Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4)

by Jones, Jerusha

“A couple weeks ago he drove his truck, instead of leaving in the boat.”

  “But he didn’t talk to you about it?”

  Winston bowed his head and spread his hands in an open gesture. “Perhaps he was biding his time, to find the best way to proceed.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I made it to the Imogene with half an hour to spare before opening. I usually arrive much earlier and use the hours of solitude to work on exhibits and arrange my thoughts. Today, I had plenty of thoughts but no system for making sense of them. Why had George been so very secretive?

  A dirty white Ford Ranger was parked in front of the museum. I thought I recognized it, but couldn’t place the owner. I frowned. Frankie was usually here by now.

  Tuppence and I entered the Imogene’s double glass front doors. Tuppence’s nails clicked on the ballroom’s oak parquet floor. I heard sniveling and peeked into the gift shop.

  Frankie knelt in front of the glass jewelry case, polishing with such vigor I thought she might break it.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  Frankie sat back on her haunches and turned her face to me. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks, normally plump and smiling, were slack.

  I stooped beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Tell me.”

  “Someone stole my car.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  The memory of Frankie’s purple PT Cruiser flying past Pete and me last night flashed through my brain. Two faces through the windshield.

  I bit my lip. “When?”

  “Sometime yesterday afternoon. I went outside for a few minutes around lunchtime to point a family toward the children’s garden. They’d packed a picnic lunch. My car was here then.” Frankie wiped a tear away. “But when I locked up for the night, it was gone.” Her voice wavered. “I had to call Gloria to come get me. She’s letting me borrow her truck today.”

  That explained the white Ford Ranger. Gloria Munoz owns Junction General, and Frankie rents the studio apartment over the store. And I’d been cavorting at the fair and wasn’t here to help her.

  “You’ve told Sheriff Marge?”

  Frankie nodded and managed a wobbly smile.

  “I saw your car last night. I think two men were in it.”

  “What?” Frankie stood fast, her hands clenched into fists. I thought her brown eyes might pop out of her head. “Oooo.” She gritted her teeth.

  “I’m sure Sheriff Marge will catch them.”

  Frankie stomped around the counter and scooted her broad bottom onto the stool. “Oooo. That toasts my biscuits. How dare they?”

  I tried to hold back a grin. Frankie is so much more fun when she’s mad than when she’s weepy. She’s a feisty little lady. Still, having cars stolen out of the parking lot wasn’t a selling point for our tourist attraction. I stepped back and checked out the front doors. Both Gloria’s and my trucks were still there.

  “Maybe they were teens out joyriding. They were, uh — speeding.”

  “What?” Frankie’s brows drew together in a tight line.

  I remembered that her PT Cruiser was always clean, shiny even — in a county where no one washes their vehicles more than once a year, if that. It was her baby.

  “If they put a dent in it—” Frankie shook her head so hard her brown helmet hair quivered.

  She needed something to do. Sitting here stewing about her precious car wasn’t going to help. “How’re the plans for the fundraiser?” I asked.

  “I have the invitation list almost finished. Just wondering how low in the political hierarchy of the county we should go?”

  “All the way. Every commissioner, committee member, clerk and wastewater superintendent. The more people, the better. If they know their friends are coming, they’ll be more likely to come themselves.”

  “Alright.” Frankie nodded. “I’ll keep adding. I got a list of office holders from Bertha at county records.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “I’m just borrowing it.”

  “I suppose it’s public knowledge.”

  oOo

  I unlocked my office to a blast of hot air. I went straight to the huge picture window that overlooks the Imogene’s broad expanse of lawn and the Columbia River. The Imogene was built way before interior climate control was a twinkle in some engineer’s eye, which means I could at least open the side window panels. Not that it did much good, though.

  Tuppence flopped on the floor under my desk, her tongue lolling out.

  “Not exactly a luxury suite, is it? I’m sorry, old girl. I know you’d be happier at the campground. We’ll take a walk later, okay?”

  Tuppence’s eyes had rolled back in her head, and she heaved a sigh.

  I shuffled through folders of black and white WWII photos. The shipyard images were my favorites — they showed men and women hard at work, welding, hoisting engine parts and propeller blades, fitting pieces together. I wished I knew more about shipbuilding.

  A few pictures captured Chinese Americans protesting the exportation of scrap metal to Japan. I pulled them out — they weren’t in chronological order. The protests had taken place in Astoria and Portland in 1939, before the U.S. entered the war. At the time, Japan was turning the scrap metal into weapons used in offensive maneuvers against the Chinese mainland.

  The Chinese Americans were well aware of what family members and friends they’d left behind were facing, and their protests were successful. The longshoremen refused to cross their picket line. Later, in 1940, President Roosevelt was able to work around the official trade treaty with Japan to embargo defense related materials, one of which was scrap metal.

  Long before recycling was popular for environmental reasons, scrap metal was regularly melted down and reused because doing so was — and still is — much less expensive than extracting new metal from the earth’s crust. But not all recycling is beneficial — depends on what the finished product is used for.

  My phone rang. I dug through my tote bag to find it.

  “Meredith? It’s Finney.”

  Finney Hooper, proprietor of the Burger Basket and Bait Shop at the county marina, was going to cater our fundraiser. “How’s the chili recipe coming?” I asked.

  “Fine. I’ll have more samples for you this weekend.”

  Finney’s benchmark chili is ten-alarm. I wanted no more than two-alarm for our fundraiser guests. Nobody wants to sign a check when their mouth is on fire. Besides, the Imogene’s on a septic system — a very old septic system. We were already pushing our luck having a few hundred people in the building at the same time. If all our guests desperately needed to use the facilities because something from the buffet line didn’t agree with them — well, you get the idea.

  “Uh, but there’s something else,” Finney said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You know that nice lady who works for you?”

  Indeed, I did. “Frankie?”

  “And she drives a purple — a purple—”

  “PT Cruiser.”

  “It’s in the river.”

  “What?” My voice nearly hit the same pitch Frankie’s had.

  “Someone drove it down the boat ramp. Or let it roll, anyway. I didn’t want to tell her because she seems — she seems—”

  “Protective. I know. I’ll walk over.”

  Until I was absolutely sure the submerged car was Frankie’s I wasn’t going to say a word to her. In fact, Tuppence and I took the elevator to the basement and sneaked out the back door so Frankie wouldn’t see us. No point in getting her worked up over nothing.

  Tuppence snuffled in the grass along the curb, glad to be free. A slight breeze ruffled the fur on her back. I inhaled and spread my arms to catch some breeze myself. We could sure use a break in this heat wave.

  From fifty feet away, I spotted a scraggly group of hobbyist fishermen — regulars at the Burger Basket — at the side of the boat ramp. Finney, a head taller than the others, stood in the middle of the bunch. They were squinting into the silty water and gesturing, prob
ably talking over each other.

  Not much happens on the floating walkways around the marina — bait dries out, crusty old guys trade outrageous stories of former exploits while waiting for nibbles on their lines, somebody will fall asleep in his lawn chair and get a sunburn streak at the edge of the shadow cast by his hat. But everything is discussed, usually at volume because the guys don’t turn their hearing aids up high enough.

  So a stolen car dumped at the foot of the boat ramp is a big deal, and the subject of endless speculation. At least they had something to gossip about for the rest of the summer.

  “Hey, lookee here.” A potbellied man wearing a fishing vest that sagged from the weight of whatever was in the multiple pockets winked at me as I walked up.

  I think his name’s Richard, but everyone calls him Whiz. I do not want to know why.

  “The princess has descended from her castle.” Whiz snickered.

  I glared at him. Calling the Imogene a castle is a bit of a stretch. She’s built more like the USS Merrimack/CSS Virginia — a big, blocky hulk with nary a turret in sight. I hadn’t drunk enough coffee yet to produce a snarky retort for the princess half of his comment.

  “Be polite.” Another old geezer poked Whiz in the chest.

  Finney cast a shadow over me. “Sorry,” he whispered, his green eyes merry. “They’re trying to impress you.”

  I grinned. “No problem. You sure it’s Frankie’s car?”

  “Com’ere.” Finney tugged on my elbow and led me up the ramp alongside the Burger Basket and out to the corner of the walkway. Tuppence sat beside me and poked her nose through the railing.

  An iridescent sheen undulated on the water’s surface. Good thing the river was pretty calm today. Someone had already rigged a boom around the perimeter of the spill, trapping it against the boat ramp and the bank.

  “There.” Finney pointed with a bony finger.

  As tiny waves lapped and parted, I saw something unmoving and purple below the surface. Frankie’s car was just about the same color as the oil slick.

  “Don’t know of anyone else who drives a car that color. It’s just not natural,” Finney said.

  “You called Sheriff Marge?”

  “Yep. She’s dispatching Verle. Got to tow it out, whoever it belongs to. Got dumped last night.”

  Whiz sidled up. Tuppence examined him with keen intensity from the knees down. No doubt all kinds of interesting odors caked his pant legs.

  “You’re not offended, are ya?” Whiz asked.

  “Whatever for?” I asked.

  “Sometimes I shoot off my mouth.”

  “Me too.”

  Whiz cracked a smile. “What you’re doing up there,” he tipped his head toward the museum, “is mighty fine. We’re proud of ya, you know.” He stared into the water and shook his head. “What’s this county comin’ to? It’s a shame.”

  Backup beeping interrupted us, and I looked up to see Verle’s fancy rig rolling in reverse toward the ramp. He stopped a few inches from the water line and set the emergency brake. His door slammed, and he appeared at the back of his tow truck.

  Verle’s handsome in a quiet, forgot-to-cut-his-hair-for-the-past-two-years way. Strapping, big hands. He’s a good decade younger than I am — just a kid, really.

  Whiz hustled down the ramp and joined a flurry of activity in the fisherman group. A couple guys were stepping into hip waders and pulling the suspender straps up over their shoulders.

  “They’re going in?” I asked. Dumb question.

  “Got to hook up the cables.” Finney shrugged.

  I glanced at the oil slick. “They’ll ruin their clothes, stink for days.”

  A toothpick had materialized. It wagged from the corner of Finney’s mouth as he spoke. “Small price to pay for bragging rights.” He grinned, revealing the gap between his front teeth. “Wouldn’t hurt ‘em to get new duds, anyway.”

  Sheriff Marge arrived in time to see two rubber-clad fishermen step into the water. For some reason, they reminded me of astronauts on a moon walk — bulgy and awkward.

  She leaned on the railing next to me. “Mornin’.”

  I nodded to her and cast a worried glance at the museum, hoping Frankie wasn’t spying our commotion out the glass front doors. A tow truck backed up to a boat ramp is never a good sight.

  Our two intrepid fishermen waded in to mid-thigh, pulling cable hooks along with them. They rolled up their sleeves and plunged their arms into the mucky water. The riverbed must really drop away from the concrete ramp. From their movements, it appeared Frankie’s car was angled deep, which placed the rear bumper not too far under the surface.

  “Got it,” one of the fishermen hollered. They straightened with their arms dangling to their sides, a slippery sheen sliding off their fingertips, and plowed through the water back up the ramp.

  Verle started the winches, and they began their slow grind. In a few minutes, a purple PT Cruiser rose from its watery grave.

  No question the car was Frankie’s. I didn’t have her license plate memorized, but a gaudy heart-shaped gold locket still swung from the rearview mirror. I’d never asked her what was in the locket. I hoped the photo or small keepsake wasn’t ruined.

  “I’d better tell her,” I muttered.

  “I’ll go with you.” Sheriff Marge pushed off the railing.

  Tuppence and I waited while Sheriff Marge gave Verle instructions about impounding the vehicle, then we strolled across the parking lot. I told her about seeing the two men in Frankie’s car last night.

  “What I don’t understand is why they would steal the car and return it to nearly the same spot — the same parking lot, anyway.” I waved my arm to indicate the large paved area shared by the Imogene, the marina and the county park. “Why risk being seen in the same place twice?”

  “Because they arrived and fled by boat.” Sheriff Marge stopped and scanned the river. Her eyes narrowed as she inspected the men still hovering around Frankie’s car. “Marina’s pretty much deserted after dark. Would be easy to pop the clutch, let the car sink, then hop in a waiting boat and slip away.”

  “What about their arrival? I saw them while it was still daylight — maybe 7 p.m. — right after you called. And they were driving fast, heading this direction.”

  “Maybe they’d already done what they set out to do.” Sheriff Marge frowned. “The timing is right for the attempt on George’s life. No one was paying much attention outside the hospital — cars come and go all the time — but I think those guys might be our suspect and his getaway driver. Makes sense they’d use a local car and dump it when the coast was clear.”

  I watched the Columbia rippling along. She looked sluggish, but that’s deceptive. She moves at a good pace, even in summer. A flotilla of recreational boats already clogged the areas bordering the main navigation channel — full of families and partiers getting a head start on a summer weekend. With this many people on the water, a boat dropping off and retrieving a couple passengers could be seen by everyone and noticed by no one.

  Sheriff Marge sighed and continued walking, her hands clasped behind her back. She concentrated on the asphalt at her feet. “Also means they’re not our average, run-of-the-mill, shorter-than-a-full-deck criminals. This attempt was planned, in detail. We’re lucky Gemma’s so attentive to her patients. Another minute under that pillow, and George wouldn’t be with us.”

  I gulped. I didn’t want to think about that — how close George had come to death — twice. Then I remembered my early morning investigation and reported Winston’s observations and suspicions.

  Sheriff Marge nodded slowly. “I thought so. Those Wasco boys weren’t going to get a straight answer, no matter how many questions they asked. Not their fault — it’s just the nature of things.” She leveled a steady gaze at me over her reading glasses. “Good job. It’s all coming back to the river — George’s mysterious expeditions, his wanting to talk to Pete, where his attacker came from—” She swung a hand in the river’s direc
tion. Talk about a silent witness.

  “Huh,” she grunted. “You coming to the trial today?”

  I shook my head. “Only if Otto needs me. I’ve heard enough.”

  “Messy business.”

  “I have it easy compared to the jury. I just have to tell the truth. They have to decide what to do with it.”

  Sheriff Marge pulled open one of the museum’s front doors. “They’ll come through. You’ll see. Sockeye County people have a lot of fortitude. They’ll do what’s right.”

  oOo

  Frankie took the news remarkably well. We’d brought her into the kitchen so she was out of public view. I think she knew what was coming. She sat on a folding chair and dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin.

  “We’ll go over it for evidence, but I don’t expect much,” Sheriff Marge said. “You can clean out your personal items tomorrow. Or, if you’d rather, one of my deputies can bring you what you’d like to keep from the car.”

  “That’s better,” Frankie nodded. “I’m not sure I want to see Dora in the condition she’s in.” She blew her nose loudly on the napkin.

  “Dora?” Sheriff Marge scowled and lurched forward on her chair.

  Frankie sniffed. “I always name my cars.”

  I almost giggled. I was pretty sure Sheriff Marge had experienced a sudden panic that a woman named Dora was stuffed in the PT Cruiser’s cargo compartment. Being sheriff must jade a person into expecting dead bodies in the unlikeliest places.

  Sheriff Marge puffed her cheeks and exhaled. “Okay. I gotta go. I’m doing crowd control at the courthouse this morning.”

  I followed her into the hall. “How’s George?”

  “No sign he suffered damage last night. But the doc’s being stubborn — wants to keep him under sedation for a while longer. Soon as I know anything, I’ll let you know. I’d like you and Pete present when we can finally question George.” She adjusted her gun belt, her lips pressed in a thin line. “We gotta get his info soon.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I ducked back into the kitchen to check on Frankie’s emotional state. She was wiping down the lunch table with a damp rag. Tuppence sat attentive, willing a few crumbs to hit the floor. No such luck.