Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) (10 page)

I skimmed for typos, then hit print. The ancient printer started into its ten-minute warm-up exercises. Maybe Rupert would buy me a new printer if I put it on my Christmas list. But if I had to decide between a new printer and whatever Rupert was scrounging at the Les Puces flea market, I
’d take the flea market find any day.

Someone rapped on the doorframe.

I spun around. “Hi. I was just thinking about you.”

Sheriff Marge skirted a filing cabinet and leaned against a bookshelf, arms folded across her midsection. I thought she might be offended if I offered her the only chair in the room
— the one I was sitting on — so I stayed put.

“
How was your Thanksgiving?”

“
Hectic. Archie told me you stopped by the jail and brought food for everyone. Thanks for doing that.”

“
Glad to. So is Val getting released?”

“
Yep. Already done — first thing this morning.” Sheriff Marge shook her head. “When you have two domestics in one day — one ending in a suicide and the other involving a repentant hurler of soup cans, well then your perspective changes. Your friend Ham had a chat with the PA — one prosecuting attorney to another, and they agreed.”

“
He’s not my friend. What about damages?”

“
He’s paying for everything. Even spent yesterday helping Gloria clean up. That sure smoothed things over.”

“
He is smooth.” I pressed my lips together.

“
Uh-huh.” Sheriff Marge sighed. “Now about our other situation.” She reached out and pushed the door shut. “Got calls back from a couple interested agencies this morning. Treasury and the FBI. They don’t agree with each other about whose domain this problem might fall under. They’re both sending an agent, but with the holiday and their incredibly heavy workloads—” Sheriff Marge sniffed, “—it’ll be a day or two before they get here.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Uh-huh. Have you tried contacting the gallery the crate was addressed to?”

“
No. Was I supposed to?”

Sheriff Marge shrugged.
“No, but I’m curious.”

I pulled over my copies of Terry
’s bills of lading and picked up my cell phone.

Sheriff Marge tapped my arm.
“Use the museum line. Let’s keep it a call from one art institution to another.”

I found the Rittenour Gallery
’s phone number on Terry’s paperwork and dialed. I hit the speaker button, and we both listened to the buzzing tone.

A woman answered after the sixth ring.
“Crosley & Associates. How may I help you?”

“
O-oh.” I said. “I thought I was calling the Rittenour Gallery.”

“
No gallery. Just a bunch of bean-counters.” The woman laughed. “The office is closed for the holiday, but I have a ton of stuff to catch up on, so here I am. Answered the phone out of habit. We get lots of calls for an aquarium supply company. I guess they had our number before we did. We do have a Rittenour here — Earl Rittenour — one of the CPAs, but no gallery. What number did you dial?”

I took a breath
— because the woman didn’t seem to — and read the phone number off the bill of lading.

“
That’s our number all right. I bet you want to talk to Earl. He collects art — if you can call it that. Horrible little wood carvings from Africa. They’re just grotesque, but he seems to like them. I wonder if he’s thinking of starting a gallery? I bet Mona doesn’t know. She’s the bossiest, clingiest wife I’ve ever met. That’s probably why he had you call here. Just a minute — I think—” The woman’s voice faded. Then she was back. “Here it is. He’s on vacation for a few days, and I don’t want to give you his home phone number just in case he’s hiding something from Mona — that would be terrible, wouldn’t it? So here’s his cell phone number. Ready, hon?”

I gulped and grabbed a pen.
“Yep.”

I scribbled Earl
’s personal number on the bill of lading. “Thanks so much.”

“
Any time. You have a great day. And remember Crosley & Associates for all your accounting needs.”

Sheriff Marge and I enjoyed a few moments of silence.

“Whew,” Sheriff Marge finally said. “If only it was always so easy.”

“
Call his cell phone?” I asked.

“
Might as well. Let’s hope Mona doesn’t answer.”

No one answered.

After the generic voice mail instructions and beep, I said, “Uh, hi. This is Meredith Morehouse from the Imogene Museum in Platts Landing, Washington. There was a little mix-up in a delivery on Wednesday, and we ended up with a crate addressed to you — or, uh, to the Rittenour Gallery, I guess. Anyway, the secretary at your office gave me this number. I was wondering if you’d like to make arrangements—” I lifted my eyebrows at Sheriff Marge, who circled her finger in the air. Keep going, keep going. “Uh — to pick up the crate, or let me know what you want done with it. Thanks.” I recited the museum’s phone number and hung up.

“
Sheesh. Trying to tell the truth, but not the whole truth, is hard.” I exhaled. “Did I sound too phony?”

“
Good enough. We’ll see what happens.”

“
What about the, uh — the contents of the crate?”

“
You have them squirreled away?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Then let’s leave them where they are for now. I’m sure the feds will have an opinion about what to do. In the meantime, the fewer people who know about them, the better.”

CHAPTER 9

After Sheriff Marge left, I began a landscape plan for the children
’s garden. I wanted it placed in the sloping lawn between the museum and the river where the view was spectacular. Several large shade trees dotting the area would give picnickers options.

I cut out five small bits of paper, labeled them Mole, Ratty, Toad, Badger and Otter and pushed them into different configurations. Having an odd number was good, but who should go in the middle? Toad, of course. Or maybe placing them in a circle would be better. But wouldn
’t they all want to see the river? A semicircle. Ah-ha. It would be so fun to add props — a rowboat with a luncheon basket tucked under the seat, a horse and cart, an old jalopy for the motorcar — but I was getting carried away.

Maybe it
’d be better to forgo formal landscaping and instead encourage native wildflowers to fill in around the statues — camas lilies, lupine, pink phlox, yellow arrow-leaf balsamroot, asters. I made a list. Someone from the Washington Native Plant Society could give me more ideas.

“
Do you always work so hard?”

I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing. Ham. I should have told Lindsay to bar him from the museum, but it hadn
’t occurred to me that he would return.

“
I just wanted to apologize for that little misunderstanding the other night.” Ham sat on the edge of my desk and reached for my hand.

I tucked my hands into my lap, under the desk, and frowned at him. His right eye was surrounded by deep purple shadow.

He looked around. “Hey, you got rid of those horrible wood statues. I’m glad. Those things gave me the willies.”

My eyes widened
— I had to change the subject, fast. “I heard you convinced the PA to drop the charges against Val, and you helped Gloria clean up the store. That was nice of you. Thanks.”

Ham shrugged.
“Least I could do. It was partly my fault. I should have been more clear about my plans with Val.”

“
Uh-huh.”

He leaned toward me.
“About my plans to propose to you. You will, won’t you? Marry me? You know we’re great together.” He slid closer.

I pushed with my foot, and my chair rolled back, bumping to a stop against a box of Native American stone fishing weights.
“No.”

I almost cheered. I
’d said it! Clearly, distinctly and unequivocally. Ham no longer held me tongue-tied.

“
Meredith, I know my record’s not flawless. I’ve made mistakes. But I’m going to show you that I’ve changed. I’m a new man, compassionate and sensitive.”

“
You’re running for office.”

“
Yes!” Ham’s crooked grin widened. “Fundraising banquets, press conferences — we’ll make a great team. And once I’m on the bench, I’ll be invited to lecture at law schools, and you can go with me. Your background in the management of a cultural institution will be very impressive. Maybe they’d let you lecture too — for arts programs or something.”

“
You pretty much have to reach the Supreme Court level before anyone’s interested in listening to lectures.”

Ham waved dismissively.
“I’ll get there.”

“
You’ve got to be kidding.”

“
No. I’m the right age to start this process. Experienced and mature, but still early in my career. I have a real shot at it.”

I snorted.

A look of consternation crossed Ham’s face, and he opened his mouth. The ringing phone cut off whatever he was going to say.

I scooted my chair to the desk and answered.
“Hello?”

“
Jim Carter’s here,” Lindsay said. “And he wants to know where you want the holes.” There was a scratchy sound, and then Lindsay asked in a muffled voice, “What’s that mean?”

“
He’s going to install the new statues — outside.”

“
Oh, good. The way he said it, I thought he brought a wrecking ball and was ready to start swinging it.”

“
I’ll be right there.”

God bless Jim Carter and his impeccable timing.

I stood. “The answer’s no. It will always be no. I realize this is difficult for you to comprehend, but I can assure you I will never change my mind. Go away — shoo.” I made flapping motions toward the door.

Ham flushed. Little beads of sweat popped out on his temples.
“You need to hear me out.”

“
No.” I wheeled and strode out of my office, leaving Ham and his thick skull behind.

Jim stood in the gift shop entrance, hands stuffed in his pockets, elbows protruding and feet spread wide. I peered around him, at Lindsay who shrugged an
‘I didn’t know what to do with him’ motion, palms up.

“
Let’s go outside.” I tucked a hand inside his elbow and led him along the muddy footprint trail he’d deposited on his way in.

A small rusty dump truck pulling a trailer with an even smaller, rustier backhoe on it sprawled lengthwise across several parking spots, blocking in Ham
’s shiny red Corvette.

“
Oh. First thing — you need to move your truck so that car can leave,” I said.

Put a dent or two in it for my sake, I thought, but held my tongue.

Jim moved his truck and rejoined me on the lawn, shovel in hand. We strolled toward an Oregon white oak. Since it wasn’t crowded by other trees, the branches arched in a perfect dome close to sixty feet across.

“
I don’t want the digging to interfere with any root systems, so can the statues go on the south edge of this tree? In a semicircle, facing the river?”

Jim checked the oak
’s canopy, took fifty paces out from the drip line and stabbed his shovel in the ground. “Tree’s not full height yet. Here?”

I moved beside him and looked out over the river. Sunlight found a few gaps in the clouds and sparkled on the choppy gray surface. Rolling, green velvet hills flanked the
Oregon side, dwarfing a mile-long train that looked like a toy chugging east on tracks just above the waterline. “Perfect.”

Jim pulled a couple flag markers out of his bib pocket and poked the wires into the ground.
“I’ll dig a semicircle then lay a good foundation before placing the statues. Gonna make a mess of the grass, but I’ll reseed.”

I nodded.
“Okay.”

“
Statues?”

“
In the semi trailer.” I pointed.  

Jim started walking, and I trotted to catch up.

The trailer’s sides rippled and bulged in spots, as though the cargo had been sloshed back and forth. Chunks of the open rear door hung from the roll-up mechanism — the thieves’ handiwork exacerbated by the near-collision.

Jim climbed in and sized up a crate. He tried to lift a corner, grunting, but couldn
’t budge it.

“
Don’t have a loading dock, do you?”

“
At the museum? No. It was built in 1902 as a private residence, so no loading dock.”

Jim lifted his hat, scratched and resettled the hat.
“We’ll need Verle’s tow truck.”

“
You sure?”

Jim heaved a sigh.

“Right. Okay. Should I unpack the statues so they’re not as heavy?”

“
Nope. Don’t want to break them. Easier to put straps around the crates.”

“
When can you start?”

“
Now.” He squatted at the edge of the trailer and swung his feet to the ground.

I fell into step beside him on the trek across the parking lot.

“My wife left me a few years ago,” Jim said.

My breath caught, but I kept looking straight ahead. Did he want me to say something? What?

“I guess I’m not that exciting. She always wanted to go do stuff, and there’s not much to do around here. You seem like the type who’s content to stay home.”

I am the type who prefers to stay home. One of the many reasons Ham
’s offer was so unappealing. But should I admit it? What was Jim driving at? My stomach twinged nervously.

“
I, uh — I was wondering.” Jim took off his hat and scratched again. “Uh, sometimes I drive up in the hills to pump latrines at wind farm construction sites. It’s a real pretty drive. Maybe, uh, you’d like to go with me sometime.”

Shoot. It probably was a gorgeous drive. Shoot.
“Uh,” I said. “Can I think about it? The museum keeps me pretty busy.”

“
Yep.” Jim put his hat back on. “Let me know. I go out regular.”

We
’d reached his dump truck and trailer. He unhooked the chains securing the backhoe, clanked down the ramps and climbed into the backhoe’s cab. The engine rattled to life, coughing gritty black smoke out the exhaust pipe. Jim looked over his shoulder and started inching the machine backward. I decided it was time to get out of the way.

I replayed our conversation while trudging upstairs to my office. Should I have done something differently, said something else? Did I lead him on? I
’d only met him this morning. Of course, he’d already been in my bedroom. Good grief.

I
’m always surprised by these displays of male interest. Am I missing clues somewhere along the way or do they truly come out of the blue? It could be the men are just lonely — really lonely. Jim was right about there not being much to do out here — unless you are a die-hard fan of hunting, fishing, hiking or windsurfing. And even those have seasons — times of year when prudence or the law dictate abstinence.

I settled into my chair, happy to be alone with my thoughts
— happy to be alone at all. Ham was gone — his car was not in the parking lot when Jim and I returned from examining the statue crates. I soon became absorbed in documenting items.

Rupert, at the board of directors
’ behest, has been scouting for years to build up a museum-worthy collection. His tastes are a little eccentric, but the museum now has a native animal taxidermy collection, a sizable group of Victorian ball gowns with accessories, a farming implements display, a chamber pots through history timeline exhibit, and a meager assortment of Native American artifacts. There are tons more items that have not yet been documented or grouped into coherent displays — that’s my job. I’ve managed, in my two years as curator, to photograph maybe twenty percent of the undocumented items so far.

I opened a folder of digital photos
— a series of unmarked Limoges snuff boxes — and assigned ID numbers and typed descriptions into the record. I sighed. There was so much to research. If I put the boxes on display now, their placards would read ‘Limoges snuff box. Date unknown. Manufacturer unknown.’ I could write a display description about their general history, manufacturing techniques, and what other purposes the little boxes were used for, but that was it.

Maybe someday
— if I catalog faster than Rupert buys — someday I’ll catch up with him. I shook my head and grinned. Rupert is my godsend — giving me a job when I most needed one. And, on top of that, giving me a job I love more than I ever dreamed. When I left my hectic management position at Nike, I had no idea what museum curators did or that it was even a legitimate occupation.