Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4)

by Jones, Jerusha

  Pete slid a burger onto my plate, then gestured wide with the spatula taking in the entire panorama. “This. We both make a living on and know the Columbia.”

  “Fishing rights, environmental concerns, what?”

  “Transportation, commodities, diesel engines.” Pete’s jaw tightened. “Babe, I wish I knew—”

  I squeezed his hand. “We’ll go see him as soon as he wakes up.”

  After dinner, we propped our feet on the railing. Cooler air currents drifted off the water. I tucked my skirt around my legs and leaned back, checking out the emerging stars.

  River sounds are the background of my life, and I love them. Small waves slapping rocks along the bank, the tug’s bumpers creaking against the pilings, a train horn in the distance, a sociable frog, crickets, the random sploosh of an unseen creature diving beneath the surface.

  “You’re smiling,” Pete said.

  “Thank you for this. I needed the space after being in the courtroom all day.”

  “I’m claiming tomorrow night too.” Pete scooted closer and tucked my head against his shoulder. His slid his fingers between mine, his palm rough and warm.

  I inhaled the loamy scent of algae and riverbank mud, then closed my eyes and concentrated on the tug’s gentle rocking. The deep droning of a powerful diesel engine throbbed over the water.

  “There goes the competition,” I murmured without opening my eyes.

  “I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything,” Pete replied.

  Ten minutes later, the passing tug’s rolling wake hit us, sloshing our calm platform until I almost fell out of my chair. My eyes popped open. “That was a big one.”

  “Four barges.” Pete sat straight and peered at the lights on the tug’s wheelhouse. He tipped his head, and I heard it too. The engine pitch had changed — lower, grinding, almost wallowing.

  “He’s hit that sandbar.” Pete disappeared inside and returned with a pair of binoculars. “Yep. He should’ve known to go around when the water level’s this low.” Pete turned to me. “Ready to lend assistance?”

  My eyes widened. “Yes. You’ll have to tell me what to do.”

  “Put this on.” Pete tossed me a life jacket. “I’ll try to raise him on the radio.”

  I leaned on the railing and strained to hear. The floundering tug’s propellers produced cavitation, an uneven wha-whaaa-wha that skipped across the water. It sounded as though he was trying to back out of his problem.

  “I can’t get him. He’s probably busy.” Pete handed me a pair of gloves, led me starboard and showed me how to release the spring line. “Just stay here. I’m going to start the engines, and it’ll get very noisy. I’ll release all the other lines, go up in the wheelhouse to get us positioned, then I’ll signal you. Okay?”

  I wrinkled my nose and nodded.

  The engines — first one, then the other — started with an overwhelming roar. I clamped my hands over my ears. Vibrations rose through my soles, up my legs, through my chest cavity and into my ear canals. I’m sure I looked like a disjointed bobblehead doll — nowhere near as graceful as a dashboard hula girl.

  The stern swung away from the pilings. Then I saw Pete waving at me from an open wheelhouse window. I yanked the line off and pulled it onboard as fast as I could, wrangling it into a semi-tidy coil.

  Pete shifted the tug into forward, and we moved into the current. He gestured me to come upstairs.

  When I’d climbed into the wheelhouse, he was on the radio with the frustrated captain of the grounded tug. Pete nodded me into a high barstool-type chair next to him. I was careful not to touch any of the knobs or buttons on the console.

  From their conversation, I gathered the barges weren’t stuck too badly, but they weren’t going to move without some coordinated prodding. The other captain promised Pete a case of Jack Daniels upon successful completion of the maneuver. Pete laughed and asked for sunflower seeds instead.

  “The guys’ll like that,” Pete said when he hung up the mike. “You’ll probably find shells all over the place. We’re not the neatest housekeepers.”

  I sat on the very edge of the seat and gazed out the nearly wraparound windows. “This is so cool.”

  “Yeah?” Pete cast me a sidelong look. “I should’ve brought you out sooner. Too bad it’s dark.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  The western sky held a golden sliver at the horizon, leading into aqua then deep velvet blue. The river reflected the lights rimming her banks in rippled streaks, and the tug in our sights was lit up like an industrial complex.

  “What’s he pushing?” I asked.

  “Scrap metal to Portland, where it’ll be loaded into a bulk tramp ship headed to Malaysia.”

  “Tramp ship?”

  Pete grinned. “The freighter doesn’t follow a designated route. It’s contracted on a job-by-job basis and goes wherever needed. Like taking a taxi compared to riding the subway.”

  Pete became preoccupied with coordinating with the ailing tug — intense back-and-forth instructions and sensitive control adjustments. I slipped out of the chair and down the ladder back to the deck, wanting to see the operation up close.

  The barges loomed in the dark — hulking dumpster-like boxes bigger than most houses. An unexpected jolt sent me careening into the railing. I twined my arms through the bars and hung on.

  The two tugs engaged in a delicate nudging and bumping sequence like a clumsy mating dance. The barges didn’t seem impressed.

  Bobbing reflections beside the front right barge caught my attention — a small boat. Between the darkness and the shifting engine noise of two tugs, it was beyond hailing distance. I leaned over the railing, trying to get a better view.

  A few more lights switched on. From the way they blinked and swung around, I realized they were headlamps. There were at least two people in the boat, and one clinging to the edge of the barge.

  The small boat rocked violently, then the person on the barge started climbing. There must have been a ladder built into the side of the barge. He climbed slowly, as though he was weighed down.

  He made six trips up and down the ladder — up slowly, down fast. Then the boat — a speedboat — I could tell by its maneuverability and, well, speed — zipped by, heading upriver, its running lights off.

  The whole episode at the tip of the barge and the speedboat’s departure seemed either stupid or dangerous. Deckhands know better than to mess around. Horseplay can be life-threatening on a tug. It’s not like a deckhand forgot his lunch box at home and a couple crazy buddies brought it to him.

  I wanted to watch the person at the end of the barge make his way back to the safety of his tug, but he’d flipped his headlamp off. He must have been feeling his way in the dark. Which meant he was an extremely experienced deckhand or foolhardy or both.

  I caught a hoarse yell and looked up. Pete was signaling out the window.

  As soon as I stepped into the wheelhouse, Pete whirled around. “Sit.” He pointed to the chair. “Stay.”

  I cringed and slid into the chair from the far side. It was the first time I’d made him mad. His face was firm and focused, but I’d heard controlled anger in his voice.

  A few minutes later, there was a shuddering push then ease as the barges floated free. The other tug tooted her horn, and Pete backed off.

  “Thanks a million, sailor,” a voice crackled on the radio.

  “Anytime,” Pete answered. Then he turned to me. “Good grief, Meredith. If you’d gone overboard, I wouldn’t have known. When we’re underway, you have to stay in sight, and better yet, within arm’s reach.” He demonstrated by pulling me tight against his chest. “Don’t do that to me,” he muttered into my hair.

  I wrapped my arms around his middle and hugged him back. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  I felt Pete smile. “What were you doing on deck?”

  I tipped my head back. “Did you see the speedboat that came alongside?”

  He frowned.

  “T
hey transferred something to the foremost right-hand barge. A crew member from the other tug met them and put whatever it was inside the barge’s cargo hold.”

  “Starboard,” he corrected. “Did you see their faces or recognize the boat?”

  “Too dark.”

  Pete grunted. “Not wise on their part.” He gave me one more squeeze. “But you have a curfew, huh? Let’s get you home.”

  Ugh. For a few hours, I’d had freedom from the dread of testifying. I didn’t want to come back to reality.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tuppence was accustomed to our new routine. She trotted in front of me on the walk to Herb and Harriet’s farmhouse, her tail swishing in happy arcs, ears flapping. We took the long route, following the path that skirted the perimeter of the campground.

  I was also probably subconsciously dawdling. My stomach was already in knots, anticipating even more grilling from Slade Alden. Yesterday, court had recessed in such disarray, I wasn’t sure what else the defense attorney had in store for me. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  And George — still no improvement in his condition.

  The air was sticky, gritty hot and heavy in its stillness. Usually dry wind whips through the gorge in the summer, but we were having an inversion where surface air was locked in place by higher temperatures above. This is as close to smog as we ever get. The gorge inhabitants became crankier and crankier in direct proportion to the amount of lawn mower exhaust, tractor fumes, wildfire smoke and their neighbors’ recycled breathing air they had to inhale.

  I ran into Tuppence’s back end. She’d stopped suddenly, the hair on her neck bristling. She stared into the scrub brush beside the path.

  I tried to see what she was fixated on, but it was either a phantom — not unusual for Tuppence; she chases imaginary rabbits all the time — or camouflaged perfectly.

  Then a tawny flicker — as the creature crouched lower — and I realized just how huge it was. It snarled — a low, stuttering sound like a purr but much more menacing.

  Tuppence went nuts — barking wildly, her lips curled back, front legs stiff. The cat backed deeper into the brush. I lunged for Tuppence’s collar just as she leaped toward the cougar. If she went after the cat, she might not come back — ever.

  Between Tuppence’s crazed barking and my thrashing and yelling trying to keep hold of her, we scared the cougar off. It wheeled and fled, slinking over the uneven ground toward the river and quickly out of sight.

  Tuppence was in a lather, and I wasn’t much better. I dragged her as fast as I could toward the farmhouse. She fought me the whole way, wanting desperately to sniff out the cougar and take it on.

  Herb came running up, grease rag in hand. “Heard the ruckus.” He took over restraining Tuppence.

  “Cougar,” I panted.

  Tuppence snapped out of her frenzy, did a full-body shake, then pressed between my legs, quivering. I laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut against a wave of dizziness. We were both suffering from adrenaline crash.

  “Where?” Herb asked.

  I pointed. “But it’s gone.”

  Herb’s eyes took on a grim glint. “It’ll be back.” He bent and tousled Tuppence’s ears. “They hunt dusk and dawn, but if it’s starving, it’ll take risks.”

  I was still wobbly when I knocked on the farmhouse’s back door. Tuppence, however, has the short-term memory of a clamshell. She sat with her nose pressed against the door jamb, eager to see what treats Harriet might have available.

  “More questioning today?” Harriet asked when she opened the door.

  I nodded.

  Even Harriet bore signs of weariness, her face lacking her usual animation. Her thin white hair was pulled back in a slack ponytail. “I think we’ll spend the day in the basement. I have some mending to do, and it’s ten degrees cooler down there. Will Tuppence mind being cooped up?”

  I explained about the cougar encounter. “I think she’ll enjoy the peace and quiet.”

  “Poor doggy.” Harriet patted Tuppence’s back. “Take care, now. You have a gun?”

  “No,” I said, startled.

  “Then you best stick close to your trailer when you’re home. No more walks until the cat’s been found. Herb’ll be patrolling now he knows it’s been stalking humans.”

  “I think we just startled it.”

  “Honey.” Harriet gripped my arm. “If you saw a crouching cougar, then it was stalking you. They use surprise against their prey, not the other way around.”

  I swallowed, and my heart jumped in another racing flutter.

  “Tuppence recognized the threat for what it was. You can trust her.”

  oOo

  Still shaky, I repeated the drive to the sheriff’s office, and Archie escorted me to the courthouse. The front lawn was browning in peace this morning, with no bare-footed protesters trampling the grass.

  “You know the way?” Archie asked at the elevator.

  I nodded.

  “Prisoner transport’s running late, so I’m going to lend Owen a hand securing the transfer area. See you in court.”

  I rode the creaking elevator and hurried down the hall to the side door. No sign of Judge Lumpkin or Myrtle this morning. Just languid dust bunnies and an oppressive silence.

  If possible, the courtroom was hotter than yesterday. It smelled like a cross between a library and a locker room — dusty books, floor wax and too many sweaty bodies. It felt as though the air in the room hadn’t changed since construction was completed in 1902, and we were gasping for oxygen. I was immediately drowsy — a servant in a fairy tale castle about to slumber for a thousand years.

  One person wasn’t affected by the ambiance. Sheriff Marge bustled down the side aisle and dropped onto the bench beside me.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, looking pointedly at my arms and legs.

  I glanced down and rubbed at the red welts crisscrossing my skin. “Had to restrain Tuppence from going after a cougar this morning.”

  Sheriff Marge’s eyebrows arched. “Herb told me he’d seen prints. That’s the eighth reported sighting this week.” She puffed her cheeks and exhaled. “I don’t like it — not with extra people in town for this trial and the county fair. Crowded as it is—” She was muttering to herself now. “People wander around, unaware — let their kids roam too far.”

  “All the same cougar?”

  Sheriff Marge shrugged. “Don’t know. Nobody’s reported distinguishing marks. A cougar will cover up to fifteen miles a night defending its territory and hunting. Males will overlap with females but not with other males. The sightings have been spread out. I’d guess two or three cougars, all very hungry.”

  “Why?”

  “Weather. Deer have gone for water, which means the cougars have to follow. But they have to fight for territory to do so. The weaker, younger males and smaller females have trouble extending their territory. And they need a deer every nine to twelve days to survive, or they start looking for other prey. Unfortunately, some of what we have around here,” Sheriff Marge scanned the packed pews behind us, “could be easy pickings.”

  “How’s George?”

  “Blood pressure’s stabilized, and the burns are starting to heal. They’re going to let him come out of his coma slowly. You’re first on his visiting list when he wakes, besides his cousin and Wasco County detectives.” Sheriff Marge lifted her hat and ran a hand across her forehead.

  “Is there a report on the—” I leaned in and whispered, “—bomb?”

  Sheriff Marge gave a curt nod. “Confirmed.”

  “Was it directed toward George — or an accidental placement — or a case of mistaken identity—?” I ran out of breath.

  “That’s why we need to talk to him. His neighbors didn’t have anything substantive to offer. No known enemies. Maybe just an idiot prankster with a random target.”

  “Some prank.”

  Pete stood at the end of the bench, worry on his face. He’d heard the
last part.

  Sheriff Marge stood and eased past him. “We’ll set it right. The Wasco County sheriff is a good man, and he’s as concerned as I am. He’s giving this case priority.”

  We stood at attention at the bailiff’s announcement. Judge Lumpkin entered wearing what appeared to be a Zorro cape. I stared with my mouth open until I realized Myrtle must have taken a pair of scissors to his robe and hacked it off at mid-thigh, thus reducing his risk of becoming entangled again.

  Judge Lumpkin flipped the back of his robe up as if it were a tailcoat and sat with a flourish. His lips were pressed into a thin smile that threatened a contempt of court charge for anyone who dared to comment on his attire.

  The balance of my cross-examination was not as horrible as I’d expected. It seemed as though Alden realized he couldn’t compete with the chaotic culmination of yesterday’s session and wanted to move on as quickly as possible.

  He may have also noticed that the jury was bored and suffering. They were as zoned out as if they had been participating in a reality television rerun marathon — which, in a way, they were. Their eyes were glazed over, and sweat dotted their temples.

  Sitting on a jury is nowhere near as glamorous as crime shows make it out to be. Cramped seats, close contact with people you may not choose to be friends with in real life, questionable lunches and droning testimony. And in Sockeye County in August, the job description also includes sitting in a sauna courtroom for hours on end.

  Deputy Dale Larson took the stand after me to describe forensic evidence collection at the scene. Then the medical examiner from Clark County reviewed the autopsy results. He provides contract services for less populated counties who don’t have their own ME.

  The descriptions alone were gruesome. Then he flipped a foam board around and propped it on the easel, displaying close-up images of three knife wounds. He tapped the pictures with a pointer, discussing the body of someone I’d known and thought, at one time, I was going to marry.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing. In. Out.

  Pete gently pried my fingers off his arm and rubbed circles on the back of my hand with his thumbs. “Want to get out of here?” he whispered.