Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) (12 page)

I pounced on the moment. “Val, you should meet Mac MacDougal — owner of this establishment and master woodworker. He builds the most gorgeous display cases for the museum.”

Mac, clearly smitten, stood with his mouth open.

Val stuck out her hand. “Valerie Brown, lately incarcerated for hitting my ex-boyfriend with a soup can.”

Mac revived enough to grasp her fingers.
“Wow.” He beamed.

“
And it’s good-night for me,” I said. I patted Ford’s arm. “See you in the morning.”

I glanced over my shoulder before pushing through the front door. Val was talking, fluttering her hands in the air, while Mac gazed at her, riveted. I grinned.

CHAPTER 10

Clutching an insulated mug of coffee and milk sweetened with brown sugar in one hand — my Chevy Cheyenne pickup came off the assembly line before cup holders were invented — I spun the steering wheel toward the Imogene’s access road with my free hand. Living sling-less felt so good.

The overcast cloud layer was just beginning to lighten in the east. It would be another fine day of drizzle. Better than ice, though. I
’d slept very little with the thrumming racket of the fans vibrating the RV last night. Hence the need for an extra-large dose of caffeine.

Intentionally early, I was hoping to wrap up a few loose ends and check if Mr. Rittenour had returned my call before the gravel truck arrived. But a shiny, red Corvette waited in the parking lot.

I muttered under my breath. Why wouldn’t he just go away?
Marvin K. Mooney, Will You Please Go Now!
— the Dr. Seuss title popped into my head. That was exactly how I felt about Ham. Except in the end, Mr. Mooney got the point. Ham still hadn’t.

I pulled in next to the Corvette and noticed it was empty. Ham wasn
’t a nature lover. Why would he be wandering the grounds, and at this time of day?

I slid out of the truck and pulled my jacket snug. The breeze rippled my hair. Maybe another storm was blowing in.

I scanned the park — the grey-green lawn and dark trees, the silvery river, the looming, boxy mansion. No sign of a man walking. Unless he was on the far side of the museum, but why would he go there? I leaned against the truck and sipped my coffee. Well, if Ham wanted to try his persuasive charms again, he could find me. But his efforts would return void — guaranteed.

Mud, river water, maybe a little algae and rotting leaves
— the wind mingled the hints and notes, and I inhaled. Even rain has an odor — fresh or astringent, depending on what it dampens. This combination — it’s my scent of freedom. And I’d never give that up.

Jim would arrive in a few minutes, so I decided to skip getting a head start on my work and instead ambled toward the new excavation. It was a good thing the gravel was going in today
— it would help keep the mud to a minimum with more rain coming. I hoped the edges of the trench hadn’t caved in overnight.

I slipped in the mucky grass and held my mug out so coffee wouldn
’t slosh on my jacket.

The trench was the darkest thing in sight
— and several feet deep. In the dim light, it looked even more like an extra-long, curved version of Bard’s grave. It’s just a hole, I told myself.

But there was something in the trench
— something pale. I squinted and leaned closer, careful not to stand on the very edge lest it crumble under me. A hand? It looked like a white hand.

Now I picked out the form
— legs, torso, one arm stretched out, ending in the hand. All in dark clothing. And where the head should be — dark hair. It — he? — was lying facedown.

A spot of red caught my eye. A bundle of flowers
— roses.

My stomach dropped.

Had Ham gone for a walk and fallen in? The roses — were they another attempt to change my mind? Of all the stupid things to do.

I slid down the bank and nudged him with my toe.
“You okay?”

I knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. As soon as I touched him, I knew.

“No. No, no, no. What have you done?”

He was incredibly heavy, but I pulled his shoulder and head up and wrestled his face toward me. His eyes stared back, wide in terror, his mouth open as if he meant to yell.

I dropped him and let out a muffled whimper.

Out. I had to get out of the trench.

This wasn’t real. It didn’t happen. I’d wake up in a minute.

I scrabbled frantically in the mud, clawing at the trench wall.

“Whoa. What’s this? You fall in?” Strong hands grabbed my arms and hauled me up.

Another face
— Jim’s — blurred in front of me, but my mind replaced it with Ham’s horrified expression. I shook my head. “Dead. He’s dead.”

“
Who’s dead?” Jim held me steady, his frown deepening. He moved me aside and peered into the trench. Casting a worried glance back at me, he eased into the hole and picked up Ham’s hand, feeling for a pulse. He tried to flex Ham’s fingers, and when they wouldn’t move, he set the hand down gently.

In the increasing light, streaks of color were now visible
— a blue stripe on Ham’s jacket, his tan shoes. The red roses stood out in relief.

I moaned.

“Okay,” Jim said. He kicked a toehold in the trench wall and hoisted himself out in an instant. He wrapped an arm tight around me.

He walked me to his truck, opened the passenger door and helped me climb in.

I stared through the windshield in a daze. Ham of the crooked grin. Ham the obnoxious, persistent, irritating, boyish, handsome—

Jim settled in the driver
’s seat, started the engine and turned on the heater. He leaned across the center console and touched my arm.

I blinked back tears.

Jim shook my arm. “Meredith!” he shouted.

I winced and looked at him.

“Can you hear me? You’re in shock.”

I nodded.

“What’s his name?” Jim started dialing his cell phone.

“
Ham.”

He stopped and frowned at me.

“Hamilton Wexler.”

He finished dialing and held the phone to his ear. A dump truck full of gravel rumbled into the parking lot, the driver downshifting, then the brakes squealing to a stop. The racket drowned Jim
’s voice, but I knew he was talking to Sheriff Marge.

I hunkered in Jim
’s truck, bent at the waist, forehead resting on the dash, arms sandwiched against my stomach. I knew what the sheriff’s deputies were there to do, and I didn’t want to see it.

Jim checked on me a couple times, squeezed my shoulder but didn
’t say anything. Good man.

Rain drops pattered the cab
’s roof, and I shivered.

My thoughts spread like buckshot. I didn
’t try to reel them in or force them into coherency. Scenes from my old life, from my ambitious, professional, girlfriend-then-fiancé-of-a-rising-young-deputy-prosecutor life flitted across my mind’s screen. There’d been fun times, even good times. Arlene, Ham’s mother, was a kind woman and made me feel like family. She and I had traipsed through home and garden shows together and visited Portland’s celebrated rose and rhododendron gardens during blooming seasons.

I groaned. Someone would have to tell Arlene.

A white Freightliner Sprinter arrived, driven by a medical examiner’s technician. It bumped across the lawn and parked near the trench.

The dump truck left, still full.

What had Ham been doing? Why was he at the museum at all? Val had said he was leaving this morning, but he wasn’t normally such an early bird.

The door opened, letting in a blast of cold air. Sheriff Marge in her clear plastic poncho and hat cover. She heaved a sigh.
“Rough day.”

I nodded dumbly.

“I need you to tell me when you last saw your cell phone.”

“
When I — why?”

Sheriff Marge tipped her head.
“Humor me.”

“
I think yesterday — when I called the gallery, well, the CPA firm. When you told me to use the museum line instead. I put it in my purse after that, and it’s still there.”

“
No, it’s not.” Sheriff Marge held up a plastic bag containing a muddy cell phone.

I scowled.

“This is yours. I checked the number.”

“
But — can I — I just want to look in my purse.”

Sheriff Marge moved out of the way.

I hurried to my truck, pulled my purse — a tote bag, really, I carry so much stuff — across the bench seat and rummaged through it, checked the pockets. Then I dumped it out.

I turned to Sheriff Marge who stood waiting.
“It
is
gone.”

Sheriff Marge always looked worried, but there was something else
— a deeper concern — behind her gray eyes now.

“
Where was it?”

“
Under Ham’s body.”

“
My phone was under Ham’s body?” I repeated, not believing. “Why? How?”

“
Exactly.”

I swallowed. What did it mean? Someone must have taken my phone. When? Who?

I swallowed again. “How did he die?”

“
Stabbed. Three slashes, fast and deep, with a hunting knife. The knife was still in him.”

“
I didn’t see—”

“
Down low. The last stab was in his abdomen.” Sheriff Marge paused as Ford joined us.

His shoulders slumped, and his raincoat bunched around his neck. His hands were wedged deep in his pockets.

“What’s wrong, Ford?” I asked, then shuddered. Everything was wrong.

“
I’m sorry for ya, Missus Morehouse. Just wanted to say so.”

“
Thanks. I know.”

He shuffled away, and we watched until he rounded the corner of the museum.

“What’d you do last night?” Sheriff Marge asked.

“
Uh, I went to Mac’s after work, stayed for maybe an hour. Then I went home and went to bed early — about 9:30 — since I knew it would be a short night and I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“
Yeah, I heard about the ice damage to your trailer. See anyone between leaving Mac’s and this morning?”

“
Just Tuppence.”

“
How about at Mac’s? Who’d you talk to?”

“
Well, Mac, of course. He showed me a new display case prototype, which is why I went in the first place. Ford was there, and Ferris — he’s staying at the campground, too. Then Val came in. I was glad to see her — seems like she’s doing better. That’s it.”

“
Val was still there when you left?”

“
Yeah, they all were. Oh, except Ferris. He left a few minutes before I did.”

Sheriff Marge nodded.
“I know you’ve been having some disagreements with Ham. What was your last interaction like, and when was it?”

“
Yesterday morning, here — in my office, shortly after you left. The conversation was the same from his end — talking without listening, trying to persuade me to consider his proposal. But I told him no — clearly and firmly —  for the first time. I was actually able to say it, and then I told him—” I faltered.

Sheriff Marge raised her eyebrows.

I shifted my gaze, stared at a dripping laurel bush without seeing it. “I told him to go away,” I whispered. “That was the last thing I said to him.” I pressed my palms to my eyes.