Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1)
Read Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
ROCK
BOTTOM
an Imogene Museum mystery — book #1
Jerusha Jones
Meredith Morehouse, curator of the eclectic Imogene Museum, is suddenly short-staffed. Her favorite (and only) graduate student intern, Greg, is missing — without leaving behind an empty pizza box, to say nothing of a thesis draft.
Plus, a prowler has been rearranging the museum
’s brand new chamber pot exhibit. When Meredith's nighttime vigil to flush out the intruder results in witnessing a murder, she and Sheriff Marge Stettler and nearly all the other inhabitants of the small town of Platts Landing, Washington (including hunky tug boat captain Pete Sills) are in on the hunt — for the killers and a body that’s drifting down the Columbia River. Is the dead man her intern or somebody else? And if it's somebody else, where on earth is Greg?
Copyright
© 2012 by Jerusha Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means
– electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Cover design by Elizabeth Berry MacKenney. www.berrygraphics.com
CHAPTER 1
I wandered around the
Imogene Museum’s ballroom, checking exhibits. They tend to stay where they’re put, but you never know.
“
You’re prowling, Meredith,” Lindsay Smith called from the gift shop in what used to be the ladies’ cloak room.
Like everything else about the museum, the cloak room is generous, built on a scale to accommodate the glamorous furs and silk wraps of fashionable visitors who came from as far away as
Portland, Seattle and sometimes Washington D.C. for party weekends before the first world war. Now, the room makes an excellent welcome center and gift shop just off the old mansion’s main entrance.
“
Killing time,” I replied.
“
I can’t believe you promised Greg you’d wait until he got here. That must be killing
you
.”
Greg Boykin, my graduate student intern from
Oregon State University, was due to arrive in about an hour, give or take the amount of traffic he had to forge through on I-205 during the evening commute.
“
It’ll be worth it to see his face when he opens the first box.” I checked the time on my cell phone. “But you don’t have to stick around. I can watch the gift shop since I’m staying late anyway.”
Lindsay snapped upright from her elbow-propped slouch over a glass jewelry case and flipped her long blond hair over her shoulder.
“Really? Then I could get my bangs trimmed before the gals at The Golden Shears close.” She rustled in a cupboard for her purse. “Are you coming to the game tomorrow night?”
“
Depends on what’s in the shipment.”
“
We’re going to state again, for sure. It’ll be a great game — you won’t want to miss it.” Lindsay blew an air kiss and dashed out.
Late summer sunlight poured through the greenish-tinted glass double doors, illuminating dust motes swirling in Lindsay
’s wake. Technically it was autumn, but some days were still hitting the 80s in the middle of the Columbia River Gorge.
Hot days and cool nights. Football weather
— in a town where high school football is the source of more speculation and gossipy predictions than extra-marital affairs and petty crime.
Looking for cleaning supplies, I opened a deep drawer under the cash register. Lindsay had stashed the leftover refrigerator magnets in there, next to the feather duster. Well, that was smart, actually.
The magnet display rack, ordered by some enterprising — but long gone — staff member, had taken up a lot of space. With only three Erma’s, one Gayle, one Gail, and two Delores’s left, it had been an eyesore — a petered-out tourist trinket trap. Lindsay has a natural knack for merchandising. The gift shop seems less cluttered under her management.
I flitted the feather duster over cramped shelves of history, geology and native flora and fauna books, Umatilla and Chinook jewelry stands, stacks of puzzles, the hanging display of novelty kites, and greeting card and postcard carousel racks. Dust billowed, and I sneezed into the crook of my arm.
It’s not that we don’t clean — we do, all the time. But the Imogene is old, and she has cracks — built long before anything was airtight and energy-efficient. And with the way the wind blows in the gorge, silt spills in on one side while we’re sweeping it out the other.
No visitors came
— not surprising for a late-September Thursday afternoon. Not really surprising for the Imogene Museum, either. Our odd assortment of folk art, fine art, textiles and random collections of whatever caught Rupert Hagg’s eye doesn’t draw large crowds, even on the best day.
It
’s the kind of museum that flea market aficionados love, if they can find the tiny dot of Platts Landing, Washington on the map — because Rupert, the director, purchased most of the Imogene’s treasures from flea markets around the world. Or he scrounged through estate sales, antique gallery liquidation sales and the like. Every once in a while, he’d been able to wheedle entire collections from people in dire straights or from those who discovered their grandchildren weren’t interested in inheriting ceramic napkin rings or elephant carvings or miniature steam engines or whatnot.
I stepped to the front doors to lock them at 6 p.m.
Ford Huckle stood suddenly from beyond the shrubs flanking the entrance sidewalk. I tried to stifle my surprised screech, but he heard enough through the thick glass to look my way. I waved.
He waved back, enormous scissor-like pruning shears still in his hand. His sparse, salt-and-pepper hair stuck out in ruffled tufts, like the feathers of those fancy bantam roosters. He grinned, revealing several gaps between his teeth, wiped his free hand on the front of his dirty, olive drab coveralls and bent to resume snipping.
Ford’s genial and well-intentioned, but he becomes a little lost outside of his routine responsibilities. He’s a fixture at the museum with a long-standing connection only Rupert fully understands, and lives on the grounds in an old pump house that was converted into a cabin.
I pushed the doors open.
“Hey, Ford.”
Ford stood again.
“Missus Morehouse.”
I had tried to explain to Ford that I
’m not married, but the concept hadn’t sunk in. All women are “Missus” to him. At least he’s consistent.
“
The shrubs look nice.”
“
They’ll stop growin’ soon. It’s gettin’ cold, nights,” Ford answered.
“
You going to the football game tomorrow?”
“
You bet.” Ford grinned again. “Goin’ t’ see Missus Lindsay’s young man wallop those Senators.”
I laughed.
“They’re gettin’ cocky, those Senators. Need a good wallopin’.” Ford nodded.
“
Greg’s coming tonight to help me unpack the new shipment. Will you keep an eye out for him? Tell him I’m in the basement?”
“
Greg’s comin’? Well, how-dee-do. It’s not Friday.”
“
Nope. It’s a special treat.”
“
Alright. I gotta git back to work.” Ford presented his saggy, pocketed posterior and commenced clipping.
I locked the front doors and skipped down the creaky stairs to the museum
’s basement. Low-ceilinged and cavernous, it holds decades’ worth of broken display cases, unidentified artifacts, orphan furniture, and, weirdly, a matched avocado washer and dryer set. I need to post them on Craig’s List and pass the set on to someone who will actually use them, if they still work.
But, the main attraction was the pile of twenty-three boxes strapped with yellow DHL tape. Rupert had sent them from
Munich three weeks ago, and they’d been delayed in customs for almost another week. I’d had half a mind to march to Seattle and kick those customs officials in the seat myself, but instead, I’d nearly worn out my computer tracking the shipment multiple times per day.
Rupert goes on several buying trips every year, delighting in keeping the contents of his new collections secret until they arrive. I would like the chance to preorder display cases in the right sizes, but this eccentricity of Rupert
’s does make unpacking like Christmas — not the reserved, grown-up version of Christmas where everyone puts their name and wish list in a basket and you know you will be receiving what you asked for, but rather like that glorious, if hazy, dream of Christmas where you go downstairs in your footie pajamas, rubbing sleep out of your eyes, and there’s the sparkling pocket knife or rocket launcher or volcano kit you’d pestered your parents about for months.
Except, with Rupert, the penultimate item might be a deep sea diving helmet or a mimeograph machine or an intricate Celtic knot twined from a dead person
’s hair.
Greg, who
’s majoring in anthropology and loves all things dusty and unusual, has been infected by the anticipation, too, and begged to be present at the grand opening. So, I forced myself to do the one thing I am worst at doing — waiting.
I propped open the basement door to let in fresh air. Then, I dragged the boxes into two parallel rows and wheeled padded transit carts into position
— ready to cradle the new collection.
Greg and I were plodding through the stored collections, documenting them and moving them into public view so the museum
’s massive rooms look less bare. The work was sometimes tedious and always too slow for my taste, but I suppose the Imogene, as a gatekeeper of history, is patient about improvements.
The ballroom, with its parquet oak floor, echoes so loudly that I
’m desperate for a textile display to absorb some of the sound. I had given Rupert instructions to this effect when he left for Europe, but he operated on whim, not necessity, so could not be counted on to follow through. Besides, the boxes were all squarish. I didn’t hold out hope they contained rolled tapestries or quilts.
“
Helloo?” Greg’s voice sounded outside.
“
Down here,” I shouted.
The stimulating odor of pepperoni wafted in with Greg.
“It’s not hot anymore, but I picked up a pizza in The Dalles.” He dropped his backpack and set the pizza box on a transit cart.
“
You’re the best.” I flipped the lid open and dug in.
“
That I am,” Greg said around a mouthful, “considering I drove all the way here without sneaking a slice. So?” He gestured toward the boxes. “Any idea what’s in them?”
“
The honor’s all yours.” I handed him a box knife.
Greg grinned and gingerly sliced through the tape on the closest box. He pulled out wads of packing paper, then a bubble-wrapped object. He peeled back layers of protective plastic to reveal a double-handled pot. It was covered in a transfer-ware design of gaudy rose bouquets and had a gilt rim.
I gasped.
“
What?” Greg asked. “It’s pretty, right?”
“
It’s a chamber pot. Oh, no…no…no.” I pawed through the box and came up with two more bubble-wrapped items of similar size. “Oh, no.”
Oh, yes. Chamber pots and bedpans. Seventy-two of them.
Greg lost it at number eighteen. He chuckled uncontrollably as we lined up chamber pot after chamber pot on the transit carts. “Should we group them by style?” he asked. “Florals versus strictly utilitarian? Landscapes and country scenes? How about the ones with urinal spouts? Oh, look — a miniature pot.” He held up a child-sized basic version in white-spotted cobalt blue enamel.
I plopped on the floor amid piles of packing material.
“Well, that’s a thought. We could present this as a ‘what life was like before indoor plumbing’ exhibit, suitable for all ages. Kids might really get a kick out of it. The first potty chairs were for grown-ups, too.”
“
You should get one of those modern, plastic numbers, just to show how much things have, or rather, have not, changed over the years.”
I tossed a wad of bubble wrap at him, and missed.
“They’ll fit in standard dishware display cases. Although, I think we should have a few out for an interactive display. There are a couple here that aren’t too valuable — for a hands-on experience.”
“
You mean a butt-on experience. They can’t be comfortable.” Greg squatted above an enamelware model, registered at the US Patent Office according to a label crackled and peeling with age. He perched precariously, his lanky frame tripled up, knees to chin, arms outstretched for balance.