I leaned in and whispered. “Just my opinion, but I also think the board wants to use fundraisers as a vetting technique for future board members. A few of our trustees are in their 80s, and I think they’re scouting for new blood. The appointments are for life, and each trustee chooses their own replacement.”
“Where does Rupert fit in this?”
“He’s the last Hagg. Originally, the whole board was made up of Haggs, but the family died off pretty fast.”
A look of alarm crossed Frankie’s face.
“Oh, Rupert’s perfectly healthy,” I hurried on. “But he is the last of the line. He’ll need to groom a successor.”
“You?”
“Nooo.” I smiled and shook my head. “I love curating far too much to give it up. I’ve had my fill of dreary meetings and budget worries. I’d rather restring marionettes, research unsigned paintings and figure out how to display pewter tea caddies.”
Frankie patted my knee. “It’s good to know what you want.”
The room was filling up. I watched Frankie out of the corner of my eye while she observed the townsfolk — adults with hugs and back pats for each other, kids with cookie crumbs on their faces playing tag around their parents. The volume level was escalating rapidly.
I wondered what Frankie wanted. A cross-country trip on a lark, and at her age? I guessed she had a destination in mind. I might be looking for a new gift shop manager in a few weeks or a few months when she decided to move on.
Then again, I’d dumped everything, leaving a high-paying job and my family, such as they are, for the great unknown — a job I’d never done before and residence in a fifth-wheel trailer instead of a respectable house. All because of an unfaithful ex-fiancé. And I learned I love the freedom. So who’s to say? Maybe Frankie would stick.
“Looks like Sally could use a hand refilling cookie platters.” I stood.
“I’ll come with you,” Frankie replied. “I’m happiest when I’m busy.”
Soon, Sally and Frankie had the sugar and caffeine refueling well in hand, so I wandered outside. A crowd was gathering on the sloping lawn between the parking lot and the marina — the prime viewing location. I strolled the periphery of the group, looking for someone to join.
Greg had his arm around Lindsay’s shoulders, and they were in laughing conversation with her parents — a nice foursome. Mac had Val tucked tight against his side. They were off by themselves, and Val waved when she saw me. But I didn’t want to interrupt their tête-à-tête. Lauren and Paul and their kids were huddled together on a blanket, the baby whimpering while Lauren rocked her.
Jim Carter, all-around handyman, and Ford Huckle, the Imogene’s groundskeeper and caretaker, stood shoulder to shoulder. As I neared them, I caught a phrase — “loosen the wing nut with WD-40, then clamp…” — and swerved away. I’d have nothing to add to that conversation.
I felt terribly conspicuous, the only solitary person in the whole group. Good thing it was dark. Maybe I could hunker down unnoticed somewhere.
I found a boulder close to the river’s edge and scooted onto it. My toes felt as though they were turning into ice chunks. A breeze rippled across the few spots where my skin was bare, and I pulled my neck into my shoulders, creating as small a profile as possible. My fingers stiffened, and my nose began to drip.
A short khaki figure appeared and plunked down beside me. “Gotta few minutes.” The thin wire frames of Sheriff Marge’s reading glasses glinted in the starlight. “Amos’ll be alright. Doc thinks he had a mild stroke, but as you noticed, he was about as coherent as he ever is.”
I chuckled.
“He did mention that you’d threatened him. Care to explain?”
I told her about the spitting and Amos’s unsuccessful efforts to close the truck door on me and the assistance I rendered him.
Sheriff Marge bounced in silent laughter and smacked her thigh several times. “Serves him right,” she finally wheezed. “Hooeee.” She sniffed. “I’ll hold him to it. Maybe I can resurrect some old law about not spitting on sidewalks.”
“I was wondering if he’s actually pleasant underneath that codgery exterior.”
“If he wants to be. Once he gets a grudge, though, he keeps it, and he’s made himself a few enemies over stupid stuff.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Naw, not you. He had a twinkle in his eye when he told me about the threats.”
“Who then?”
“Well, Spence Snead for one. They’re neighbors, or were, and disputed the property line and hunting rights up there on the backside of Beane Bluff. Amos doesn’t say much, but I don’t think he’s too fond of Wade either.”
“Why couldn’t they resolve it? Property lines can be located and measured, can’t they?”
“Honestly, I think it was something for two bored, old guys to do. The feud gave them something to look forward to.” Sheriff Marge pulled a small notebook out of her chest pocket and aimed a pencil flashlight on it as she flipped pages. “I’m about worn out. I forgot to tell you—” She turned another page, then another. “There. I checked on Frances Cortland of Reading, Pennsylvania. No warrants for her arrest. Not a convicted felon. Driver’s license is clean.”
“Thanks. I didn’t think she was the type to run red lights.”
“She staying long?”
I shrugged. “I’m just happy to have somebody who seems competent and eager.”
Sheriff Marge scanned the crowded lawn. People chatted happily and shuffled to keep warm. “Are you alone? Where’s Pete?”
“He’s helping launch fireworks — on the barge.”
Sheriff Marge directed a level gaze at me over her glasses. “You know Pete didn’t get where he is in life by being in a hurry.”
My eyes widened in surprise. What was that supposed to mean?
“Huh,” Sheriff Marge stood. “Gotta check in with Dale. He’s directing traffic tonight.” She marched uphill, into the dark.
Was that a don’t-get-your-hopes-up warning? Sheriff Marge was not exactly the queen of subtlety — she could be counted on for a straightforward assessment of any situation, couldn’t she?
Pete wasn’t a slacker by any means. Like Finney, he’d done a stint in the Navy then picked a river system he wanted to work and saved up to buy his own tugboat — no easy feat. He took every job he possibly could — I knew because he was gone almost all the time.
Maybe that’s what Sheriff Marge meant. Pete’s professional approach seemed to be hard, steady work over a long period of time. The guy oozed commitment to his goals. Maybe that was his approach to relationships too. I shouldn’t expect a flash-bang, but I could hope for slow and sure. That was alright with me.
A small white firework, almost like a sparkler, crackled from the edge of the barge — the signal the show was about to start, equivalent to dimming lights in a theater.
A chorus of “woooow” indicated the crowd was primed and ready.
The first volley included bright spiral screamers that exploded into showers of gold, purple and green, a couple large dome sprays in red and white, then rapid-fire low-level white geysers. I plugged my ears and tilted back, grinning.
The firefighters and Pete kept us oohing and ahhing for a solid twenty minutes. Gunpowder smoke drifted downriver. My eardrums ached from the constant explosions, but it was worth it.
Slowly, the crowd picked up the chant, “Ten, nine, eight…three, two one.” Then whistles, hoots, hollers and cheers greeted a fantastic grand finale. "Happy New Year!”
Still reeling from the noise, I turned toward the group behind me and saw plenty of hugging and smooching — Greg and Lindsay, Sally and Mort, Val and Mac. In fact, Mac’s hands were taking the scenic route across Val’s backside, and I heard her giggle.
I sighed and squinted toward the barge. Pete was out there somewhere in the dark. I hoped he was wearing earplugs and still had all his digits. He probably had a lot of clean up to do.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and remo
ved a mitten so I could text one-handed. Want to come for dinner tomorrow? 1pm.
I didn’t think Pete would be able to hear the text chime, but he responded immediately. OK. Missing you right NOW.
I smiled. Good.
I helped Sally and Mort pack the scant leftovers, wash platters and coffee mugs, and wipe down tables. The viewers cleared out fast to put little ones in bed and get some shut-eye themselves. Most of the vehicles were gone by the time Sally and I trailed Mort and the one wagon-load of supplies up to the parking lot.
“’Night, Meredith,” Sally called as I waved and jogged toward my frost-coated pickup.
The ice was thin and surrendered to a few minutes’ blast of the defroster. I pulled my scarf up over my mouth and recycled warm breathing air while I waited.
Deputy Dale Larson stood next to his cruiser at the parking lot entrance. He reached into the open window and flipped off the light bar as I pulled up parallel with him. “Hey, Meredith. Great show tonight.”
“Yeah. How’re Sandy and the kids? I didn’t see them.”
“Strep throat. They’re getting tired of being cooped up at home, though. Wish they could’ve come.”
“Aw, I’m sorry. That’s miserable.”
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. You remember when we searched that marsh alongside Highway 14 back when we were looking for Greg?”
How could I forget? Lindsay and I had hurried from the museum as soon as Sheriff Marge told us there’d been a possible sighting of Greg’s car. We’d joined over a dozen other searchers and combed a cattail infested field for several hours, coming up with all kinds of junk but nothing belonging to Greg. Of course, Greg hadn’t been anywhere near the marsh, but we didn’t know that at the time and were desperate to follow up on all leads.
I nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about the glass eye you found. Do you remember where you picked it up?”
“Oh boy.” I blew out a breath. “That’s a big area, and it was starting to get dark when I found it. But I’d be glad to try to locate the spot.”
“Okay.” Dale clicked the top snap of his jacket together and shrugged the collar up against his neck. “Whoo, it’s cold. Drive safe, and I’ll give you a call when everything’s arranged for checking that field.” He put a gloved hand on the ledge of my open window. “Oh, and uh — don’t mention this to Sheriff Marge, okay? I’ll explain later.”
He backed up and waved me on. I wrinkled my nose but rolled slowly to the highway intersection and turned left, toward home.
I thought Dale and Sheriff Marge had a really good working relationship. It wasn’t like him to keep secrets from her. Sheriff Marge seemed to know everybody’s business anyway, and nothing fazed her, so why not tell her? Maybe it was an overtime issue, and he didn’t want Sheriff Marge to know he was working more hours than he reported. I still didn’t like it. I was also way too tired to think clearly.
Tuppence barely acknowledged me with a stretching groan when I flipped on the kitchen light and preprogrammed the coffee maker for 8 a.m. Her rawhide chew toy was a soggy glop on the carpet. I scooped it up with a paper towel and threw it in the trash. Then I pulled off all my layers, slipped into fleece pajamas and fell into bed.
CHAPTER 9
What do you feed a hungry, hard-working man?
Pot roast. I was prepared.
In the morning, I plunked a hunk of beef in a roasting pan, surrounded it with potatoes, onions, carrots and a few rosemary sprigs and popped it in the oven. Next, I peeled and sliced Granny Smith apples and covered them with a thick streusel topping. The crisp could bake while we were eating the pot roast, and it would come out of the oven warm and cinnamony and ready for ice cream when we were ready for dessert.
Then Tuppence and I meandered around the campground, stretching our legs and working off the mental fog from a late night. As usual, we were the only campers. Winter in the gorge is not very conducive to camping unless you have the rigid shell and electric heat of an RV. And most year-round RVers head for sunny and dry southern climes.
The deep blue, almost iridescent Columbia rolled by, slapping at her bouldered banks and reflecting the cloudless sky. The wind had picked up overnight and whistled through bare tree branches like an absentminded tea kettle.
We headed toward the old farmhouse where the campground owners live, the elderly twins Harriet and Herb Tinsley. I check on them every once in a while in the off-season. During the summer and early fall, I see them often enough doing regular lawn mowing and maintenance to know they’re okay.
Herb and Harriet are about to turn 80. Their birthday is tomorrow.
Tuppence and I skirted Harriet’s dormant flower beds and clomped up the steps to the porch. I pulled open a rickety screen door that screeched on its hinges and rapped on the back door.
I waited a minute, then knocked harder. I tried to peer through the door’s grimy window but could only make out the shapes of rubber boots and empty flower pots on the mudroom floor.
I was starting to get worried when I heard a few soft thumps and the kitchen light flickered on followed by the mudroom light. Herb’s head and shoulders filled the window. He rattled the knob and opened the door.
“Meredith. How’re you?” Herb looked tired, stooped. His feet shuffled as though he hadn’t the strength to pick them up with each step while he led me inside.
Tuppence’s nails clicked on the worn linoleum until she reached the rag rug in front of the sink. I glanced around quickly. The kitchen was in its usual cluttered but fairly sanitary condition. Harriet’s eyesight had been deteriorating over the past year, as evidenced by the dried-on rings inside the mugs she used to serve me coffee, but I hadn’t wanted to be impolite and mention it.
“Fine, Herb. How’re you?” I asked.
He sorted through a cupboard and pulled out a Royal Dansk butter cookie tin. A tradition they saved just for visitors. I don’t think they eat the cookies between visits, so the little sugar-crusted squares get staler and staler every time I choke one down.
“Fine.” Harriet usually covered for Herb in the verbalizing department, so his sparse comments were par for the course. “Harriet has a cold. She’s in the front room.” Herb pointed toward the dark doorway into the hall. I took this as my cue to leave him to perform hospitality preparations in peace.
I softly snapped my fingers to call Tuppence and felt my way down the gloomy hall toward the flickering glow of a television. I didn’t see Harriet at first. She was prone on a sagging sofa, wrapped shroud-tight in a crocheted afghan. But two bright blue eyes spotted me immediately.
“Meredith,” she croaked. Harriet cleared her throat and spoke in a clearer tone. “And here I am a mess.” She struggled into a sitting position. “I thought you’d stop by today. You never forget our birthday, and the New Year. How were the fireworks? I caught a glimpse from my bedroom window last night, but I don’t stay up that late anymore. And Pete, is he in town? How lovely.” She patted the cushion beside her, and I crossed the room to take a seat. “Has he proposed yet? Of course, that’s what you stopped by to tell us, isn’t it?”
“Um,” I said. Pete and I had only been dating a couple months. Dating probably wasn’t even the right word for it. Seeing each other occasionally for a meal and conversation would be more accurate. The kind of things you did with friends. But speculation — about anything and everything — runs rampant in Platts Landing. And Harriet is a plotter.
“A summer wedding would be ideal. You can use the lawn out here if you want it outdoors. Herb and I would be delighted to spiff up the place for you.”
I grabbed Harriet’s hand and held it firmly between both of my own. “No proposal. None expected.”
“Oh dear. Well, now. Don’t you worry. He will — he will.” Harriet nodded, the hair on the back of her head matted and pushed up like the foundation of a teased bouffant. “Some men just take a while.”
Harriet’s high school sweetheart had enlisted durin
g the Korean War. He’d come back, but not to her. He’d eloped with a California girl and switched to growing oranges and avocados. He’d had the courage to notify Harriet by postcard.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked.
“Better. Been lying here for two days, enough to drive a body crazy.” She coughed again, but it was all throat — didn’t seem to include lung rattling.
A Kleenex box balanced on the back of the sofa and a nearby trash can was piled high with used tissues. I felt germs prickling all over me. “Been to the doctor?”
“Goodness gracious. Whatever for?” Harriet quickly extended each finger on her right hand, bobbing her head in time. “I’ll be on my feet tomorrow — day four. Yes, I always start to feel better on the fourth day of a five-day head cold.”
“Your birthday.”
“Great way to celebrate.” Harriet chuckled and squeezed my hand. “By not lying here with a tissue stuck up my nose. Bet you didn’t know I did that, did you? Herb, he’s used to it. But I pulled it out real quick when I heard you coming.”
I laughed. Harriet takes such joy in exploring all the novelties life has to offer — she’s like a six-year-old in an eighty-year-old body, but with the wisdom gained from experience not to ask “why” all the time. She delights in each day as it comes, including days with head colds. I admired her outlook, but I also really wanted to wash my hands.
Herb appeared silently and handed me a steaming mug of coffee and a china saucer with a butter cookie on it. Ahhh. One way to be as healthy as Harriet and Herb is not to worry about germs, I guess.
I jostled the saucer a bit trying to find a resting place for it on my knee. A few crumbs fell, and Tuppence shnuffled for them in the carpet. I fingered the cookie and slowly lowered it to her side, hoping she’d be quiet about the gobbling. The cookie was gone in one swallow — better than a dog biscuit any day.
Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Page 7
