Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4)

by Jones, Jerusha

  “Gemma got his oxygen back on fast,” Sheriff Marge said. “They don’t think it was off long enough to cause brain damage.”

  I sagged.

  Pete pulled me close. “How’d it happen?”

  “Susan had gone outside to call her husband. Gemma walked in on a man messing with the tubing and controls, pressing a pillow over George’s face. She’s been treated, and Archie’s interviewing her. ”

  “Treated?” I asked.

  “Slash on her forearm. Twelve stitches. Looks like a knife was the backup plan if shutting off his air didn’t work. Both quiet methods.”

  “Did you catch him?” Pete asked.

  Sheriff Marge frowned. “Took off as soon as Gemma hollered. We think he had a getaway driver waiting.”

  “But you didn’t see them?” I turned to Susan.

  She laid a hand on George’s and shook her head. “I went to the courtyard so my conversation wouldn’t bother anyone. My three-year-old was singing a song she’d learned at nursery school for me.”

  Sheriff Marge sank into a visitor’s chair. “I need to get some things straight. George had a private consultation with Umatilla Nation elders two weeks ago and expressed desire to talk to you, Pete. In both cases, he refused to reveal his concerns to Susan, here, and you, Meredith.” Sheriff Marge nodded at each of us in turn. “So he was worried about something of a sensitive nature. I need to know what it was — or is.”

  “My husband is checking with the elders again since—” Sheila flicked a glance down at George, “—what happened this evening. But if a tribe member is implicated, they would want to handle it internally.”

  “We may not have time for that,” Sheriff Marge said.

  The first wrinkles appeared in Susan’s placid face, at the corners of her eyes.

  “What connection is there between Umatilla Nation elders and Pete?” I asked.

  We looked at each other. The only person who could answer slept on, heavily medicated and oblivious.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sheriff Marge escorted us out. She took a detour in the emergency room waiting area. In a corner by a potted palm, Archie sat across from Gemma, the nurse I recognized from my last visit. She was nodding an answer to something Archie had asked, her bouffant as shellacked as ever.

  “How’re you doing?” Sheriff Marge crossed her arms over her squat torso.

  “Fine,” Gemma replied. “Ready to finish my shift.” She turned her huge pale green eyes on us. They gave her a bit of an omniscient quality behind the thick corrective lenses. I flinched and tried to remember if I’d done anything particularly awful in the past couple days.

  “I’m not sure—” Archie said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Gemma interrupted with a wave of her hand. “I’ve dealt with much worse than this.” She smoothed the rubberized sleeve on her forearm. “Properly bandaged and sealed, there’s no risk of cross-contamination.”

  “What about just takin’ it easy?” Archie asked.

  “Whatever for? Easy is not in my vocabulary, young man.” Gemma stood.

  Archie grinned and rubbed his forehead, then tucked his notebook back in his chest pocket.

  “You got a description?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  Archie nodded and sidestepped around our group, heading for the door. “I’ll get a BOLO out.”

  “Be on the lookout,” Gemma huffed, hands on her hips. “You get him. And I don’t give a rat’s anatomy what kind of condition he’s in when you do. Pound him to a pulp for me.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Now, how’s my patient?” She speed-walked toward George’s corridor, the swing of her wide hips setting her skirt flapping like a ship’s sails.

  Sheriff Marge sighed deeply.

  “Can we do anything for you?” I asked. Who does Sheriff Marge unload her burdens on? As sheriff and a widow with her sons grown and gone, she’s alone at the top of the responsibility ladder. I worry about her.

  She squinted at me, then up at Pete. “Not any more than you already are. We’ll provide around-the-clock protection for George. He’ll be okay. But I’m worried these people might go after someone else now.” She lifted her reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “And I need this trial finished — successfully. We can’t afford a mistrial. There’s no way we’d be able to seat another unbiased jury. The defense would get a change of venue, and then—” She shrugged.

  “So you want justice and world peace?” Pete asked, his eyes twinkling. “We’ll work on that.”

  Sheriff Marge chuckled. “Stay safe, you two.”

  oOo

  I was beyond exhausted, but that doesn’t mean I slept. The mattress felt like a pile of rocks. I rolled around, got twisted in the sheets, kicked them all off.

  Even in just a tank top and panties and with the air conditioning running overtime, I was sticky with sweat. I did sit-ups and push-ups until I couldn’t do any more — eight and five, respectively. I hummed. I held my breath — thirty-seven rushed seconds, then lay flat on the bed panting.

  When I could keep my eyes closed for a few minutes, shadowy creatures lurked at the edges, knives glinting in the darkness. Corndogs exploded into caramel corn, and Fulmer leered at me from his seat in the dunk tank. I wanted to hurl baseballs at the target, but my arm moved in slow motion and I could never seem to finish the windup.

  Finally, I got up for a giant glass of water and a couple aspirin.

  I stood at the kitchen sink and peeked through the blinds. A few mauve streaks lightened the eastern sky. Tuppence padded over and leaned on the back of my legs.

  “What’s wrong?” I tousled her ears. She usually values her beauty sleep more than I do.

  “Mmmrrf.” It’s a warning sound she makes in the back of her throat.

  “Do you need to go out?”

  She growled, a low rumble.

  “Hey,” I said. “There’s no need—” And then I realized it wasn’t her because the growl continued into a vicious snarl. A sound only a cat — a really, really big cat — can make.

  Something slammed into the side of the trailer, rattling dishes in the cupboards.

  “Whoa.” I dropped my cup on the counter and hung on.

  The trailer shook as soft bodies thumped hard against its underbelly. The snarling continued and was joined by the high-pitched squeaks of a small mammal in distress.

  I clutched my stomach. I was listening to the survival of the fittest happening at this very moment under my floorboards. I squealed too, along with the rabbit or whatever it was.

  Then I clenched my fists. I’d had enough of defenseless people and now creatures being attacked. Enough.

  I hollered like an asthmatic Tarzan and jumped for all I was worth, pounding the floor from my side and making as much racket as humanly possible. I stomped from one end of my fifth-wheel to the other, waving my arms and whooping.

  Tuppence, who is not allowed on the furniture, leaped onto the sofa and stuck her head between the cushions.

  After a few minutes, I realized I was the only one still making noise. I stopped by the door and held my breath, listening. Every creature that normally chatters at dawn — birds, frogs, insects — had either fled or were holding their breath too.

  I snatched the slingshot off the dining table and eased the door open. Tuppence eyed me from the sofa.

  “Stay,” I whispered and slunk down the steps, latching the door behind me. I wouldn’t let Tuppence confront a cougar, but here I was doing just that — in my underwear. Not really a good time to dwell on the potential consequences.

  I scooped up a few pebbles and loaded one in the slingshot pouch.

  I waited a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the gray dimness. I dropped to a squat and peered under the trailer. The lumps looked familiar — my spare propane tank, a few folded lawn chairs, an old cooler had been knocked on its side. Nothing moved.

  I crept to the back of the trailer and scanned the open grassy area between the trailer and the river. All
calm.

  A humpy form waddled out from under the trailer’s bumper. I gasped and jumped sideways, blood rushing in my ears.

  The raccoon paused for a moment and studied me, then hurried toward the picnic table.

  One of the boulders near the riverbank growled and shifted. It blinked, its gold eyes glowing.

  I raised the slingshot, squinted between the prongs and let the pebble fly. I think it hit dirt just in front of the cat.

  The cougar rose and took a step forward, head lowered, the muscles in its shoulders rippling under velvet fur. But I wasn’t getting warm and fuzzy vibes.

  My heart was going to pound through my ribcage any second. I fumbled another pebble into the pouch. I stretched the bands but let the stone go too soon when the cat reared back and snarled, its claws swiping the air. But the rock found its mark and sunk deep in downy chest hair.

  The cougar wheeled and ran, turning to look at me once before disappearing into tall grass along the river.

  I gulped deep breaths, trying to regain control of my wobbly limbs.

  I wondered how many of the other campers had heard my banshee fit. It hadn’t bothered them enough to prompt early-morning explorations. They were probably quaking in their tents.

  I needed to get back inside, too, before someone spotted me so scantily clad. Still trembling, I climbed the RV steps and staggered through the door.

  Tuppence whined.

  “I know.” I sank down beside her, and she stuck her cold nose in my face.

  She kept sniffing. Apparently, I’d absorbed enough stressed-out raccoon odor to hold her interest. When her nose hit the space on my belly between my top and panties, I flinched.

  “Stop.” I pushed her away. “I already know I need a shower.” I rolled off the sofa and pressed the coffee maker’s start button on the way to the bathroom.

  As tepid water streamed over my shoulders, I decided the cougar and I had crossed a line that morning and entered into a blood feud. I couldn’t shake the feeling there’d be a final showdown.

  oOo

  After missing the past couple days of work, I had plenty of catching up to do at the Imogene. But as I watched butter soak into my toast, I realized I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the WWII photo documentary until I satisfied a nagging worry.

  Sheriff Marge had said the Wasco County detectives had interviewed George’s neighbors. But I wasn’t sure how forthcoming they would be with law enforcement. Many had checkered pasts or other reasons to distrust police.

  They knew me, at least well enough to say hello and offer a few comments about the weather. And they knew I had a vested concern in George. Maybe they’d be willing to tell me things they hadn’t felt comfortable mentioning to official investigators.

  Just maybe. Given the attempt to silence George permanently, it was clear whatever he had to say was vital. But the waiting was killing me. Maybe I could help him this way.

  I poured the rest of the coffee over ice cubes in a thermos. “It’s too early to bother Harriet. I think it’s take your dog to work day. You game?”

  Tuppence thumped her tail on the floor.

  I loaded the essentials in the pickup, and Tuppence clambered up to her usual spot riding shotgun on the bench seat. I eased the truck quietly around the campground loops and up the drive to Herb and Harriet’s farmhouse.

  I slipped a note under the back porch door, letting Harriet know I’d taken Tuppence with me and that the cougar was becoming more aggressive — and hungry.

  I cranked the windows down, and we hit the road, heading for The Dalles Bridge and Oregon.

  Sometimes beauty shocks me, hits me over the head with my littleness. I got an eyeful of splendor on that drive — dusty light filtering through towering fir trunks, sheer basalt cliffs glowing gold in the sunrise, and a deep blue river glittering as though it held the night’s stars captive.

  Almost numbed by the grandeur surrounding me, I was completely unprepared for the nasty scar rending George’s campground. For some reason, I thought it would be the way I’d last seen it — a muddy bog strewn with junk.

  Now, the space where George’s trailer had been was a ragged gash, reminding me of pictures of tornado devastation in the Midwest. Chunks of George’s trailer were splattered everywhere, and they seemed vicious, menacing, in the sharply angled light.

  Why had no one cleaned up? Maybe the detectives had only recently released the scene.

  I pulled to the shoulder and parked. “You’ll have to stay here, Tupp. It’s a tetanus fest down there.”

  Tuppence whined and pawed the passenger door handle.

  “I mean it.” I hopped out of the truck and slammed the door.

  I picked my way down the rutted road. The dirt had baked into pinnacled ridges so I had to examine each step before I took it or end up flat on my face.

  I scooped up loose pages as I came to them and soon had an armful. George’s beloved books. He read everything — military history, science fiction, biographies, the latest literary fiction, poetry. Maybe not romances. Come to think of it, I’d never seen bold bodice-ripper covers on his shelves. George was too philosophical to succumb to such paltry nonsense.

  A rough chest-rattling cough came from a trailer to my left, and a stooped man with long scraggly silver hair stepped from under a patched awning.

  “Good morning,” I called and waved a few pages to catch his attention. “I’m Meredith, a friend of George’s.”

  The man froze and peered at me with small black eyes tucked under bushy white brows. His faded chambray shirt hung from his shoulders in loose folds. He must have been taller, broader and stronger in his youth, and it seemed all that was left now was his skeleton with a little leathery skin stretched over it. And a few teeth.

  “I know,” he grunted.

  I moved closer. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.” I stuffed the pages into the crook of my elbow and held out my right hand.

  “Winston.” His hands were surprisingly soft and warm, although I could feel every knuckle. He clung to my hand with both of his almost as if he was clinging to life itself. He continued to study me, and I’m sure I flushed under the scrutiny.

  “Come,” he finally said and tugged on my hand, leading me back under his awning. “You’re the one who came looking for the young man who drowned.”

  “Yes,” I answered. That was how I’d met George. It did seem as though our friendship timeline was fraught with troubles.

  “Sit.” Winston pointed to a log stump placed next to a low table. I obeyed.

  He walked into his trailer — no stairs because the trailer no longer had wheels. Its floor rested on the ground, and the threshold was covered in a worn rag rug. He returned with two bowls and set one on my knees. He rested on the stump next to me, raised his spoon and nodded. “Eat.”

  I wasn’t about to tell him I’d already had breakfast. I scooped a heaping spoonful and shoveled it into my mouth. I think it was cornmeal mush in a puddle of cream. But what made the whole thing blissful were the fat, juicy, intense blackberries piled on top. Winston must have picked them that morning from the wild Himalayan vines smothering the riverbank. They’re considered an invasive, non-native species, but that doesn’t affect the berries’ flavor.

  Winston handed me a metal tin of elk jerky. I took a strip with my free hand. I felt like the child in the Aesop’s Fables story who reaches into a narrow-necked jar for a giant fistful of treats then cries when he can’t get his hand back out, not content with moderation.

  Except I was offered all the treats and getting to eat them too. “Mmmm,” was all I could manage.

  “How is he?” Winston asked. “We’ve heard very little.”

  I swallowed. “The burns are starting to heal, but he’s been medicated and unable to speak.”

  Winston set his bowl on the table and interlaced his fingers, his gaze steady on me. He knew there was more.

  “Someone tried to kill him last night.”

  Winsto
n didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. His body remained alert but calm, waiting.

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  Winston stood and held out his hand. “Come.”

  He led me as though I was a toddler and couldn’t be trusted to find the way on my own. It was an odd comfort, though, to hold his hand and feel his hidden sinewy strength. He walked in slow, measured strides, and I kept pace beside him.

  A few other residents puttered about, tending to food preparation and fishing tackle. They watched us, but not with suspicion or even curiosity. I got the impression Winston held seniority in the group, and whatever he did was not questioned.

  “George was tracking,” Winston said.

  “Tracking what?”

  “We did not discuss it.” Winston navigated around a series of crater-sized potholes. “But I observed his pattern. It correlated with tug traffic.”

  “He kept a schedule?”

  Winston nodded. “After a while, his excursions became regular, yes. I think he was watching a certain tug or certain cargo — I’m not sure which.”

  The road dead-ended at the boat ramp. Winston angled along a worn path toward the dock.

  The warped planks sounded hollow under my feet, and already heat shimmered off the creosoted surface. Most of the slips were empty. The boats and their owners would have slid out onto the river about the time I was diverting a cougar’s attention from an ungrateful raccoon.

  Winston stopped in front of a lonely dinghy. The outboard motor was propped up, propeller in the air, the brand name so worn I could hardly read it. A couple oars rested in the bottom along with a dip net, some ropes, an anchor and other stuff I didn’t recognize, but it all looked related to fishing.

  “This is George’s boat?” I knelt and grasped the bowline.

  “I’ve already checked. Nothing out of place or unusual,” Winston said.

  “When did he go out?”

  “Mostly nights. A few times he was gone all night and all day.”

  “I heard he went to see Umatilla Nation elders.”