Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1)

by Jones, Jerusha

  The crowd shifted, murmured. I caught their voices on the wind and looked quickly at the water. One diver was up. He gave a thumb down gesture to the crowd. They responded by easing away from the edge.

  Heedless of germs, I pushed through the group toward Sheriff Marge.

  Sheriff Marge shook her head when she saw me. “No body. They’re going to pull the car out now.” She waved me back, out of the way.

  No body. No body. Was the car even Greg’s? Anger against Greg swelled in my chest for the first time. Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he said something? Maybe he was off cavorting as Mac had suggested. I returned to my boulder and hunched against the wind.

  The divers towed hooks attached to cables from the tug to the car. They submerged but weren’t gone as long this time. They cleared the area and signaled the tug.

  Pete operated the winches, slowly pulling the cables tight. Nothing seemed to happen. The winch motors ground on, the sound whining unevenly across the water.

  I strained to hear metal scraping over rocks as the car was pulled out of its resting spot, but the water dampened whatever sound there would have been and the wind howled over the top of the cliff. Weak sunlight filtered pale through horsetail cirrus clouds.

  Two wheels and part of a back bumper came to the surface at the tug’s stern. Pete turned off the winches and strapped the car to the tug with the help of the divers. The car was upside down, but the stubby rear end looked like a Prius.

  Pete held his hand to his ear. He was calling someone. I sought out Sheriff Marge in the crowd. She was also talking on her phone.

  I sprinted a few seconds until lack of oxygen forced me to double over in a coughing fit. I’d used up all the Kleenexes in my pockets. Sheriff Marge was beside me when I finally stopped hacking.

  “It’s Greg’s car. The license plate matches.”

  “You’re sure there’s no body?” I croaked.

  “Yeah. All the windows are closed, so he didn’t get out that way. We’ll pull the car on shore and check the trunk.”

  I swallowed. I hadn’t thought of that. Greg dead in the trunk. That would be no accident, except — “I don’t think his car really has a trunk. More of a hatchback cargo area.”

  “We’ll go over every inch of the car. Go home and go to bed. I’ll call you.”

  I made it home without remembering the drive. My head floated in its own separate bubble, and I ached all over, especially in my ear canals. Tuppence met me, but Tommy was notably absent.

  “Where’s your friend?” I rasped, but Tuppence just wagged.

  Two hours later, my phone rang. Sheriff Marge said, “Contents of Greg’s car: one duffel bag with assorted clothes and toiletries, part of a case of water bottles, the usual jack, tire iron and jumper cables, insurance papers and maps in the glove box, some loose change, an air freshener hang tag, an mp3 player. The parking brake was not set.”

  “Ordinary stuff,” I said. “Now what? Do you think it was an accident?”

  “We’re going to treat the heritage marker as Greg’s last known location and assume he was moving on foot from there. We’ll run another request for the public’s help on the news channels tonight. I’m sending deputies out to canvas the next several towns east to find out if anyone saw him going that direction. He may have been disoriented, especially if he saw or caused his car to go over the edge. We’ll check at the truck stops — maybe he was hitchhiking. We’ve already searched the heritage marker parking lot and didn’t find anything we could link to him.”

  “It’s not much, is it?”

  “No. But at least we have a starting location. Very few people truly disappear without a trace. We’ll find him.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. Eat chicken soup. Sleep.”

  I didn’t have a can of soup of any kind in the pantry. With no energy to make a grilled cheese sandwich and thinking I should save the last can of tuna for Tommy when or if he returned, I settled for some outdated codeine-laced cough syrup. The thick, sweet liquid coated my tongue, slid down my throat and warmed my belly. I curled up in a recliner and fell into a heavy sleep with my mouth open.

  I snored myself awake. The LED clock on the microwave provided the only light in the trailer — 3:52. A steady thrumming on the roof explained the early dusk. That kind of relentless rain fell from low, dark clouds draped over the hills. Quite a switch from this morning, but weather patterns sail through the gorge.

  My throat was parched and sore. I got up for a glass of water and a second dose of cough syrup and its welcome oblivion.

  But my brain was too busy to go back to sleep. Greg had left so few items or hints of personal interest behind. That was a clue in itself, wasn’t it? He hadn’t said anything to Betty. He hadn’t seemed distressed. He ate a normal breakfast. But he hadn’t left anything in his room. Did he intend to return?

  I pictured Greg’s bare bedroom. The only things out of place were mine — the books Greg had borrowed, sitting on the chair. I inhaled as a thought hit me, prompting a painful coughing fit.

  That day in my office, when Greg had borrowed the books, he’d cradled them in his arm. There was more thickness to that stack than in the pile of books I’d removed from the chair when I sat at his desk.

  Backpack. Laptop. Phone. Those items had not been on Sheriff Marge’s list of what was in Greg’s car. Things you took with you when you traveled. Things you used to stay in touch. Greg hadn’t meant to go missing. What had he been planning?

  The missing book or books could be the answer.

  “Come on, Tupp. You love Greg, don’t you? Come with me.” I needed the dog to bounce ideas off.

  Tuppence wagged and pranced at the door.

  Ignoring my rumbling stomach, I grabbed the flashlight and a wad of Kleenexes. The codeine made me dizzy, but if I hung on to something for a minute, the world righted itself until I moved too fast and sent it spinning again. Nice and easy.

  I went down the steps one at a time and followed Tuppence’s white tail-tip beacon to the truck.

  My brain could only do one thing at a time, so there was no further analysis while I steered the truck onto Highway 14 toward the museum. Oncoming headlights made huge, glaring halos on the rain-spattered windshield. I swerved away, caught sight of the white line and brought the right wheels back inside the lane. Tuppence whined.

  “I know, I know.” My head pounded as though a giant fist squeezed the base of my skull. If I didn’t need my head to think, I wouldn’t have minded being separated from the source of my misery.

  I slowed to improve my chances of going straight. If that bothered anyone, they could just pass me. Wouldn’t be hard to do. I coasted through the turn into the city park, down the slope and into the museum parking lot.

  Ford, swaddled in a bright yellow rain slicker, was riding the big lawn mower through the trees, using the attachment to suck up soggy fallen leaves. The vacuum on that thing could probably inhale a bowling ball. He waved, but I needed both hands on the steering wheel. The big mower had headlights, but he’d still have to quit soon. The low clouds created a thick gloom. I thought the term was ‘socked in’.

  The museum’s closed Sundays and Mondays and seemed cavernous without the sparse but comforting human element. Tuppence’s nails clicked on the oak parquet floor as she chased scents along the high baseboard molding and sneezed repeatedly to blow dust from her nose.

  She trotted behind me through the dark rooms and into the waiting patron-friendly elevator. This one had carpet and wood paneling, unlike the utilitarian freight elevator, and I never used it. Except today when every step required a rasping fight for air and my limbs shuffled instead of swinging in their usual cadence.

  I slid to the floor with my back against the walnut burl. Just a little rest while the elevator hummed to the third floor. A subtle ding and whoosh as the doors opened announced it was time to exit. I rocked to my hands and knees and slowly stood. I hung on to the hand rail for a few seconds until th
e floor became perpendicular to my point of view. My throat felt as though it’d been scraped with sandpaper.

  Tuppence loped along the hall and sat in front of my office door. I fumbled with the key until the lock jiggled loose. I let the dog in, flipped on the overhead light and squeezed my eyes shut.

  When the overhead light became tolerable by peeking through my lashes, I swung around to the corkboard on the back of the door and ripped Greg’s borrowed book list from the thumbtack. Six books — two on Columbia River Gorge geology, one on regional Native American history, two on petroglyphs and rock art, and The Journals of Lewis and Clark.

  “What are you up to, Greg?” I whispered.

  Tuppence cocked her head.

  “Back to the truck,” I said, and Tuppence led the way.

  A huge plop of water dropped down my collar as I stepped out of the museum. It trickled between my shoulder blades and soaked into my bra band. I shivered all over. My jacket was water-resistant but not waterproof. But I wasn’t going back. Not now.

  Tuppence was soaked, too, and left puddles on the seat as she scampered across to her place by the passenger window. I eased the truck into gear and drove slowly toward Betty’s, almost missing her driveway in the dark, sheeting rain.

  As I pulled up to the house, Betty’s porch light came on, and her silhouette appeared in the kitchen doorway. That sixth sense. She’d probably made cookies.

  “Honey, what are you doing out in this weather?” Betty called. She bent to pat Tuppence just as the dog launched a jowl-flapping shake, spraying water droplets over an extensive radius. Betty wiped her face on her apron.

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  “Not to worry, honey. I’m a farm girl, through and through. In fact, I should have given her a minute to make herself presentable before trying to pet her. Come in out of the wet.”

  Tuppence and I started steaming the moment we entered the warm kitchen. I sneezed onto my sleeve. Nice.

  “Oh dear,” Betty said. “How about some hot Tang? You need the vitamin C.”

  “I’d really love that, but I need to look in Greg’s room again.”

  “Of course, dear. I’ll get your Tang ready while you do that.”

  I stepped into Greg’s room and went straight to the pile of books, still on the bed where I’d left them. Four books. I compared them to Greg’s list. The petroglyph books were missing.

  Petroglyphs. What was Greg searching for? Ancient artwork with spiritual or narrative meaning? A graduate student’s dream. Something to impress Angie.

  I returned to the kitchen and slid into a vinyl dinette chair. Betty pushed a warm mug into my hands. Neon orange liquid swirled, releasing a pungent tangerine scent.

  “Want a cookie?” Betty asked. “Chocolate and orange are good together.”

  I accepted a chocolate chip cookie, also warm — the chips still melty. “Mmmm.” I chased the cookie with the Tang and cringed. Still, it tasted better than cough syrup.

  Tuppence flopped under Betty’s chair for a cranium massage.

  “What a sweet hound,” Betty said.

  “We need to get going. Thanks, Betty.”

  “You sure you can’t stay? It’s miserable out there.”

  “Yeah, we have things to do. I’ll bring Tuppence back on a nice day, get a tour of your farm.”

  “I’d like that. You take care, now. Drive safely.”

  More like drive sober. I grimaced, reeling as I stood. A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over me. The sugar, citric acid and codeine weren’t playing well together. I staggered out the door to the truck. Betty didn’t wave, but stood on the porch, arms folded across her chest.

  Day Nine. I had to snap out of this haze. Concentrate.

  Greg had made a plan, and it involved petroglyphs at the heritage marker past Lupine. Maybe something would come to me if I stood in the same spot. Get inside his skin. What was he thinking? I tossed the books onto the seat beside me and Tuppence nosed them.

  East toward Lupine on a dark and rainy Monday night. Two cars passed going west. The steady pounding rain and whoosh of road spray, the thump-click-thump of the windshield wipers lulled me into a trance.

  The third time my head snapped to attention — how long had I been dozing? — I turned on the radio. The public jazz station at Mt. Hood Community College was playing the Squirrel Nut Zippers. I tapped the steering wheel along with “Fat Cat Keeps Getting Fatter” which helped — for a couple minutes.

  I straightened up as we rolled into Lupine — the retail section of town closed for the night. A few lit signs splashed colorful reflections on the wet pavement. The tavern, with its flashing neon beer logos — some half burned out — and surging white rope lights outlining the flat facade, had a packed parking lot. Mostly dented 4X4 rigs raised on knobby tires. One diehard had ridden his Harley into town and parked it in the dry patch under the small overhang sheltering the windowless door. Monday night football viewing in the sticks.

  And that was it. Lupine lasted four minutes. I turned the high-beams on and peered through the rivulets streaming down the windshield for the heritage marker turnoff. I found it more by feel than by sight, grateful for the crunch of gravel under the tires. I set the parking brake — hard — and got out.

  The river was a dark abyss. I knew it was there, but I couldn’t pick out any details between where I stood and a few lights winking through raindrops on the Oregon side. Tuppence’s tags jingled beside me.

  I clicked on the flashlight, targeted the heritage marker in its beam, and shuffled over to stand near the familiar boulder. My head swam, and I blinked to clear my vision.

  Where would someone go if they were looking for petroglyphs?

  Down.

  Dams had dramatically raised the level of the Columbia long after the petroglyphs had been carved into basalt by Native Americans who fished the river and established a thriving trading post here. The Dalles Dam submerged Celilo Falls, making this section of the Columbia traversable by boat. The white people’s towns had been relocated to safety when the dams were built from the New Deal through the 1950s.

  Along the way, a few forward-thinkers and history buffs had saved a smattering of petroglyphs by chipping them out and removing the rock slabs ahead of the rising water, but most were submerged and probably eroded beyond recognition. Documented eye-witness history lost to the thirst for increased commerce.

  “What do you think, old girl?” I asked.

  Tuppence bumped my leg with her nose and snorted.

  “He’s not going to make it if we don’t find him soon. He might not —”

  Tuppence whined.

  “I know. Not yet.” I wiped water out of my eyes. “I can’t think that yet.”

  Where would a curious graduate student go looking for petroglyphs?

  Down.

  CHAPTER 18

  I played the flashlight over the cliff edge. Short of falling, there appeared to be no way to get down to the river.

  “Well, girl, where is he? Go find Greg.”

  Tuppence wagged and snorted but stuck to my side.

  Should I wait for daylight and assistance? I patted the cell phone in my pocket. This was just a whim, a hunch at best — not worth bothering Sheriff Marge about. But Greg didn’t have much waiting time left, if any. Nope — now or never. I wasn’t going to let him down again.

  I turned left and cut wide swaths with the flashlight as I crept along the edge. A couple stones dropped and plinked against the cliff’s side as they tumbled down. Steady. I passed the spot where Greg’s car had gone over. Then my feet fell on rough turf — the end of the gravel parking area.

  Tuppence trotted ahead around a knoll, nose skimming an inch off the ground. She made her usual hoovering sounds.

  “That’s right, old girl. Go find him.”

  I bumped into the dog’s back end, and Tuppence yelped.

  “Sorry. Why’d you stop?” I ran the light beam along Tuppence’s back to her head and saw what she was
sniffing — a crumpled Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket.

  “No distractions, not tonight.” I nudged Tuppence then walked around the dog when she didn’t budge.

  The ground sloped downward at a mild grade from the heritage marker viewpoint. Boulders left behind by thousands of years of erosion loomed at odd angles. I didn’t know where I was going, but I kept my feet heading downhill. That meant squeezing between two boulders and taking a sharp turn to the right.

  The ground was rutted into a channel caused by spring runoff. I needed to follow the trail of water, from small to big as gravity collected it into growing flows.

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but I was beyond soaked. Tuppence caught up, and we slogged through mud.

  I panned the flashlight ahead, taking my eyes off the ground for one second, and slid down a short embankment, landing hard on my rump with a gooshing, kissing sound in the sticky mud. Tuppence stuck a wet nose in my ear.

  “I know. If I had four legs, I’d be better at this.”

  As I picked myself up, the flashlight beam wavered over the way we’d come, and I realized we’d been making switchbacks down large steps that marked separate lava flows from ages past. Over the years dirt had blown or been washed into crevices and corners of the steps. Grass rooted and held it there, creating ramps or slides from one level to the next. If I’d been able to see the whole thing from the start, I probably would have made the entire descent on my backside.

  The river lapped against the bank below, but it was at least one more thick lava layer down. I hoped there was a ledge or at least large rocks to balance on. I didn’t want George to have to fish my body out of the water in a few days.

  My sinuses ached, and my hands shook like I had three-espresso jitters making the light beam bounce all over. Was it because I was cold and wet or because the codeine was wearing off? Codeine was supposed to be slept off, not used to mask physical ailments while launching an ill-advised search. I tried to sigh but couldn’t breathe that deeply. I coughed instead. My ears crackled.