My purse — and phone — were on the table, out of reach.
Zane towered over us and pulled a phone from his pocket. He dialed and listened to the ringing, his face eerie in the cell phone’s glare.
Frankie started fidgeting, a little at first then increasing. I wanted to smack her. I wouldn’t have a chance at hearing the voice inflections of the person Zane was calling with her wriggling.
Then I realized her purse was wedged between us, and she was trying to sneak something out of it. I eased away to give her clearance just as Zane swore and hit redial.
Then he stretched out and clicked on a floor lamp. Frankie froze, her actions no longer hidden in the dark.
“He’s not answering because he’s in jail,” I blurted. It was a long shot. “He’s blabbing his guts out, so you don’t have much time,” I lied.
I tried to smile sweetly, but it probably looked liked I had indigestion. Maybe I could irritate Zane into a mistake.
Frankie’s couch is one of those bottomless affairs — actually it’s Gloria’s couch since the apartment came furnished. She probably got it at a garage sale. Which meant my knees were nearly to my chin. Comfy for watching a tearjerker movie — not so great for launching a surprise attack.
Anything to give Frankie a few more minutes with what was in her purse. I was hoping she had pepper spray. I gripped the front of the couch frame under the thin cushions and lunged to my feet.
Just as fast, Zane swung an arm out and belted me across my ribcage. I fell on the floor in a heap, gasping. The guy had lightning reflexes, or I wasn’t as fast as I thought I was.
“Who’re you selling to?” I wheezed.
“Whoever’s paying,” he growled, hitting redial again.
“Aren’t you worried you’ll become dispensable?”
Zane made like he was going to kick me, and I rolled away, colliding with the floor lamp’s base and sending it crashing.
“Easy enough to cut you out,” I said, under cover of the new darkness.
“Can’t. I have the whole stockpile.” Zane spit the words out.
I slid my hands forward, felt chair legs and crawled under the kitchen table. I caught a glimpse of khaki low in the doorway to the landing. A head — Owen’s — popped around the corner for a fraction of a second then was gone. How he knew to come, I had no idea, but I’d never been so glad to see him — or part of him — in my whole life.
“Zane Johnson,” Frankie piped up.
“What?” Zane snarled.
“Just wanted to say your name one last time, for the record. You’re despicable, and you can keep your lousy truck.”
Zane slammed his fist on the table over my head, then my head exploded.
CHAPTER 26
I’m not entirely sure I blacked out. But when I gradually regained awareness, I was curled in a tight ball, my teeth ground together, eyes squeezed shut and ears ringing.
Someone was shaking my shoulder. I cracked an eye open.
“Come out from under there,” Sheriff Marge hollered, her voice tinny.
I groaned and slowly unwound. Then everything spun, and I closed my eyes again. “I don’t ever want to do that again.” I coughed and lay limp for a minute, wheezing.
Sheriff Marge chuckled. “Twice is enough for you?”
I wrinkled my nose. The smoke smelled different — not a wood or electrical fire, just chemicals. I crawled out, then staggered to my feet.
Sheriff Marge gripped my elbow and ushered me down the stairs one step at a time. I clung to the railing, still seeing spots and horribly dizzy.
“Frankie?” I croaked.
“She’s alright,” Sheriff Marge yelled in my ear.
“I’ll take over.” Pete’s voice sounded faint and far away, but warm arms wrapped around me and pulled me into his chest.
A few minutes later, something soft and plump bumped into me.
“Here’s another one to keep track of,” Sheriff Marge said and bustled away.
Pete added Frankie to our huddle with an arm around her shoulders.
I squeezed her hand. “Are you okay?”
Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I’m an idiot.”
“There was no way you could have known,” Pete said. “None at all.”
“I didn’t know either — not for sure — until I saw Zane’s reaction to my presence.” I glanced up at Pete. “When did you know?”
“After the second phone call with you tonight. You made me very worried.” He rubbed my arm. “I called Sheriff Marge, and we raced over here.”
“What about Owen? I thought—” I frowned. “I thought I saw him. He wasn’t at the campground.”
“He’d taken George home and was on his way back. He ended up getting here first, and he was the best person to toss a flashbang.” Pete grinned.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” I elbowed him. “What were you doing in your purse?” I asked Frankie.
“I dialed 911 because they record the calls. I figured whatever Zane had done — or was doing — I wanted it on tape. I still don’t understand—” Frankie’s lower lip quivered. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “But it’s over.”
oOo
Frankie and I spent the night with the Tinsleys. Her place was in shambles. My trailer had been deemed habitable by the bomb squad, but I thought Frankie could use the company. Harriet clucked over us and fixed an amazing breakfast, which was exactly what we both needed.
We agreed to keep our usual schedule at the museum the next day — the sooner we resumed normal life, the better. Busyness is a great cure-all.
I left Frankie polishing and straightening in the gift shop and ascended the stairs to my office. I slumped in my chair and zoned out, staring through the big picture window to the Columbia below.
My magnificent river. I hated that people had used her for harm. She seemed indifferent, preoccupied with flinging spray in the air from the tips of her choppy waves.
I inhaled and sat up straight. The sky was eye-piercingly blue. How had I missed that earlier? Our gorge winds were back, rushing down the channel between the states, scouring out the haze.
I stood for a long time with my nose pressed against the glass, watching tree leaves flutter, grass bend, bald eagles soar and a few tugs with barges lumber past. It was as though all the creatures — human and animal — were rejuvenated by the fresh currents.
The phone broke into my reverie.
“Meredith?” Otto said. “The jury’s reached a verdict.”
I sat and leaned my elbows on my desk. “That was fast.”
“Do you want to be in the courtroom when it’s read? Judge Lumpkin has offered to wait for you.”
“No,” I whispered. “But thanks.”
My body might be keeping the schedule, but my brain was a million other places. I finally roused myself to do some real work organizing the roster of speakers for the fundraiser as well as the initial research into a collection of hand-tooled leather saddles I’d unearthed in the basement. If I hurried, I might be able to add a presentation on the history of local cattle ranching to the fundraiser lineup, maybe include roping demonstrations if I could find a willing cowboy.
In the early afternoon, my desk phone buzzed. “Sheriff Marge’s here,” Frankie said.
“Coming.” I hurried downstairs.
Sheriff Marge was waiting for me in the ballroom. She gripped my arm in the same spot Zane had last night. I winced.
“Sorry.” Sheriff Marge let go, but held my gaze with her steady gray eyes. “Just thought you should know — guilty.”
I exhaled.
“I told you they’d come through.”
“What now?” I asked.
“The jury recommended the death penalty. Judge Lumpkin’ll think it over. He’s scheduled a sentencing hearing for next week.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “In reality, years of appeals, but it’s a start.”
I nodded.
“Come on.” Sheriff Marge t
ipped her head toward the gift shop entrance. “I have some more news you’ll both want to hear.”
Frankie and I leaned on the counter by the cash register.
Sheriff Marge removed her Stratton hat and ran a hand through her hair. “Getting windy out there.” She replaced the hat and pulled a small digital camera from her pocket. “We found a stash of projectiles in an unused silo on Zane’s property.” She thumbed through images, then showed the screen to Frankie. “Do you recognize this?”
Frankie’s forehead furrowed. “There are several silos like that, I think. Clustered behind the tractor shed?”
Sheriff Marge nodded. “You go inside?”
“No. He showed me his house, the cow barn and the dock. He pointed out a few other buildings, but we didn’t go in them.”
Sheriff Marge poked buttons until she found another image. “See this?”
Frankie squinted at the screen and shook her head. I peered over her shoulder. It was a rickety wood structure that extended on stilts into a creek.
“Boathouse. Downstream a ways from the dock. That’s where we found the speedboat. Water’s just deep enough to accommodate it. Shotgun pellets embedded in the hull.”
Sheriff Marge scrolled to another image. “Here’s the weird thing.”
“Corn popping oil?” I read the label on a black fifty-gallon drum.
“In the silo with the projectiles. Turns out they weren’t filled with sarin. Zane was retrofitting them and filling them with vegetable oil.”
“Why?” Frankie squeaked.
Sheriff Marge shrugged. “Looks like money. We pulled his financial records. His mortgage is held by one of those mega-lenders. Out of state. They’re foreclosing on the farm.”
“So he was selling basically harmless projectiles to the highest bidders, pawning them off as chemical weapons?” I asked.
“They still would have exploded, but yeah, no nerve agent. We’ll find out when we talk to some of his customers.” Sheriff Marge’s voice was grim.
“I wouldn’t want enemies like that,” I said. “What would the kind of people who buy chemical weapons do when they’d found out they’d been double-crossed?”
“He was unloading them in a hurry,” Sheriff Marge said. “I expect he planned to flee. We seized his computers, so we should be able to identify his contacts.”
“Well, I sure know how to pick boyfriends,” Frankie grumbled.
“We wouldn’t have caught him without you,” Sheriff Marge said. “I don’t think he realized how closely connected you and Meredith are until after his men stole your car. But once he did, I think he was using you to keep tabs on Pete and Meredith, having realized they were a threat just like George was because of what they’d seen on the river. You kept him occupied until the rest of us figured it out.”
Frankie shook her head, sending the helmet hair bouncing. “I’m never, ever dating again.”
Sheriff Marge grinned. “I won’t hold you to that.”
After the front doors swished closed behind Sheriff Marge, I turned to Frankie. “You still need a vehicle. Want to go back to the Sidetrack tonight?”
“I called another potential seller from my list. He’s bringing the truck by this evening so I can have a look.”
I scowled. “I thought you said you weren’t going to date again.”
Frankie giggled. “He’s happily married with four kids. In fact, he’s bringing the two oldest into town for a poultry showmanship 4-H club meeting tonight which is why we set the appointment for 7:00 p.m.” She fiddled with an earring. “What is poultry showmanship exactly?”
I laughed. “I have no idea, but you don’t need to worry. They’ll be good kids — not the type who spill soda on skunks and clog toilets.”
“What are you doing tonight?” Frankie asked.
“I’m buying a teakettle and a book of William Stafford poems as a housewarming gift, then Pete and I are going to visit an old friend.”
SNEAK PEEK
FAUX
REEL
an Imogene Museum mystery — book #5
Jerusha Jones
When Meredith Morehouse, curator of the eclectic Imogene Museum, finds an empty ornate frame, the still life painting hurriedly sheared from its moorings, she and Sheriff Marge Stettler scramble to identify the intruder. Not because his taste in art is questionable, but because the thief’s intimate knowledge of the museum and its collections indicates much more is at stake.
Is the thief a friend or stranger? It doesn’t help that the population of Platts Landing, Washington has just blossomed with the influx of Hollywood movie-types roaming the countryside in search of the perfect setting for their next documentary. Nor that Meredith’s hunky boyfriend Pete’s ex-girlfriend is part of the production crew.
Can Meredith protect Sockeye County’s iconic cultural institution and her beloved employer, Rupert Hagg, from the thief’s sinister intent?
CHAPTER 1
I sashayed Jesamie Stettler through the bowels of the Imogene Museum. She’s Sheriff Marge’s new granddaughter, and she’s adorable in a stocky, dimpled way — when she’s not screaming. Something about the general hubbub and crowds of strangers at our first annual fundraiser set her off, and she was venting the full force of her tiny lungs in protest.
Her parents and grandmother had exhausted their resources, so I claimed a turn and took Jesamie to the far end of the old mansion, hoping her distress wouldn’t disturb the other guests. Her tears and slobber soaked the front of my coral-colored silk evening gown, but it was still less mess than I’m accustomed to as the museum’s curator — I’m usually up to my elbows in centuries-old grime. Not in an evening gown, though.
The taxidermy exhibit housed in the library did the trick. A life-sized dusty black bear standing on its hind feet with bared teeth is kind of like a teddy bear, right? Jesamie considered the idea. She stared, wide-eyed, and gulped back sobs.
Next up, a snarling cougar poised in a crouch on a realistic-looking pile of plastic boulders. The taxidermist had artfully extended the big cat’s claws in the pose, even though cougars normally keep the business end of their toes retracted. Jesamie rubbed her nose hard on my bare shoulder, smearing goop all over both of us.
“Hey, kiddo.” I shifted Jesamie higher on my hip and patted her back. “Why don’t you fall asleep? Then you won’t be so miserable.” As if logic could convince an infant.
I tucked her downy head under my chin and sang the closest thing I could think of to a lullaby — Louis Armstrong’s version of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” complete with deep raspy voice. I totally faked it — not well, apparently — and garnered another wide-eyed stare. Babies must think adults are complete idiots.
We wandered through the petroglyph and pictograph replica displays, Wishram and Klickitat woven baskets, Victorian ball gowns and Indonesian pottery. No one would ever pay to listen to me sing, but after the initial shock, Jesamie didn’t seem to mind. Finally, in the chamber pot exhibit, her little body went limp, disrupted occasionally by a hiccup.
I was only singing because we were alone, and because Jesamie wouldn’t remember a thing about it by the time she’s old enough to talk. The majority of the guests were occupied with the current demonstration out on the museum’s expansive lawn. I’d lost track, but it was either mountain man survival skills or metal detecting or calf roping. Like the Imogene’s exhibits, the evening’s educational programs were diverse, eclectic and hands-on, and the attendees seemed to be having a great time.
I had to admit the idea of starting a campfire with flint and kindling or firing a shotgun loaded with wadding while in your black-tie best held a certain appeal, especially for the city-bred male guests. I hoped they would show their appreciation with their checkbooks later on.
Given Jesamie’s relaxed state, I thought I might be able to sneak a quick check on the collection of sabertaches still en route from Hungary. Because we all know the more often you track a highly-anticipated shipment, the faster it mov
es. Crooning softly, I creaked up the stairs to the third floor then stopped in front of my office door, pondering the few inches it hung open. I was certain I’d closed — and locked — it.
I poked the door with a forefinger, and it swung open on squealing hinges. My desk looked the way it always does — messy. My laptop sat blinking in power-saving mode. None of the piles on the floor seemed to have been disturbed. I stepped into the room and scanned the bookshelves lining the walls — nothing was obviously missing. Maybe I’d been careless this afternoon, distracted by the upcoming event and worried about being able to squeeze into this dress.
Jesamie whimpered, and I knew I couldn’t risk sitting down. Frowning, I flicked off the light, latched the door and locked it. I had to keep moving, keep the comforting swaying going for Jesamie.
I two-stepped a few feet down the hall, then came up short in front of an ornate, gold-leafed — and empty — picture frame. My mouth fell open. Ragged canvas threads jutted from the inner sides of the frame. The painting, a big one — 54” by 72” — had been cut out with a dull blade.
NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Imogene Museum mystery series is a tribute to the Columbia River Gorge and the hearty people who live in gorge towns on both sides of the Oregon/Washington border. It’s an extraordinary piece of God’s real estate, and I savor driving, sightseeing, picnicking and camping its entire length. Hitching a ride on a tug run from Umatilla to Astoria is on my bucket list.
If you’re familiar with the area, you may realize that I’ve taken liberties with distances in some cases. Mostly I squished locations (albeit fictional) closer together to move the story along and also to showcase the amazing geologic and topographic features of the gorge. In real life for many gorge residents, the roundtrip to a Costco or a bona fide sit-down restaurant might well take a full day. This kind of travel time is not helpful when you’re chasing a fleeing murderer. But if you’re not Sheriff Marge and have time to enjoy the scenery, the gorge is spectacular, and I encourage you to come experience it for yourself.
Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4) Page 18
