Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) (15 page)

CHAPTER 13

Monday morning, a blinking red light greeted me as I opened my office door. I dropped my purse in the chair, picked up the phone and punched in the code to hear my voice mail.

“Ms. Morehouse, this is Earl Rittenour. Thanks for calling. I was getting anxious about the shipment. And I’m sorry to trouble you with the delivery mix-up. I’d like to handle it myself from here since the freight company seems to be unreliable. I could rent a U-Haul truck and come pick up the crates this weekend — at your earliest convenience. Please call me back at this number.”

The phone beeped and played the next message.

“Uh, Ms. Morehouse. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a little worried I haven’t heard back from you. I realize the museum may be closed for the weekend. It is a matter of some urgency, as you can imagine. The crates are — well, I need to know if they’re secure. I’m sure you know how sensitive artifacts can be — humidity and whatnot. Please return my call just as soon as possible. Earl Rittenour. Thank you.”

And another.

“I looked up the Imogene’s website — it says you’re open Saturdays. Really hoping you’ll get back to me soon. It’s extremely urgent. I know I keep saying that, but—” A woman’s voice, discontent evident in the high, whiny pitch, sounded in the background. “Call me back,” Earl muttered and disconnected.

I wrinkled my nose. Another one.

“Sorry about that earlier message, Ms. Morehouse. I just wanted to apologize. Family vacation’s getting, well, a little stressful. We didn’t go anywhere — we’re home, so I could come anytime to get the crates. If I don’t hear from you, I’m planning to drive up Tuesday when the museum is open — I see you’re closed Sundays and Mondays — and hope someone can help me. Anyway, hope to talk with you soon.”

I moved my bag and sat. I poked more buttons and checked the times of Earl
’s calls. The first one came just a few minutes after I’d left Friday afternoon. Then later Friday evening, Saturday morning and Saturday afternoon. Apparently, he hadn’t picked up on the fact that I only had the contents of one of his crates since he kept mentioning crates plural. Maybe it was just as well.

He couldn
’t have known that on this particular Saturday, the museum had not been open. ‘Temporarily closed due to murder. Please come again’ was not the sort of thing to post on a tourist attraction website.

I slipped down to the chamber pot exhibit and checked the toilet tank. Eight rods present and accounted for. I wondered if Earl knew about the gold or was inexplicably enamored with ugly carvings. If he already owned some wood statues, as his secretary had mentioned, did those come with gold inserts too? As a CPA, he must have an inkling of what kind of mess that could get him into.

I quickly returned to my office and dialed Sheriff Marge.

“
Earl Rittenour wants to pick up his statues as soon as possible. He said he’s coming tomorrow if he doesn’t hear back from me. Do we want that?”

“
Rats. I don’t know. I’m headed into the office to meet with the feds now. I can’t babysit them and conduct a murder investigation.” The Explorer’s engine roared as Sheriff Marge stomped on the gas. “I’ll get back to you.”

I set the phone in its cradle. Sheriff Marge drove everywhere at breakneck speed. One of these days she was going to be the reason for an ambulance call-out. I rubbed my temples.

Mondays are supposed to be one of my days off, but they’re often my favorite day to work — when the museum is quiet, and I have the place to myself. I opened my laptop, stared at the screen, then closed it. There would be no concentration today.

Noticing a book sticking out on the shelf opposite, I walked around my desk and pushed it in. Why was a book on French porcelain next to one about Minton majolica? Suddenly, my organizational system seemed all wrong.

Well into the fourth bookcase, a loud voice announced my name. I jumped, bumped my head on a shelf and backed out of the corner where I knelt. A precarious pile of books slid, domino-style, across the floor until the desk leg stopped them.

“
Hmm?” I rubbed my head and turned.

Sheriff Marge stood in the doorway, hands on hips, glaring over the top of her reading glasses.
“What are you doing?”

“
Organizing. Cleaning.”

Two men in suits peered around Sheriff Marge
’s hat.

“
Oh.” I rose to my feet, straddling another book Pisa tower.

“
Lindsay let us in.”

“
Lindsay’s here?”

“
Said it was quieter than at home.”

“
Oh.” I nodded. “College application. And, uh—” I tipped my head so Sheriff Marge would remember her guests.

Sheriff Marge jerked her thumb behind her.
“Agent George Simmons, FBI, and Wayne Tubman, Treasury.”

I stretched to shake hands with each man.

“Do you have a place to talk?” Sheriff Marge asked, scanning the stacks of books covering the floor in a perfect grid like an urban development plan.

“
Just a minute.” I bent and rapidly doubled and tripled up stacks to clear space.

I straightened, flushed, and pushed unruly brown curls out of my face.
“Sorry, we don’t have a conference room. It’s either sit on the bed in the chamber pot room or here. I’ll just—” I squeezed past the men in the doorway, “— get some chairs.”

When I returned with three folding chairs from a storage room, I found the FBI man inspecting my empty bookcases. Sheriff Marge shrugged in response to my inquiring look.

“Here you go.” I handed out chairs, and my visitors unfolded them and sat, thigh to thigh, in the cleared space. Sheriff Marge folded her arms across her chest and scowled. I slid into the chair behind my desk.

The Treasury man, I
’d already forgotten his name, was older, his charcoal-colored hair lightly salted. His coif was perfectly sculpted, with an arrow-straight side part and swoop over his forehead. It seemed to be shellacked in place — the way Clark Kent would look at fifty. He cleared his throat. “We understand you have some undeclared gold and—”

“
Artifacts of possible historical significance,” FBI butted in. He was heavily freckled, with a paprika-colored buzz cut that was probably a carryover from a military career. His one obvious flamboyance — Andy Rooney eyebrows. But in red they looked more like Bobo the Clown's.

There was a jostling undercurrent in the navy-suited men. Somehow, while perched stiffly on their chairs, they gave the impression they were jabbing each other with elbows and knees like jockeys in a horse race, trying to shoulder ahead. There wasn
’t actual movement; the competition was in their posture and tone of voice. Subtle, but the tension of their rivalry filled the room.

I nodded slowly.
“I have them, but they are not mine. I agreed with Sheriff Marge to—”

“
I need to see them,” Superman said.

I pushed away from the desk.
“I’ll be right back.”

I retrieved the statues first, then loaded the gold bars into the tote bag, sliding them to the bottom. The bag strained at the seams with the weight, so I wrapped my arms under it and balanced it like a sleeping toddler against my chest.

The men stood upon my arrival, but quickly sat again when they saw it was just a dirty old tote bag. I eased my burden onto the desk and opened the flap. I lifted out the statues first and laid them in a row on the desk, then handed a gold bar to Superman.

Eyebrow
’s fingers twitched as though he was about to snatch the bar from Superman, so I handed him his own. He balanced it across his open palm, then picked up a statue with his other hand.

“
Do you know the country of origin?” I asked.

“
African or Asian, I expect.” He pulled a small digital camera from his pocket and snapped a close-up of each statue.

I wrinkled my nose. I had guessed that myself. So he wasn
’t an expert, or he wasn’t giving anything away.

“
You’ve made contact with the dealer?” Superman asked.

“
Mr. Rittenour? Yes. He’s expecting a call back to know when he can pick them up. He wants to come tomorrow.”

“
No.” Eyebrows shook his head. “I need time. This room would work for the transfer.”

“
What?” I asked.

“
It makes sense.” Superman leaned forward, elbow on knees. “His point of contact is you. So you’ll keep that up. We’ll script a list of questions for you to ask him — all very casual, and we’ll be recording. When we get what we need, we’ll arrest him.”

“
Wednesday afternoon — 2 p.m. Tell Mr. Rittenour that’s when he can pick up his statues,” Eyebrows said.

“
But—” I glanced at Sheriff Marge who shook her head, still scowling. I turned back to the men. “Now?”

“
Go ahead. Tell him—” Eyebrows pivoted toward Sheriff Marge. “Wasn’t somebody murdered on the grounds here? Yeah. Use that as your excuse for the delay. It’s interfering with normal museum operation or whatever.”

I swallowed and picked up the phone. I shot one more glance at Sheriff Marge who nodded this time. After dialing, I swiveled in the chair so my back faced my audience. Sounding calm and natural was not going to come easy, not with three sets of eyes on me.

Earl answered on the second ring.

“
This is Meredith Morehouse.” My voice bounced off the walls of the small room. Someone behind me had poked the speaker button. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to picture the very worried man on the other end of the line.

“
Meredith.” Earl was breathless. “I’m so relieved.”

“
I’m awfully sorry I didn’t call you sooner. The museum was closed Saturday because an unfortunate incident — well, uh, a tourist was killed—”

“
What?” Earl nearly shrieked.

“
Outside, on the grounds — not actually in the museum,” I continued. “But we were all quite upset — I’m sure you understand — and I wasn’t able to keep my normal schedule, and actually—” I took a deep breath. “It’s still not back to normal—”

“
Of course. Of course,” Earl murmured. “Dreadful. I’m sorry.”

“
I was wondering — would Wednesday afternoon work for you? Around 2 p.m.?”

“
Yes.” Earl leapt at the answer. “I have the directions. I’ll be there.”

“
Ask for me at the front desk.”

“
Alright. And thank you. Thank you very much.”

“
You’re welcome,” said the spider to the fly. I groaned inwardly. No matter how shady Earl Rittenour might be, I hated what I’d just done. I whirled around and hung up.

I took a deep breath.
“He’s expecting fourteen crates, which we don’t have. He’s already a very nervous man. The sight of a damaged semi truck and trailer at the far end of our parking lot might send him over the edge.”

“
You boys check the trailer this afternoon if you want, then we can release it,” Sheriff Marge said.