Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) (21 page)

“
What about the gold? I want to tell you.”

“
Tomorrow.”

“
You have a job.”

Pete sighed.
“Yeah, I do.” His head lowered until his nose rested on the top of my ear. His breath rippled across my cheek. “Call me, okay?”

“
Yeah,” I whispered.

Pete followed me home, all the way into the campground. He slid off the motorcycle, opened my truck door and walked me to the RV. We stood in the circle of light cast by the yellowish fixture over the steps.

“I enjoyed riding on your bike,” I said.

“
Good. I’ll plan a rain-check ride.” He bent to pat an exuberant Tuppence then straightened. “See you.” His blue eyes sparkled.

I grinned. He really did look dashing.

He straddled the bike and pulled on his helmet.

I waved and waited until the motorcycle roar drifted down the highway before climbing the stairs with a hungry hound at my heels.

CHAPTER 19

I awoke stiff and sore. The glaring bathroom light revealed faint yellowish-green and lavender bruises on my arms and legs — and the mirror showed another bruise on my jaw line. My eyes were bloodshot. Not bad for having been in a couple wrestling matches yesterday, but not great for a supposedly professional meeting.

I showered quickly and towel dried my short hair. Curls sprang up, and I tried to finger-comb them in place. Rummaging in the back of a drawer produced a bottle of rarely-used foundation. I smeared the beige liquid over the bruise. Not perfect, but it
’d have to do. I flicked blush over my cheeks and swiped on mascara.

Brown corduroy pants and a t-shirt under a cream-colored sweater, plus loafers
— the best-looking clothes I could muster for both returning my office to order and trapping a possible criminal in conversation. I grabbed a scarf to spruce up my style later, before the meeting.

Tuppence sat in the kitchen waiting for breakfast.

“Did you enjoy sleeping inside again, old girl?”

The dog thumped her tail on the hardwood floor.

I let Tuppence out and filled her bowls with dry kibbles and clean water. The dog trotted around the campsite, nose to the ground.

“
Any intruders in the night?”

Tuppence snorted and stuck her nose in a hole
— probably a gopher hole.

“
How about a hike this weekend?”

But Tuppence was too preoccupied to answer.

I returned to the warmth of the trailer and heated oatmeal in the microwave. Brown sugar, a little half-and-half and a handful of golden raisins and chopped pecans — should keep me going for a while.

No sense dilly-dallying. I cringed at the thought of the condition my office was in last night. Lots of heavy lifting to do before 2 p.m.

I grabbed my coat and hat and trundled down the stairs. Tuppence was not in sight.

“
That crazy dog,” I muttered. “She’d better not come home skunky again.”

The truck
’s windshield was coated with a thin layer of feathered ice. I cranked the defroster to full-blast and returned to the trailer for gloves. Thanksgiving’s freakish ice storm was just the beginning. Winter would settle in for good now.

I scraped generous peepholes and backed out of the campsite.

o0o

Sheriff Marge had been as good as her word. The Imogene
’s front doors were locked, and everything appeared normal at the visitors’ entrance. I strolled around the building and down the narrow ramp to the basement door. A sheet of plywood was screwed in place over the opening. Had the whole door been destroyed? Maybe Jim could fix it. I made a mental note to call him later.

No vehicle was parked beside the big dumpsters behind the museum, but Sheriff Marge had probably already had the burglars
’ truck towed. How soon could the evidence be analyzed? Before Earl’s appointment?

I returned to the front, let myself in and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Early morning light angled through the windows, illuminating stripes of wood flooring, cross-sections of banisters and dust. The old building seemed to be sleeping. She
’d had a late night, too.

A slip of paper was propped on top of the tote bag on my desk.
The boys will arrive at 8 to help restore order and reinstall cameras and microphones. Marge.

I scooted a path through the books with my feet and stood in front of the huge picture window
— one of my favorite spots. Sunlight reflected off the river’s surface, turning it into a silvery mirror. Frost-coated tree limbs sparkled and sprinkled little water drop flurries when the breeze shook them. Tiny ice flecks dusted the muddy area around the trench — looking for all the world like a chocolate doughnut that had been rolled in granulated sugar.

My stomach growled. I groaned. Not a good sign. When I
’m nervous, my digestive tract goes into hyperdrive. I’d rather take on another gang of intruders than chat with Earl Rittenour.

I carefully upended the tote bag and let the contents roll onto the desk. Eight statues in thirteen pieces. Not bad considering the four-story drop. Maybe they
’d landed on top of Snaggletooth instead of the other way around.

The bottom drawer of the file cabinet contains all kinds of potions and solvents for patching, cleaning and repairing artifacts
— and a bottle of super-duty wood glue. The Imogene is pretty hands-on, as museums go, and accidents sometimes happen. It’s good to be able to reassure embarrassed visitors that their clumsiness is easily remedied.

I spread a large garbage bag over my desk, pushed up my sleeves and set to work with flat toothpicks, glue and clamps. When the statues dried, I
’d touch up the fracture lines with fine grit sandpaper and a wax filler stick. One of the benefits of having a mother who was an art therapist — I’d never been allowed to be tentative about getting my hands in dirty, smeary, messy, sticky, or greasy mediums. Diving in is always the best option.

“
Express yourself,” Mom had said, emphasizing the point with a big swoosh of her own hand — but she meant finger paints, not real life. Real life for Mom is always tidy, and tightly controlled — probably overcompensation for my wildly exciting but irresponsible father who’d abandoned us when I was three.

I
’d never seen him again. My last memory regarding him was Mom slouched on the kitchen floor weeping during — and much more after — a phone call. Mom had the phone cord wrapped around her forearm and strung through her fingers like cat’s cradle while mascara ran down her face. The linoleum under Mom’s bare legs — it was a hot day, and she wore cutoffs with red heart appliqués — was an orange and green faux-Moroccan tile pattern. It’s weird, the things that stuck in my memory. And the much more important things that hadn’t, but I wish they had.

I heard words I didn
’t understand at the time — overdose, addict, Bali, commune and transport. In the end, his family decided to let him be buried where he’d died, halfway around the world. It would have been socially awkward to deal with the return of a crazy son/husband’s body. A year later, Mom married Alex, the man her family had wanted her to marry in the first place. A sure bet, Alex — reliable, on a stable career path, an upstanding member of the right socioeconomic class.

I sighed and propped up the last statue to dry, then headed to the restroom to wash the glue off my hands.

Superman and Eyebrows were coming up as I went down. 

“
Anything on the truck yet?” I asked.

Superman pursed his lips.
“Registered to a front company in Tukwila I recognize. They’re suspected of laundering money for a Somali militia group. Not on the SDN list yet, but will be soon.”

“
SDN list?”

“
Specially designated nationals. Basically terrorists, drug traffickers and their financiers with whom our government prohibits business transactions.”

“
And the gold?”

“
Probably smuggled in to be exchanged for cash.”

“
But why was it stolen before it was delivered?”

Eyebrows jumped in.
“It could be that Mr. Rittenour was being used without his knowledge. They may have piggybacked on his shipment.”

“
The shipment came from England,” I said.

Superman resumed.
“I’m guessing the gold was channeled from Somalia through India and into England that way. The Indians are very lax about documenting gold transactions, and England has a large Indian immigrant population — pretty easy to courier into the country. The Somali immigrant group there is small, but healthy. No doubt some of them, particularly the shadier ones, talk to each other. Unfortunately, there are always opportunists embedded among the true refugees.”

“
But why was the gold sent here, to Washington?”

“
Probably previous ties, maybe family members. These groups have amazing networks. When it gets hot one place, they try somewhere else.”

“
And the statues?”

“
That’s what we’re hoping to find out from Mr. Rittenour.”

“
Heard my equipment was trashed last night,” Eyebrows said.

“
Among other things. Go ahead — I’ll be back up in a few minutes.” I clomped down the remaining stairs.

Glue-free, I stopped by the gift shop.
“You’re early.”

“
Are you okay?” Lindsay hurried around the counter. “Archie said you were here last night, had a fight with — and subdued — a few burglars.” She examined my face with a worried look.

“
Sore and a little shook up. I’m trying not to think about how it could have turned out.”

Lindsay tilted her head and peered at my jaw.
“That’s a nasty bruise.”

I rubbed the spot gingerly.
“I don’t remember this happening, actually. It was kind of crazy there for a few minutes.”

“
Did you ice it?”

“
Uh, no.”

“
Too late now.” Lindsay shook her head. “I’m not sure it helps anyway. I just know my brothers would lie around with ice packs clutched to various body parts after football games. I always suspected it was a ploy to garner sympathy.” She squeezed my arm. “I heard Pete was here too. Some date, huh?” An impish grin played across her face.

“
How
do
you hear all these things?”

“
Archie called this morning while we were eating breakfast. Dad was planning to go out to Archie’s place today to do soil testing — Archie’s thinking about putting in a vineyard. Anyway, Archie postponed because he has to work on this case, as he called it. That’s when we found out there’d been a break-in.” Lindsay hooked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Anything I can do to help? I heard they made a mess.”

“
Most of my books are on the floor. I’d love help putting them back.”

“
You betcha.” But a wrinkle creased the spot between Lindsay’s eyebrows. “What were they after, Meredith? Did they steal anything?”

I wrapped an arm around the girl
’s shoulders. “No. They tried — but they weren’t successful. I’m going to have a visitor this afternoon. After that meeting, I’ll be able to tell you. Oh—” I turned and put my hands on Lindsay’s shoulders. “But I can tell you one of them—” I paused and bit my lip. “I don’t even know why
he
was here, but one of them was arrested for Ham’s murder.” I smiled into Lindsay’s brown eyes. “This will all be over very soon. There’s no need to worry.”

To my surprise, Lindsay hugged me. I guess I shouldn
’t have been surprised — Lindsay is an inveterate hugger. “Okay,” she whispered. “If you say so.”

I gave Lindsay a quick return squeeze.
“Have you seen Ford this morning?”

Lindsay shook her head.

“I need to talk to him, but I’ll be up in a few minutes.” No need to inform Lindsay that Ford had almost had his toes shot off last night. I didn’t see how Archie could have failed to mention that, but if he hadn’t, I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up — at least not right now.