Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1)

by Jones, Jerusha

  o0o

  Julian arrived bearing a vase filled with daisies and bachelor’s buttons. No one had brought me chocolate. Was it taboo these days — not healthy or something?

  He pulled a chair up beside the bed. “How are you?”

  “Okay. I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “I heard. Good.” He rested his elbows on his knees and stared out the window.

  “Hey,” I said softly to bring his attention back. “How are you?”

  He just shook his head, so I reached out my hand. He sort of had to take it. I squeezed.

  “When’s the service?”

  “Saturday.” His voice was weary, flat.

  “Can I come?”

  “Yeah. I’d like that. It’ll be small. Esperanza — she’s been our housekeeper since before Bard was born — the Levines, Marge, you.”

  “I think George would want to come. It might help him, too, you know, to … finish.”

  “You’re right.” Julian nodded. “I’ll go see him tomorrow. I need to thank him.”

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sheriff Marge came in while a new nurse was showing me how to fit the sling on my right arm and across my left shoulder.

  “Sheriff’s chauffeur service,” she announced.

  I winced.

  “Sorry,” the nurse said. “It’s tricky when you have cracked ribs too. You’re probably going to need help with this for the first few days until you get the hang of it.”

  “Or just not shower,” I said.

  “Huh-uh,” Sheriff Marge grunted. “We’ll work something out.”

  The nurse commandeered a cart and loaded all of my flowers. She turned the cart over to Sheriff Marge so she could push me in the wheelchair.

  “Hospital policy,” she said when Sheriff Marge huffed.

  We stopped by Greg’s room and found Betty keeping him company. A vase of yellow carnations sat on his bedside table, but more than that — he had three boxes of chocolates. Why did he get all the good stuff?

  “Are those for me?” Greg asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Sheriff Marge, would you?” I pointed to the shelf under the television. The nurse helped Sheriff Marge unload the cart.

  “I was joking,” Greg said.

  “I’m not. I don’t have room for all of these in my trailer. They’re better where more people can enjoy them. Any idea how long you’ll be here?”

  “Another day or two at least.”

  “He’s coming home with me when he’s released,” Betty said. “I had five children on a farm. I know all about caring for broken bones.”

  I smiled at Greg, and he smiled back. Betty was a far better mother than his real one.

  “And I haven’t forgotten you and Tuppence promised to come for a tour, Meredith,” Betty said.

  “When I can drive, we’ll be there. And I promise to drive safely from now on,” I said.

  “Speaking of driving, Greg,” Sheriff Marge interrupted, “the insurance adjuster was at the impound lot today, looking at your car. It’s a total loss. They’re figuring out how much to write the check for.”

  “I can’t believe I forgot to set the parking brake.”

  “Could be it popped off. I’ve seen that happen before.”

  Greg sighed. “Well, it’s done now.” He turned to me. “I’ll be back at the museum as soon as I can hobble around.”

  “And make a petroglyph info sheet so my deputies and I know what to look for when we’re searching wilderness land for drugs or missing persons — or whatever.” Sheriff Marge gave him the no-nonsense look over the top of her glasses. “The Confederated Tribes are very interested in your hypothesis.”

  Greg was still beaming when we said good-bye.

  I eased onto the bench seat in Sheriff Marge’s Explorer. “Any chance you could drive below the speed limit and avoid all potholes?”

  “If I get an emergency call, I have to go.”

  “I know,” I grumbled. “I heard you’re attending Bard’s funeral Saturday. Could I beg another ride from you?”

  “I was counting on it.”

  We rode in companionable silence until Sheriff Marge turned off the highway and pulled up in front of the courthouse.

  “How are you holding up?” Sheriff Marge asked. “I have something to show you.”

  I unclenched my teeth. “I’m going to be uncomfortable no matter where I am, so yeah — I’m curious.”

  Sheriff Marge led me down to the chilly courthouse basement and into a room with no furniture and a big window.

  The room smelled as though all the residual cigarette smoke from a bygone era had settled into the basement and rotted. There was also a hint of moldy linoleum and the chemical powder scent of an air freshener — an exercise in futility.

  Sheriff Marge pressed the buzzer on an intercom box and said, “Okay, Dale, bring ‘em in.”

  The door to the room on the other side of the window opened, and a line of men walked in. The first wore slate blue coveralls with his name embroidered on the chest in red cursive letters. Jerry. Some looked like they’d slept on a park bench last night, others a little more presentable.

  I realized I was looking through a one-way mirror. The next man to enter made the breath catch in my throat.

  “Wait until they’re all in,” Sheriff Marge cautioned. “Then I want to know if you recognize any of them.”

  Dale’s voice sounded eerie through the speaker. “Turn and face the mirror. Hold up your number.”

  The men did as instructed.

  “Two and five,” I said, still holding my breath. “They’re the ones.”

  “Let’s make this official,” Sheriff Marge said. “The ones who what?”

  “Who struggled with Bard at the end of the dock, who knocked him unconscious and tried to roll him into their boat but missed and rolled him into the river instead.”

  “Which one knocked Bard on the head?”

  “Five.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Sheriff Marge buzzed the intercom. “Alright. We’re finished.”

  The door in the other room opened, and the men filed out.

  “I’m real glad you didn’t pick number eight,” Sheriff Marge said. “Jerry’s our custodian. He fills in when we’re short.” She laughed. “We had to pull all the meth-heads and driving-while-suspendeds we could find just to get a reasonable line-up.”

  “But how did you find those two?”

  “Henry was fooling around in one of his experimental choppers yesterday and spotted them on Graves Island. They’d had engine trouble, flooded it trying to get it restarted, then bent the shaft when they hit rocks near the island. At least that’s what we think happened. They were cold and hungry, but they aren’t talking. They’re on ICE holds for now.”

  I shivered. “What about Bard?”

  “When we retrieved their boat, we found a ten-pound short-handled sledge hammer in the water below. They probably threw it overboard. There are traces of blood and hair in the boat, maybe from the hammer. The medical examiner’s hurrying to compare the hammer to the indentation in Bard’s skull so he can release the body for the funeral. He’ll have DNA from the samples checked against Bard, too.”

  Sheriff Marge moved in front of me and held my gaze. “You also need to know the ME determined the injury to Bard’s brain was sufficient to cause death. Bard would have died within a few minutes even if he hadn’t been in the water, well before an ambulance could have arrived. The prosecuting attorney is going to charge number five with murder.”

  I blinked back tears.

  “You couldn’t have saved him, Meredith. There was nothing you could have done,” Sheriff Marge said softly. “Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “I think he may have been killed as retribution for my raiding the grow. We all feel a measure of guilt in this.” Sheriff Marge sighed and looked away. “I think at this point, Mort would say God’s grace is suffi
cient. I’m counting on it — I have to.” She took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes.

  “What about the gash on Bard’s forehead?”

  “Postmortem, according to the ME. Probably hit a rock or submerged log while moving with the current.” Sheriff Marge heaved a sigh and replaced her glasses. “I gotta make a call, then I’ll take you home. Wait here.”

  I pressed my forehead against the cool mirrored glass and closed my eyes. My knees were trembling. My mind skipped back to that dark night and the horrible scene captured in the truck’s headlights.

  A life cut short. Julian would have gladly traded places with his son. Would I have traded places with Greg, if given the chance?

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you for a life spared.” I thought for a minute. “Make that two lives — mine included.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Sheriff Marge pulled up in front of my fifth-wheel, joining several other vehicles.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Just a little welcome home party.”

  I groaned.

  “They won’t stay long, but they were driving me crazy with offers to help. I had to suggest something for them to work on to keep them out of my hair. Come on.”

  Sheriff Marge bustled around and slammed the Explorer door shut after I eased myself to the ground. Tuppence greeted us and wriggled around our legs in glee.

  “Mac drove your truck back, and he and Ford have been taking care of Tuppence and the cat.”

  “I know. They visited me in the hospital. All of them.” I bent stiffly at the waist to stroke Tuppence’s head.

  Sheriff Marge chuckled. “And Rupert arrived late last night.”

  I stopped still. “I forgot.”

  “He’s mighty glad his beloved employees are okay. And I think he brought you another surprise.”

  I grinned. “I’m not sure he can top the chamber pots.” It would be good to see my boss. He’d be around for a couple months until wanderlust claimed him again.

  Sheriff Marge opened the RV door and held it as I carefully climbed the steps. The trailer hummed with conversation and laughter. I poked my head through the doorway into a mass of warm bodies. Standing room only.

  “Hey,” Mort said. “There she is.”

  Mac, Ford, Mort and Sally, Lauren and Paul, Lindsay, Betty, Nadine — her bullet bra taking up space for two — and Rupert.

  He looked good — tanned — so he hadn’t spent his entire trip in Germany. I’d have to weasel out the details of his excursion. Maybe a couple more inches around the waist, too. Rupert always savors the local specialties, wherever he is. Think of a shorter, more rotund version of a sixty-year-old Sean Connery — that’s Rupert. Minus the brogue, but just as roguish. He gives perma-set ladies the vapors, and I adore him for completely different reasons.

  I sidled through painful jostling and patting as people tried to welcome me without bumping my sling. Rupert nearly crushed me anyway with a meaty bear hug that left me gasping.

  “We’ll catch up,” his deep, gravely voice tickled against my ear, “after you’ve taken a few days off. You should rest.”

  Sally and Lauren cornered me in the kitchen. Casserole dishes and crockpots covered every square inch of counter space.

  “We organized some food —” Sally began.

  “And, we thought it’d be a good chance to vet some of the recipes for the fundraiser cookbook,” Lauren added. “I have evaluation forms here, so you can fill out one for each casserole. We’re not telling who made what so you can be completely unbiased.”

  “They’re second- or third-hand recipes that have been submitted,” Sally said. “Since we weren’t familiar with them personally, we thought they should be tested. Everyone’s so glad you and Greg are safe, and they wanted to contribute somehow.” She looked around, hands on hips. “I’m afraid we may have overdone it a little.”

  “Is it alright if I share?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  I bit my lip. “You all are so good to me.” To my surprise, I teared up a little.

  I got squeezed from both sides.

  “Ooo — we’re not supposed to do that. Are you okay?” Lauren asked.

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “I’ll take hugs from friends any day.”

  Guests rotated through. Gloria from Junction General, Herb and Harriet, Dale — who must have rushed over from the courthouse — and his wife Sandy, and several others from the football potlucks whom I recognized but didn’t know by name. They departed quickly, as promised.

  Only Mac and Ford remained when there was a knock on the door — Julian.

  “I knew about the party, but —” he said. His face was lined and haggard, as though he had been going without sleep. “I saw George, and he sent along some smoked sturgeon for you.” He handed me a neatly wrapped packet.

  “Thanks. Come in. You’re timing is perfect. You could relieve me of more casserole.”

  The faint smile reached his eyes. He held my gaze a few seconds.

  “Mac, Ford.” He acknowledged them with a nod of his Stetson.

  “You guys look this stuff over and see what you want,” I said. “I’m counting on you to take a lot.”

  Another knock. I opened the door.

  Pete with an orchid. A really gorgeous orchid. Better than chocolate. And from Pete — hunky, irritating Pete. Pete, who, last time I’d seen him, held my hand. And in the cavern, he must have held even more. I wished I could remember that part in greater detail. I wished I could remember if I’d mumbled something stupid or brash or terribly forward in my delirium.

  I realized my mouth was open. “Oh.”

  “Those other flowers won’t last too long, so I brought you a plant.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, oh, yeah, of course.” I backed out of the way. “We’re just divvying up the casseroles.”

  More nods and taciturn greetings. There was a whole lot of testosterone in my trailer. It felt stuffy.

  “Have you decided what you want?” I tried to break the awkward tension.

  The four men crowded around my kitchen island surveying the goods.

  “I don’t know about this broccoli thing,” I said, scrutinizing a brownish-gray gelatinous slab dotted with moss green florets. The puckered, drying surface was pulling away from the edges of the 9 by 13 pan. It looked like it had been made two weeks ago.

  Mac leaned over my shoulder to check it out and shrank back.

  “I’ll take it,” Pete said.

  “You like broccoli?” I asked doubtfully.

  “I can handle it.” He gazed at me with steady blue eyes. The showdown at the OK Corral.

  I flinched first. “Okay.” I wouldn’t mind him handling a few other things as well.

  I replaced the foil cover while the men scooped mounds of scalloped potatoes embedded with jalapeno pepper slices, chicken rice pilaf, sweet and sour meatballs, turkey tetrazzini, spinach stuffed cannelloni, and other dishes less identifiable into containers. Then they loaded plates from the dessert pans — brownies, jam bars, lemon bars, cherry strudel.

  “Let me know your favorites. I have to report back to the cookbook committee.”

  I saw Mac, Ford and Julian to the door, but Pete lingered.

  “Need help cleaning up?”

  I must have looked surprised.

  “I do all my own cooking on the tug, you know.”

  “Thanks. I am a little limited since I’m not naturally left-handed. I will have trouble lifting heavy pans. Could you clear space in the fridge and cram everything in there?”

  He worked efficiently, not at all flustered. I would have been jittery if our roles were reversed. I was jittery anyway.

  “Thanks for the orchid. It really is lovely.”

  “Sure,” he said, into the fridge. “I’d like to see you again.”

  Kind of hard not to see me in a town this size. Was he asking for a date? “You do have to brin
g that pan back. I don’t even know who it belongs to, so I’d hate to have it go missing on my watch.”

  His mouth didn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You may have to come get it, then.”

  I scowled.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m done with it.”

  He balanced the pan on his forearm and gazed at me from the other side of the island so long I thought I was going to melt. Either that or jump over the counter into his arms. Talk about jittery, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his.

  He let himself out, and I exhaled.

  I collapsed onto the bed, my neck, shoulder and ribs aching. The party had given me an unexpected shot of energy — now the crash. Then I got up to pop a couple Tylenol per doctor’s orders and nestled against the pillows for a long nap.

  My stomach woke me up. I swallowed a couple more Tylenol then padded into the kitchen in the semi-darkness and found the pan of brownies. Good enough. Not bothering to turn on any lights, I settled in the recliner with the pan on my lap and Tuppence’s head on my foot and ate until I was almost sick — but not quite.

  Brakes squealed to a stop outside. I scootched out of the chair and opened the door before Sheriff Marge knocked.

  “Just checking on you. Sorry I had to leave before the party wound up. I hope they didn’t stay too long?” Sheriff Marge puffed from her climb up the two steps.

  “Not at all. Thanks for arranging everything.”

  “Gotta love these people. They pull you out of the side of a cliff so they can bury you in casseroles.”

  I chuckled. “I do. Love them.”

  “DEA just gave us our suspects’ real names and confirmed they are Sinaloa cartel members. They want to comb the rest of Julian’s land. They think there could be other marijuana grows out there.”

  “Right away?”

  “I suggested they hold off until after the funeral, and they agreed.” She scanned the kitchen. “You’re all cleaned up. I was going to help you do that.”

  “Pete did it.”

  Sheriff Marge raised her eyebrows. “So, he’s useful in the kitchen too?”