Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) (11 page)

And Ham wanted me to go back
— back to the insane world where people who claimed to be your friends competed with you, climbed over you, in pursuit of more prestigious jobs and more impressive stuff. Or more prestigious and impressive spouses, as the case may be. Yuck.

Nope. Never, never, never again. I
’d stay right here in Platts Landing, where I got asked out by the porta-potty man.

Speaking of which
— I hurried to the window. The lawn past the white oak was scalped. A neat semicircle trench had been dug in the middle of the scarred area.

It reminded me of the last deep hole I
’d seen — at the family cemetery on Julian’s ranch — for his son, Bard. I frowned. I should go check on Julian, see how he was holding up.

Jim was hosing off the backhoe bucket.

I shut down the laptop, grabbed my coat and purse and dashed downstairs.

“
See you later.” I waved when Lindsay turned from restocking the custom printed coffee mugs in the gift shop.

I picked careful steps across the shredded lawn and met Jim halfway as he wound up the hose.

“Wow, you’re fast.”

He shrugged.
“This slope has good drainage. Gravel’ll be here in the morning.”

“
Gravel?”

“
To keep the statues from settling. We’ll pour the concrete bases on top of the gravel.”

“
Oh. Right. So you work Saturdays?”

“
I work when there’s work to do.”

“
Well, thanks. I’m pretty excited about these statues. It’ll be great to see them in place.”

“
What’re they?”

“
The statues? They’re characters from the children’s book
Wind in the Willows
. There should be a rat, a mole, a toad, a badger, and an otter.”

Jim
’s eyebrows pulled together. “Rodents.”

“
But they’re cute, and they talk. Well, at least in the book they do.”

“
Huh. Learn something new every day.”

“
So I’ll see you in the morning?”

“
Yep. 7:30.”

I wrinkled my nose. I didn
’t want to miss the excitement of a gravel truck, but 7:30 a.m. on a Saturday? Oh well, I’d probably be awake anyway since I’d be sleeping on a couch in the same room as a snoring dog.

I drove to Mac
’s Sidetrack Tavern — a brick red building — a box really, with antennas and satellite dishes all over the flat roof. Mac had a healthy business, mainly because he guaranteed every NFL and college football game could be seen on one of his big screens.

Friday night and the parking lot was half full. In another hour, it would be packed and dirty pickups raised on knobby tires would be parked along the edges of the road outside the entrance as well. I better hurry so I wouldn
’t take Mac away from his duties at his peak time.

I tucked my purse under my arm, skirted a couple puddles in the gravel parking lot and pulled open the heavy wood door. Blinking while my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I strolled toward the bar. Mac, knit cap on his head and towel flung over his shoulder, was slicing something behind the counter.

I leaned over to peek and sniffed appreciatively — lemons.

“
Hi, Meredith. Arnold Palmer?” Mac asked.

“
Hi, Missus Morehouse,” Ford called loudly.

Several men straddled stools along the bar, but I spotted Ford at the far end. He grinned and sucked on a straw in a Dr. Pepper can. I waved, then squinted. Next to Ford sat Ferris, the driver of the blue Datsun pickup who I
’d seen at the hospital and in the campground. He nodded curtly. I gave a tight smile and turned to Mac.

“
Nothing for me, thanks. I just came to see your new display case prototype, but it looks like you’re busy already. Have you talked to that man sitting next to Ford?”

“
A little. I can spare a few minutes. You want to come back to the shop?”

“
You sure?”

“
Yep.” Mac signaled a waitress to come take his place and lifted the hinged counter for me to pass through. “Jim taking care of your leak problem?”

“
Yeah. Thanks.”

Mac led me into a back room piled high with kegs and boxes then down a short corridor to the rear exit. A few steps across an alley stood Mac
’s pole barn workshop. He lived in the loft and tinkered with woodworking tools on the main floor in his spare time.

When Mac opened the door, the scent of sawdust and sweet pitch surged into the cold air. He flipped on a bank of light switches, and the large open room flickered into view. I saw the case immediately.

“Oh, wow. It’s beautiful.” A clear acrylic box topped a rectangular base covered in a highly polished burl veneer.

Mac grinned.
“Thought you’d like it. And look at this.”

He opened a panel in the base and pulled a handle hidden inside. The wood floor of the acrylic box dropped out of sight.

“What’s that for?”

“
In case you have a particularly valuable item you don’t want in public view for some reason, you can lower it into the base. I haven’t figured out the electronics yet, but I think this could be rigged with a timer to secure the item when the museum closes.”

“
I don’t think we have anything that valuable,” I said. “But then again, I never know what Rupert’s going to send.”

“
Ford was talking about some statues you just got — African or something, and really heavy. He said they’re scary ugly, which means they’re valuable, right?” Mac laughed.

My stomach dropped. Ford had been talking about the statues? I hadn
’t thought to warn him not to — I’d forgotten he’d helped take them to my office. Oh boy.

Mac was still talking.
“I could install little spotlights to highlight the items inside, too. That way you can put the case anywhere and not have to worry about whether or not the overhead lighting is good enough.”

“
Terrific,” I murmured.

Mac looked at me quizzically.

“I love it,” I said, louder. “Really love it. Rupert’s scavenging at the Paris flea market, so I’ll let you know if he finds something that would be right for this case.”

I moved toward the door, then spun back.
“Actually, I could use three right now. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I just documented Limoges snuff boxes today, and they’d be perfect in cases like this.” I placed my hand on the case and peered into the open bottom. “Yeah. How long will it take you to make two more?”

Mac whistled and exhaled.
“Maybe a month? They’re pretty detailed.”

“
That’s fine. That’ll give me time to do the research.” I nodded, mind racing. “I think I’ll have an Arnold Palmer after all.”

Mac rubbed his hands together, grinning, and escorted me back to the bar.

I slid onto an empty stool next to Ferris and leaned across him to speak to Ford. “Jim Carter dug a trench today for the new statues. You know, the ones Terry delivered Wednesday.” Maybe I could divert Ford’s interest from the wood African statues to the much larger, as yet unseen,
Wind in the Willows
statues. “A gravel truck’s coming tomorrow at 7:30 in the morning. I was going to go out and watch. You interested?”

“
Sure,” Ford said. He jerked his thumb toward Ferris. “This is Ferris.”

“
We’ve met.” I shook Ferris’s proffered hand. It was calloused but spongy. “Any luck?”

Mac set my tea and lemonade mix on the counter. A maraschino cherry floated in the ice.

Ferris shrugged. “Talked to a couple foremen. They said the real money’s in construction, not maintenance.”

“
There are several wind farms being built upriver.” I took a sip.

The subject of statues seemed to be over. I couldn
’t undo what Ford had said, and to bring it up again would just make a lasting impression in people’s minds. No — better to let the topic pass and hope no one paid it any more attention.

I was glad to see Ferris being sociable. Maybe I
’d caught him at a bad moment at the campground.

“
Do you enjoy rural living?” I asked. “Wind farms aren’t usually near civilization.”

“
Yeah, you could say that. You from around here, originally?”

“
No. Lived in Vancouver and worked in Portland up until two years ago.”

“
Any of your friends come visit you up here?”

“
Not really. They’re city people. Wouldn’t know what to do with themselves without a Starbucks and yoga classes,” I replied.

Mac was back at our end of the bar and heard my comment.
“I thought that guy driving the red Corvette was a friend of yours — the one who’s staying at Gloria’s place.” He leaned on his palms on the counter, way too interested for my taste.

I gritted my teeth.
“He’s not a friend. Just an acquaintance.”

“
Must know you pretty well to come all the way out here,” Ferris said.

Mac hurried away to swap a full glass for an empty one farther down the bar.

“Yeah, well, he’s leaving.”

Ferris twirled his glass in its condensation ring.

“Hey, Meredith.” Val  — once again pink and sparkly — slid onto the stool next to me.

“
Val! I’m so glad. I heard — well, anyway — I heard.” I didn’t want to mention Val’s imprisonment and release in front of everyone.

“
Yeah,” Val nodded. “Sheriff Marge was real nice. And Ham, too, in his way. He’s arranging for a few repairs at the store. We’re leaving in the morning.”

“
Together?”

“
Oh, no. Definitely not. I could go now — I just wasn’t up to facing my parents yet. I’ll bite the bullet tomorrow. At least Rosie will understand.”

“
Your dog?”

Val
’s forehead wrinkled. “Yeah. My parents thought Ham was a sure thing for me. They won’t be happy to find out what I did, and that he’s not in the picture anymore.”

“
I know what that’s like.”

“
Really?”

“
Oh yeah. He had — still has — my mother and step-father bamboozled. They think the sun rises and sets with him and just don’t understand why I wouldn’t want to date a two-timing schmoozer.”

Val giggled.

“Where are you staying?”

“
With Betty Jenkins. Sheriff Marge arranged it.”

“
Betty’s a sweetheart. Greg, my intern, stays with her when he’s working at the museum. Has she baked cookies for you yet?”

Ferris tossed a few bills on the counter, nodded to us and left.

“Snickerdoodles and apricot bars.”

Mac was making the rounds and skidded to a stop in front of us.