a boulder directly behind, facing the river. Today, no one read the sign — no one cared about the animal life Meriwether Lewis noted in his journal in funny, misspelled English, like Adam naming creatures he’d never seen before. And I didn’t want to be sent home. I had to be present when Greg was found, no matter what cond
ition he was in, or I was in.

  Pete’s red buffalo plaid jacket stood out against the tug’s white paint. He caught the line a dive team member tossed and eased their boat alongside, securing it to the railing. They hoisted gear and oxygen tanks onto the tug.

  No fog today. Long golden light shafts stretched over sagebrush hills. The breeze picked up, buffeting my plugged ears. I wished I’d worn a hat. I bypassed my nose and took in cold gasps of air through my mouth. Cupping my hands over my ears, I concentrated on the tug, abdominal muscles tight against involuntary shivering.

  Sunlight glinted off the windows, and spray sloshed over the deck when the river’s chop hit the stationary bow. The water was rough for a rescue operation, but everyone seemed to have an urgency today, even the emergency responders for whom this kind of thing was normal.

  The dive team suited up. Two men jumped into the river off the stern, bobbed to the surface and spent a few minutes adjusting their equipment. Crew members on deck spooled out the now familiar yellow nylon rope.

  The divers pushed off, one after the other. Their heads and oxygen tanks bobbed between waves as they kicked toward shore. They stopped to confer about ten yards out then submerged. I held my breath.

  Deputies, firefighters, EMTs, dive team members — everyone — lined up at the edge of the cliff and peered into the river. I shifted forward with them, but maintained quarantine. I couldn’t stop shivering.

  The divers were under for fifteen, twenty minutes. No bubbles surfaced. Eddies turned on each other against the rocks at the base of the cliff. The silt-filled water frothed, almost cappuccino in color. How could they see anything?

  I blinked to relieve my burning eyes. The wind whipped around me, molding my jacket to my body, so I turned slightly to present a narrower profile. Pete leaned against the tug’s railing, binoculars raised to his eyes. He wasn’t looking at the base of the cliff or the crowd of people lining the ridge. He lowered the binoculars.

  Maybe he had been looking at me. With trembling hands, I pulled my jacket collar up and hunkered into it, feeling far too gross and worried to be having romantic thoughts about that man. He could do whatever he liked with his spare time. But I was grateful for his help. He didn’t have to be doing this.