Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3)

by Jones, Jerusha

  SIGHT

  SHOT

  an Imogene Museum mystery — book #3

  Jerusha Jones

  When asked to research old documents for a local family, Meredith Morehouse, curator of the eclectic Imogene Museum, jumps at the chance. As if she didn’t already have enough to do — hiring a new gift shop manager; keeping tabs on Rupert Hagg, the eccentric museum director whose naivety regarding the wiles of a persistent gold-digging newcomer may prove problematic; not to mention finding time to see Pete Sills, the hunky tugboat captain she’s just started dating.

  Then Meredith’s investigation unearths hints that a decade-old suicide might not have been suicide after all. So many secrets in the small, riverside town of Platts Landing, Washington. Will someone kill again to hide the truth?

  Copyright © 2013 by Jerusha Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Cover design by Elizabeth Berry MacKenney. www.berrygraphics.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Sneak Peek Book #4 – Tin Foil

  Notes & Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  I plopped in my chair, then froze, hands hovering over the keyboard. After two years as curator of the Imogene, I know all her noises — old building noises — creaks and clacks, the moan and rattle of loose, wood-framed windows, floorboards squeaking as they settle deeper on rusty nails.

  This was a new noise. Regular, but not so regular as to be mechanical. I held my breath. The sound rose in volume — softly, louder, gurgle, gurgle, then died.

  I counted slowly to fifteen. There it was again. Similar, but not exactly the same.

  The noise sounded an awful lot like my neighbor in my old college apartment building. He was an offensive lineman for our university’s mediocre football team, and he shook gypsum dust off both sides of the paper-thin walls with his snoring. The nicest guy, but it was still hard to greet him cheerfully when we met up for our 8:00 a.m. class. He was at our ten-year reunion. One hundred pounds heavier and just as genial. Sells motocross bike parts. Not married, yet — one thing we have in common.

  The sound again — pitching up at the end as though ratcheting into a higher gear.

  Did I mention I had unlocked the front doors myself, and locked them again behind me? I was supposed to be alone in the old mansion, at least until the new cashier/gift shop attendant, Edna Garman, arrived at 9:45 to prepare the museum for its 10:00 opening.

  I quickly scanned my office for some measure of protection. Where’s a baseball bat when you need one? I settled for an old map tube. Flimsy, but four feet long.

  I tiptoed out of my office and waited, listening hard.

  Gkgkgkawkaw tchkaw gork shhheww.

  I cocked my head. Where was it coming from?

  The Imogene has so many nooks and crannies and hard surfaces — lath and plaster walls, oak floors, stairs and banisters. The sound bounced and ricocheted, but it was too muffled to be on the third floor.

  I snuck down the stairs one step at a time, avoiding the creaky spots.

  Gkgkgkawkaw tchkaw gork shhheww splack eeeka squeeeeak, sigh.

  My heart thumped faster. The last few notes were definitely the sound of squeaky springs in an old mattress.

  The only bed in the mansion’s fourteen bedrooms is in the chamber pot display room on the second floor. I hugged the wall and inched down the hallway.

  The door to the chamber pot exhibit was open a few inches. I clung to the doorframe and slid sideways until I had an eye at the opening. Two swaddled forms lay on the bed.

  I slid a little farther. One of the forms was topped with disheveled white hair. The other head was bald and shiny, with a bulbous nose protruding above the sheet.

  I should have expected it, but I didn’t.

  Gkgkgkawkaw tchkaw gork shhheww.

  I jumped and dropped the map case. It clattered on the floor.

  One eye in the bald head popped open.

  I pushed the door open halfway and managed a wobbly smile.

  His other eye popped open. “Good morning. We were wondering when someone would let us out.” The man sat up, revealing a white sleeveless t-shirt and fuzzy-haired shoulders, and patted his companion. “Ginny, wake up.”

  Ginny moaned and rolled over, her back to him.

  The man winked at me and pinched Ginny’s bottom through the blankets. Ginny grunted and slapped his hand away.

  I grew warm, and I think my face may have matched the color of the gaudy pink roses on the Victorian transferware chamber pot in the nearest display case. I was suddenly mesmerized by a crack between the floorboards.

  “Who’d have thought we’d spend our anniversary locked in a museum?” the man said. “We have to put this in our new year’s letter to family and friends.”

  My jaw dropped while my mind scrambled over itself trying to work out the implications of his statement. Locked in the museum? Overnight?

  A PR nightmare, not to mention the anxiety and discomfort they must have experienced.

  My hand flew to my mouth. “I—I’m awfully sorry.”

  “Great adventure,” the man said. “You’re a pretty little thing. Who are you?”

  “M—Meredith Morehouse. Curator. Oh, I am so sorry.” I stepped closer, then thought better of it. Maybe they needed some privacy to make themselves presentable. “I’ll just, uh, I’ll wait in the hall. When you’re ready, I’ll let you out. But I—I’d like to know how this happened.” I backed out of the room, closing the door behind me.

  I leaned against the wall and chewed my lip. Ginny and the man talked in low tones on the other side of the door. There was shuffling and bumping, then Ginny giggled. Maybe they weren’t angry — oh, how I hoped they weren’t angry. What a dreadful mistake.

  The man cracked the door open and stuck his head out. “Ah, yes. We’re ready. I’m Wallace.” He stepped into the hall, hand-in-hand with Ginny. “And this is my bride of fifty-two years, Virginia.”

  I grinned. “Congratulations.”

  Ginny touched my arm. “You’re a dear. Did we startle you? Wally snores like the dickens.”

  I shook my head and smiled at Wally. “It’s good you do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known you were here. I’m so glad you found the bed and blankets to keep warm. What happened?”

  “Well, we knew we were late,” Ginny said. “But Wally really wanted to see the model cannon collection. He collects them too, you know.”

  “Always been interested in anything that goes BOOM,” Wally interrupted, loudly.

  “So we tried to hurry and thought there’d be an announcement. You know, ‘The museum will be closing in five minutes’ — something like that. Then all of a sudden, the lights went out. All of them. We ran back through the ballroom — well, as fast as we can run at our age.” G
inny laughed. “The glass doors were locked, and the only car in the parking lot, besides ours — a light blue Volkswagen Beetle — was pulling away. We waved and pounded on the doors, but I’m not surprised she didn’t hear us.”

  “We looked for a phone but couldn’t find one, and we’d left ours in the car,” Wally said. “Thought maybe there was one in the gift shop, but those doors were locked too.”

  I nodded. The museum’s two land-line phones are in the gift shop and my office, which are both routinely locked when not occupied.

  “I am so sorry.” I exhaled. “I know I can’t make this up to you.”

  “No need.” Wally’s laugh boomed too. “Bet none of our friends can top this.” He supported his jiggling belly with both hands.

  “I’m embarrassed. We don’t normally treat our visitors this way.”

  “Not to worry, dear,” Ginny said. “We were quite comfortable. We were going to stay in a hotel anyway.”

  I rubbed my forehead, then tried to pat down my hair. My unmanageable brown curls were probably standing on end from the shock. “Are you hungry? I have a friend who owns a winery and bistro just a few miles down Highway 14. I’d like to call him and arrange brunch for you. And I insist on having the museum pick up the tab — part of our B&B package.” I smiled, hoping they’d catch my joke.

  “What do you think?” Wally turned to his wife.

  Ginny leaned in and pecked his cheek. “Sounds lovely.”

  I escorted them to the entrance and gave them directions to the Willow Oaks tasting room. I also asked for their phone number and tapped it into my phone’s contact list. I’d call later and apologize again. They drove away in the tan sedan I’d parked my pickup next to. I relocked the doors.

  It’s not unusual for people to leave their cars in the large parking lot shared by the Imogene Museum and the county park and marina. And Wally and Ginny’s car had Washington plates, so I didn’t think much of it. But from now on, I would treat any car left after hours as cause for inquiry.

  And the light blue Beetle seen leaving last night? I clenched my fists. Edna Garman’s.

  I’d fired two people at my old job as a director of marketing. One for failure to appear, and one for pilfering. Never for incompetence. I wished I’d slept in.

  oOo

  I’d hired Edna because I was desperate and because she was boring. So boring that I felt sorry for her. I figured minding the gift shop would spice up her life. It had not occurred to me that I should check if she knew how to count, add and subtract.

  I was desperate because Lindsay Smith, our long-time gift shop manager, was going off to college the middle of January. I’d run ads and posted flyers for the position, but received little interest over the Christmas holiday.

  Finally, Edna called. She had arrived on time for her interview, dressed in tan pants that matched her stiff, shoulder-length hair and a pale blue shirt that matched her eyes. A slender, drab woman in her thirties.

  I’d asked Edna about art-related hobbies, interest in local history and Columbia River Gorge geology — the subjects our visitors usually inquire about. She’d answered most questions with negative monosyllables, but she did say she liked to draw. She lived with her mother, an arrangement that seemed mutually agreeable, and she had a driver’s license and social security number. She had some experience cashiering at a pet store that had since closed. I thought, hoped she just needed outside stimulus. I was looking forward to watching her personality emerge. Some people don’t interview well.

  Now, two days into the job, she’d failed to tally how many visitors entered and left the museum and verify the building was empty before locking up — a responsibility I had reviewed with her. Maybe we were just lucky all our visitors departed on time the first day.

  I paced the ballroom inside the museum’s double door entrance, watching for Edna’s Beetle. The sooner I got this over with, the better for both of us.

  Maybe I’d skimmed over the tallying concept too quickly for Edna. Maybe she was too shy to tell me she didn’t understand. I hurried into the gift shop and pulled the spiral-bound notebook from under the cash register. It was open to the place where I’d written ‘Thursday, December 26’ and drawn two columns labeled ‘in’ and ‘out.’ There were no hash marks for Thursday and no notation of Friday. The rest of the page and a dozen pages following were filled with doodles — cats, mostly, and butterflies.

  Oh no.

  I popped open the cash register and was grateful to see the drawer wasn’t empty. The usual scanty selection of bills and coins occupied the compartments. I should have monitored Edna more closely. I had become accustomed to Lindsay’s efficiency and too immersed in my own work.

  Pounding rattled the front doors. My sweat glands went into overdrive, and I swallowed. What should I say to her?

  More pounding. Then I realized that if Edna had arrived, she would have let herself in with the set of keys I gave her.

  I tucked the notebook under my arm, hopped off the stool and scooted around the counter. A burly man in an olive green canvas field jacket, jeans and boots waved and pointed to the crash bar on the glass door. He mouthed the words, “Could you open early?”

  We don’t usually have people beating down the doors to see the Imogene’s eclectic exhibits, but I appreciate visitors who are enthusiastic about our artifacts. I unlocked the doors and pushed one open for him.

  “Saw the lights on. I’m tight for time,” the man said. His dark blond hair was cut military-short, and he had a mustache and goatee trimmed around thick, fleshy lips. He carried a beat-up leather valise, as large as a carpetbag and crinkled with age.

  “No problem. Is there an exhibit you’re particularly interested in? I can show you where it is.”

  “No, thanks.” He shifted the valise to his left hand and stuck out his right. “I’m Wade Snead. Was wondering if you’d take a look at some family papers. See if there’s anything of value.”

  I shook his hand. “Meredith Morehouse. Curator. But it sounds like you need to talk to a document appraiser. I could give you a few names.”

  “We’re a local family. Figured you’d have archives to compare against.” He held the valise toward me, shaking it a little the way you’d tease a dog with a bacon strip.

  Okay, so maybe I was salivating. “I’m not qualified. I could do some research, but I couldn’t assign value — at least not officially.”

  “Whatever you can do would be great. I have to go out of the country for a few days—”

  “Oh!” I said, accidentally cutting Wade off.

  Edna had snuck in. There’s no better word for it. And she was standing just behind and to the right of Wade, her face pinched. She looked me up and down, took in the notebook under my arm and squinted. Two bright pink spots appeared on her cheeks. “I quit!” she yelled.

  Wade whirled around, and we both stared at her.

  I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Okay.” I nodded. “In fact, that’s fantastic.”

  “You — you can’t just—” Edna’s hands tightened into fists, one of which held the museum key ring. “I’ll sue!” She launched toward me.

  I gasped and stumbled backward. It took a second to realize that while Edna’s arms and legs were moving, she wasn’t going anywhere. My heartbeat raced in my ears.

  “Let me go!”

  “No.” Wade frowned. “You need to think about this.”

  “You—” Edna swiveled and tried to kick Wade’s shins.

  He shifted his grip from her coat collar to her shoulders and held her in a stiff-arm block. She flailed ineffectually, turning redder by the moment.

  “You should leave,” Wade said.

  I jumped forward, holding a finger in the air. “Just a minute. I need the keys.”

  Edna suddenly went stiff and locked her arms behind her back. She fixed me with a vicious glare.

  “I’ll trade.” I flipped the pages of the notebook. “Your drawings for my keys.”

 
Her eyes darted back and forth as she considered. Then her hand jutted forward, her knuckles white around the keys.

  I advanced slowly.

  She lunged for the notebook, but I pulled it back.

  “Keys.” I held my other hand out, palm up.

  She dropped the keys in my palm and snatched the notebook. She backed up, clutching it to her chest, then turned and barged through the front doors. The Beetle’s tires squealed on the pavement as she sped away.

  I exhaled. The keys in my hand jangled from my shaking. I stuffed them in my jeans pocket.

  Wade chuckled.

  I turned to him. “You know Edna?”

  “Went to high school together. Hasn’t changed much.” He ran a hand through his short hair. “Always was an odd bird.”

  “Thanks for restraining her.”

  Wade stooped, picked up the valise and handed it to me, his eyebrows raised in a question. “So we’re even?”

  I wrapped my arms around the bag and hugged it, surprised by its heft. “Sure.” I grinned. “Phone number? Way I can contact you?”

  Wade pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a business card. “Phone, e-mail — it’s all there. Appreciate it.” He tucked the card between my fingers.

  Wade left the museum and climbed into his muddy Dodge Ram pickup. A big truck for a big guy.

  And a big bag. I let it slide to the floor. “Whew.” I flipped his card over. It read Wade Snead, Owner & Contractor, Snead HVAC, and the phone number had an area code I didn’t recognize.

  I hauled Wade’s bag up to my office then hustled back downstairs to officially open the museum. I’d have to pull gift shop duty today and put all research on hold until I could find a replacement for Edna.

  CHAPTER 2

  The confrontation with Edna bothered me. She’d gone from placid to irate so fast and without provocation. I dialed Sheriff Marge Stettler. Sheriff Marge knows everyone in Sockeye County, and she’s also a good friend.

  “Yep,” Sheriff Marge said.