“Could Spence have had more than one artificial eye? Maybe he kept a spare on hand.”
“I doubt it. I’m looking at my notes here. The eye we replaced in 2001 was irritating his socket and upper lid. That eye was made in 1996, and the fit had deteriorated significantly. It was extremely uncomfortable by the time he came to see me for a new one. In fact, he wore a patch between fittings while he was in the office those few days. He didn’t want to put his old eye back in. It was the only time I’d ever seen him wear a patch.”
“I have a photo of him wearing an eye patch.” I sorted through the stack of Wade’s photos.
“When was it taken?”
I found the right photo and flipped it over, then flipped it back. “It’s not marked, but I’d say mid- to late-’70s based on the clothing and hairstyles of the other people in the picture.”
“After an injured eye is removed, the socket and orbital implant need to completely heal before an ocular prosthesis can be fitted and worn. Could be the photo was taken during that period. Although I’m surprised he let himself be photographed in that condition.”
“He’s clearly miserable — unhappy and almost sickly — in the photo.”
“Spence did have bouts of depression — completely normal, even expected, in those who have suffered serious and disfiguring injuries. But I knew him as a mentally tough, determined, stubborn man who had a compassionate side. He looked out for those who were vulnerable. I remember him mentioning a nephew who was living with him off and on and a couple widows and orphans he checked on — families of military men killed while on duty.”
Harlan sighed heavily and said again, “He didn’t kill himself, Meredith. He couldn’t — wouldn’t—” His voice perked up. “No — he was planning a trip to British Columbia. He said something about scouting out the mine he owned shares in. He was as excited as I’d ever seen him, which isn’t saying much ‘cause he was a pretty stoic fellow, but still—”
“His death shocked everyone here too — it seemed so out of character. Which is why one of the deputies is quietly reopening the case, now that we’ve found Spence’s eye.”
“Good,” Harlan muttered. “Good. You’ll keep me updated? I wanna know what happens. They need to nab whoever killed him.”
“Absolutely. Thanks so much for your help.”
“Date-worthy?”
I laughed. “Dinner-worthy. However, I’m partial to a certain tugboat captain, and I think he’d insist on chaperoning.”
“Ahh, I see how it is — the old bait and switch. I shoulda guessed. If things don’t work out with what's-his-name, you let me know.”
“If you feel like a road trip, come visit the Imogene Museum. I’ll make sure you get a free pass.”
“I just might do that.”
CHAPTER 15
I left a voice message for Dale confirming that the eye was Spence’s and mostly likely the only one he’d had at the time of his death. I hung up and leaned back in the chair, mentally rifling through the piles of Wade’s family archives.
Spence had owned shares of a mine in British Columbia? I didn’t recall any deeds or property documents in the stacks, but I wasn’t sure what mine shares look like. If they were pieces of paper, how valuable would they be? Were they certificates with no intrinsic value, only representative value — like my college diplomas? Or would a shareholder have to present proof of ownership in the form of the printed vouchers because no other records of ownership were kept? It might depend on how old they were, if they were issued before the days of spreadsheets and databases.
I opened every letter and skimmed them. Several references to crocus bulbs, even crocus crops, which I took to mean saffron, but nothing about mines, precious metals or coal. Two letters mentioned planned visits to British Columbia. Maybe the family had relatives or other ties there. I clipped each letter to its corresponding envelope to keep the dates and postmarks aligned with the correct content.
Wade had mentioned he was going out of the country. Maybe he had gone to British Columbia. If so, maybe his cell phone plan covered Canadian calls. I dialed. Wade’s voice mail picked up.
“Hey, Wade. It’s Meredith at the Imogene Museum. Been going over your family’s documents, but so far I haven’t found anything valuable. Maybe you could give me some direction? What were you hoping to find? The bulbs appear to be crocus corms. Was your uncle a hobbyist gardener? Anyway, let me know how you’d like me to proceed. Thanks.”
I arched my back and stretched my arms over my head. I’d like to see crocus beds. It was the wrong time of year for harvesting stigmas from the flowers, but the foliage might still be visible — if the crocuses had survived a decade of neglect. I couldn’t imagine Wade performing the necessary tasks for overwintering crocus corms.
I neatly stacked all Wade’s paperwork and layered the piles back into the leather valise. There wasn’t much else I could do until I heard back from him. I sealed the remaining whole crocus corms in a plastic baggie — no worries about them molding now — and dropped them and the feathers on top and latched the valise shut.
I’d been sitting too much lately. Pale sunshine filtered through my huge picture window. Greg had a handle on documenting the new arrivals from Paris, and Tuppence deserved a good hike. Maybe I’d knock off early, after checking on Frankie.
oOo
Frankie was keeping a benign eye on an older couple browsing the postcard carousel. She beamed at me when I joined her at the counter.
“How’s it going?” I whispered.
“Perfectly. Twenty-four visitors so far. I can’t find older notebooks to compare visitor tallies. Is that a good number?”
“Decent.” I nodded. “Especially considering it’s the tail end of a holiday weekend that’s usually spent carousing instead of pursuing personal enrichment.”
Frankie giggled. “Most of our visitors have been the type who make new year’s resolutions, I think. Very conscientious.”
“Can you close up by yourself?”
“Certainly.”
“I’m going for an overdue hike — for research purposes, of course—” I grinned, “while the weather holds. Greg’s in the basement, and he knows the routine, so you can ask him if you have any questions.”
“We’ll be just fine. You go on now. Have a wonderful time.” Frankie gave me a gentle shove toward the door.
“Thanks.” I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped onto the sidewalk outside the Imogene’s entrance. Frankie was remarkably competent. It was a huge weight off my shoulders to be able to leave the museum in her care.
I climbed into my truck, and my stomach growled. I’d forgotten to eat lunch again. Good thing pot roast leftovers awaited me at home.
An eager hound awaited me too. Tuppence dashed up as I pulled into the drive in front of my fifth-wheel. She greeted me with a snort as I slid to the ground, then her tail whumped against my leg as she did a full-body shake.
I stroked her ears. “Miss me, old girl?”
She sneezed.
I switched into double-thick wool socks and hiking boots while a cheddar, roast beef and onion on sourdough sandwich sizzled on the griddle. Tuppence hoovered the floor for gleanings, so I obligingly dropped a few meat scraps. I scarfed the sandwich and stuffed a couple water bottles in my tote bag.
“Ready?”
Tuppence whined.
She ran circles while I rummaged under the RV looking for my shovel. Shovels aren’t a tool you use much if you don’t own a house, but I had one — somewhere. I can’t remember why I bought it. I found it under a couple folded lawn chairs and a collapsible canopy and dragged it out.
I flung the shovel in the pickup bed on top of the sand bags and opened the passenger door for Tuppence. She scrabbled in and sat, the tip of her tail twitching and her tags jangling. I laughed. Poor, neglected dog. The best day in her whole world is a hike. I should take her more often.
“You can hunt gophers while I dig flower bulbs, okay?”
; Tuppence licked her chops.
Wind buffeted the truck, and I struggled to keep between the lane lines as I drove west on Highway 14. I hadn’t been to the Snead cabin before, but I had a pretty good idea where it was. I’d scribbled down the address from one of Spence’s letters. The truck shuddered from a sudden blast as I turned onto Four Forks Road.
The pavement disintegrated to gravel after the second switchback. We steadily ground up and around Beane Bluff, higher and higher, and were soon skirting its bald top. The wild grasses were winter brown and wispy and the tangled scrub brush presented a bleak landscape with the wind howling over everything.
Down a short, potholed driveway, I spotted a familiar brown Ford F-150 with a dragging muffler parked next to a dilapidated cedar shake sided cabin. The truck’s front end was accordion-crunched to exactly the size of the engine block. Sheriff Marge must have had it towed up here because there was no way the truck was drivable. I wondered if Amos had been cleared to drive yet after his stroke.
Remembering Sheriff Marge’s recounting of the property line feud between Amos and Spence, I figured I must be getting close to the Snead place. I rounded a sharp corner, and the gravel became deep, dry dirt ruts. Tuppence placed her front paws on the dashboard and semi-squatted on the seat to brace against the jouncing. I clung to the steering wheel for all I was worth.
The front axle hit a rock with a loud clang, and I stomped on the brake. “This is not a good idea.”
Tuppence whined.
I slung into reverse and gently gunned the truck back out to the gravel road. One time when rear-wheel drive came in handy. Wade’s truck had been jacked up, and now I knew why.
I pulled off the road and through an open gate into a rancher’s stubbled field. Blackberry brambles mounded over what was probably a barbed wire fence, and I eased to a stop beside them.
“Ready to hoof it?” I opened my door and slid to the ground. Tuppence jumped out beside me.
The blackberries sheltered us from the worst of the gale, but I tugged my hat down in preparation for a cold trek and grabbed the shovel and a pair of leather gloves from the pickup bed.
Tuppence led the way, head down, nose skimming, as she zigzagged the ruts. I pulled my coat collar up higher and scrunched into its warmth. I cradled the shovel under my arm and hurried after Tuppence. Not exactly the weather for sightseeing.
We came to a stand of matchstick-skinny dead hybrid poplars. A paper products forestry experiment gone sour. Probably a soil problem — not enough dirt epidermis on this bony bluff. I wondered if it had been one of Spence’s projects, along with the crocuses. Faded No Trespassing signs were posted every ten feet on the outermost row of the stand as though the owner was afraid of illegal timber cutting.
An even narrower tire-track lane cut through the stand, and Tuppence veered into the path. A rusty mailbox hung from the side of a petrified stump, ‘Snead’ chipped but legible on the side.
By now, Tuppence was fifty yards ahead of me, and I broke into a jog to catch up. But rough ground and stiff hiking boots brought me back to a sensible stride in a minute. If Tuppence could find the Snead homestead without being able to read the mailbox, she should be able to find me when it was time to leave. I decided to let her ramble and took the opportunity to examine the small cabin as it came into view.
It was in worse condition than Amos’s, but since it was rarely occupied, this didn’t surprise me. I’d heard Wade stayed here when he came back to visit, and it was apparent that staying in the cabin would be akin to camping. I supposed there was a well for water supply.
At the north end of the cabin, a river rock chimney had a crumbled top, leaving a litter of smooth rocks on the ground and revealing the end of a metal pipe that was encased by the masonry — a wood stove flue or vent for some other heat source. The cabin had been built to withstand gorge winters.
The sagging front porch was bare except muddy deer and raccoon prints. I rattled the door handle, but it was locked. I thought of Dale doing the same thing in response to the mail carrier’s concerned phone call and bit my lip. Maybe this place hadn’t felt so desolate then.
I trudged around the cabin to find a similar porch across the back. This was clearly the main entrance for the cabin. Wade had piled all the supplies he’d need for living here — camp stove fuel and a portable red gas tank like what is used to fill up lawnmowers, bed rolls, hatchet, shovel and pickaxe, lamp oil, a shiny Honda generator, several chainsaws and some other complicated-looking power tools I couldn’t identify. I could have left my shovel at home and borrowed his.
About twenty feet away, the door of a crooked little shack hung open — probably the pump house. I strode over and stuck my head inside. Yep — several pipes stuck up from the ground and were capped with a pressure gage, valves and handles. Shallow shelves along the back wall held wood refinishing products — paint thinner, mineral spirits, packs of steel wool, grungy rags and cans of stain and polyurethane. I grinned. It matched the contents of my big filing cabinet at the museum. I had a feeling I would have liked Spence Snead — at least we seemed to enjoy some of the same activities, if for different reasons.
I backed out and surveyed the clearing. Crabgrass and knee-high weeds had overtaken the area, and I didn’t see anything that looked like a garden plot. I caught movement and saw Tuppence’s white and black back bobbing along the tree line. She darted and pounced, chasing interesting scents if not the creatures who left them. I whistled and her head popped up. She sneezed then disappeared again. I strolled her direction.
About halfway across the clearing, I stumbled and caught myself by stabbing the shovel into the ground. I’d scuffed the top off a massive mole hill. As I regained my footing, I noticed a tidy system of mole hills dotting the ground in a grid pattern like an urban street plan. Clearly, the moles were thriving — and feeding.
Ah-ha. Small green leaves sprouted in long rows, partially hidden by weed overgrowth, stretching east to west from my vantage point. Crocuses. The foliage was nondescript but these plants were all about the flowers. The mole hills ran parallel with the crocus rows.
I twisted the shovel and overturned a dirt scoop — just dirt. I jabbed the shovel deeper and gave it a good stomp. Grunting, I pried a large clod free. The dirt was hard packed — or was it? I knelt and brushed my gloved fingers over the clump and felt tight, intertwined nodules.
Corms — loads and loads of crocus corms. The flowers had not been divided in a very long time, and they’d been reproducing until they were jammed together in bulging bundles.
Tuppence ambled up and poked her nose into the hole I’d dug.
“What do you think?”
She wagged and did a little digging of her own.
I’d sliced through several corms with the shovel, and they appeared to be moist and viable. I loosened a handful of whole corms, brushed them off and stuffed them in my pocket. If they were still healthy in spite of the overcrowding, there were probably enough corms here now to plant several acres when properly spaced. Fields full of purple blooms would be so pretty in the fall. Maybe Wade would let me have enough to line the access road to the museum. They’d provide a wonderful shot of unexpected and welcoming color.
Tuppence stiffened and let out a low growl.
She never growls.
I glanced over my shoulder and spotted a large Dodge pickup creeping along the rutted lane through the poplar stand. “Wade’s back. I wonder if he got my message.”
Tuppence growled again, deeper.
I placed my hand on her shoulders where her short fur stood on end. She just stared into the trees. “Hey, it’s okay, girl.” I tried to hug her against my chest, but she resisted, standing rigid and focused with her tail straight down. “What’s wrong?”
Tuppence turned quickly and stuck her cold nose in my face, then dropped into a low crouch. Without really thinking about it, I hunkered down beside her. We’d been in shadow for a while as the sun sank below westerly hills, and the demarcation l
ine was almost to the close edge of the cabin. But the driveway was still in full sun, and Wade’s truck squealed to a stop in front of the cabin.
He swung out of the cab, then reached back in and pulled out two guns — a shotgun and a hunting rifle. He dangled them carelessly by his side as he strode to the front door and kicked it open with a bang.
I jerked at the rough splintering noise, and Tuppence whined.
“Why doesn’t he use a key?” I muttered.
Tuppence wedged tight against my side, and I wrapped an arm around her.
“I’m going to look ridiculous when Wade finds out I’ve been digging in his crocus bed. I should stand up and walk toward his truck like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”
Tuppence whined.
“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe we can sneak out of here, not have to explain—”
Wade burst from the cabin and around to the back of his truck. Why was he in such a hurry?
I was struck again by how large he was — broad shoulders and big hands. I wondered if he’d played football in college too. He lifted a roll of what looked like wire and another gas tank out of the bed. He plunked the tank next to the front porch, then moved to a small window just above ground level and pried it open.
I hadn’t noticed before, but the cabin must have a daylight basement, or at least a root cellar. Wade unwound about fifteen feet of wire and fed it into the open window, then he went back inside. He didn’t appear to be in the mood for socializing.
I scrambled to my feet and broke into a quick lope. I headed toward the convergence of the driveway and poplar stand. Tuppence tripped over my heels, then took the lead.
Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) Page 11
