Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (10 page)

“
We didn’t take the time. I’ll be fine,” I said.

Lindsay nodded.
“Me too.”

Dale frowned and turned to the open trunk of his cruiser. He handed us each a fistful of florescent orange nylon strips.
“If you find something that looks new, within the last week or so, tie one of these to the nearest cattail. If you find anything you are certain belongs to Greg, let me know immediately — holler and wave your arms.”

Dale pointed in the opposite direction.
“About twenty yards this way is a pile of gravel the highway department must have left. It’s the easiest way to get down to the marsh. You just sort of slide. I’ll help direct you to your places in line. Once you’re in the tall grass, it’s hard to get your bearings.”

We trotted to the gravel ramp and slid down, then jogged parallel to the embankment until we were directly below Dale. He did the tomahawk chop to line us up, and I plunged in. Within a few steps, my sneakers were soaked through, cold and gritty. Tuppence was lighter on her feet and scrabbled over the clumps of cattail roots.

“Good thing I’m not a girlie girl,” Lindsay said from a couple yards away.

I had thought that was exactly what she was
— unknown facets. I stumbled and slowed, carefully scanning the ground from side to side. 

Tuppence led like a pointer, stretched out in a straight line from nose to tail tip, plodding resolutely between the tall stalks. I let her pull me along and held an arm aloft to shield my face from the razor-sharp edges of the grass blades. I couldn
’t feel my toes anymore.

The ground rose slightly as we headed toward the tree line, and soon I was walking on firmer mud populated by fewer cattails but denser grass. I stooped to examine a cracked Bic lighter. Greg didn
’t smoke, but sometimes non-smokers carried lighters for other purposes. What other purposes I couldn’t quite recall. Attending rock concerts, maybe, although didn’t people just flash their cell phones these days?

I didn
’t think it was worth a marker. Greg liked old jazz and blues, not rock. I remembered the lengthy discourse he’d given on the scratchy vinyl record sounds that were the backdrop to, in his opinion, the best Billie Holiday tracks. “They shouldn’t be cleaned up too much,” he’d said. “Those sounds give the feel of the smoke and scotch in her first venues — speakeasies.”

I had laughed.
“You were born a couple generations too late.”

Tuppence veered left and pounced on a gigantic bullfrog.

“Ooop, leave him alone.” I pulled on the leash. “He’s just trying to get back to the water. Come on.”

No time for dilly-dallying. I stepped right out of my sneaker and pitched forward onto my hands and knees, wrist-deep in the frigid muck.

“Ugh. Graceful.”

Tuppence came back to see if she could help and got tangled in the leash. I pushed myself up and hopped around on the shoed foot looking for the missing sneaker.

It was vacuum-packed in mud a couple paces back. I groaned and gingerly set my stockinged foot down in the ooze. There was no other way. I had to stand on both feet to get the leverage needed.

I scooped my fingers under the heel and pried the sneaker out. It came with a long slurping sound. I didn
’t have anything to scrape the mud off my sock, so I jammed the extricated sneaker back on my foot. Some women paid good money for spa treatments that weren’t much different. Warmer maybe, with fluffy towels and cucumber slices.

A Skoal tin, several crushed beer cans, a clear plastic Gatorade bottle half full of yellowish liquid, a woman
’s red knit glove that was growing moss and a soggy matchbook later, I looked up to see where we were. We had reached the edge of the forest. Douglas firs the size of Christmas trees grown for suburban homes stood like toddlers next to their giant parents. I spotted the top of Lindsay’s hood bobbing several yards away.

I stepped a few feet to my right, turned around and headed back toward the highway, retracing a parallel track, double-checking. An eyeball stared up at me.

“No way.” I blinked.

Tuppence nosed over it, and I pulled her aside. I stooped for a better look and had the eerie feeling I was standing on the chest of a cyclops buried in the mud.

I tapped the iris with my fingernail — it was hard — and pulled the eye out. After wiping it off on my jeans, I balanced it in my palm. The eye wasn’t round, or even oval — more like a simple amoeba shape. The blue-gray iris had faint striations, exactly the color of my mother’s eyes. I shivered and rolled the eye over — no markings.

Maybe it was a theatrical prop or part of a costume. I
’d never seen a glass eye in person before. But it definitely wasn’t Greg’s. I dropped it into my pocket.

“
Okay, folks. Come on in. It’ll be dark in twenty minutes,” Dale yelled on a bullhorn. I trudged a beeline to the embankment and met Lindsay in the cluster of other searchers at the gravel slide.

I was grateful to see so many
— Mac, Pastor Mort, several people I recognized from the Sunday potlucks including the husband and father of the migrant worker family.

“
Thank you for helping,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“
Jesus Hernandez. I think, what if it was one of my kids missing? So, I come.”

“
Alright everyone,” Dale announced from above. “The gravel’s tricky, so we’ll have to team up. Mac, can you give people a boost? Grab my hands, and I’ll pull from up here. Ladies first.”

Mac had his arm around my shoulders before I even knew what was happening.
“Just doing what the deputy asked me to.” He winked at me and then placed two firm hands on my behind and lifted.

“
Woooaah,” I yelped. Then Dale had a grip on my arm and hauled me up.

“
You okay?”

“
Yes.” I tried to regain some dignity. Tuppence scrambled up the gravel slope.

Lindsay popped up right behind her. The first thing she did upon gaining her footing was brush off the seat of her jeans.
“Mac is enjoying that way too much,” she muttered.

The men clambered up the side in a more ungainly fashion, but also less personally invasive. They preferred not to grasp hands let alone any other body parts.

I realized I hadn’t heard anyone shout for Dale’s attention while they were searching. I caught up with him. “Anything?”

“
Nope.” He squeezed my arm. “We’re not going to give up. The right tip will come in. We just have to wait.”

Waiting. We were waiting to find Greg while he was waiting to be found. Pressure built in my chest. I wanted to scream, to rage against the waiting, against my own ineffectiveness. I should know where he went
— I should know. The pressure faded, and I went suddenly numb. I’d already racked my brain so many times. Nothing.

“
Oh. I found this.” I handed Dale the glass eye.

“
What the —” He clicked on his flashlight and held the eye in its beam. It stared back, its surface glistening.

My stomach lurched. The thing was too real-looking.

“I wonder —” Dale murmured.

“
What?”

“
Probably nothing.” He slipped the eye into a plastic bag and sealed it. “Thanks, though. You just never know what you’ll find during searches like this.”

My joints creaked as Lindsay and I strolled to the pickup, cold and bone-weary. The mud in my shoe doubled for a gel insert, cushioning and gooshing around my toes. They were my favorite sneakers, and I
’d probably have to throw them away. The cell phone in my pocket rang.

“
Meredith? It’s Clyde. I’m checking into my hotel. I got a bit of a late start today, but I was hoping I could take you out to dinner. Greg speaks very highly of you.”

I wrinkled my nose.
“Uh, okay. I need some time. We’ve just been searching a site where Greg might have been spotted.”

“
Find anything?”

“
No.”

“
When should I pick you up? I made a reservation for 7:30 at a little winery near you, the Willow Oaks. The website says they have a wood-fired oven.”

I sighed. The Willow Oaks is Dennis Durante
’s place, and the best thing about it is the website. He’d hired a photographer who’s great at taking shots that made things appear bigger and more glamorous than they really are. Lots of pictures of ripe grapes on vines and blue sky over the river. They forgot to show that the cafe is in a lean-to tacked onto a pole barn. There was certainly no need for a reservation.

Dennis is trying hard, but the town of
Platts Landing just isn’t trendy enough, let alone populated enough, to support a small artisan winery and wanna-be farm-fresh bistro. The spot is quaint in daylight, but after dark on a cold night? I hoped Dennis wouldn’t mind if I asked to sit right next to the oven, even if that meant sitting in the kitchen.

“
In an hour.”

“
Where?”

I gave him directions to the Riverview RV Ranch.

“Spot C-17? What does that mean?”

“
I live in an RV. It’s the only one in the campground right now, so it’ll be easy to find.” I chuckled after hanging up. Clyde was in for a little culture shock.

“
Greg’s adviser?” Lindsay asked.

“
Yeah. I guess he’s trying to help.”

CHAPTER
9

I dropped Lindsay off at her car in the museum parking lot, then hurried home to shower and dress. Tuppence needed a good rubbing down, too, and a large dinner and rawhide treat. I dabbed on some makeup. I tried lip gloss, but that lasted all of five seco
nds. I’m a compulsive lip-licker when I know there’s something on them besides ChapStick. Oh well. Clyde could either like me as is, or not — his call.

Tuppence woofed and looked at the door. There was a hesitant knock. I grabbed my coat and opened the door.

Clyde Elroy, dressed in slim dark jeans, untucked black button-up shirt and black leather motorcycle jacket looked the shocking antithesis of professorial. His longish hair, thinning and swept back from his forehead, could best be described as taupe. Hazel eyes, diminutive nose and chin. Middle height, probably, although I was gazing at him from the RV doorway, about eighteen inches off the ground. A hint of a paunch about his middle. The clothes and the man seemed to be at odds with each other.

He stepped forward and offered his right hand.
“Meredith?”

“
Hello, Clyde.” I shook his hand and nearly hit him in the face because he was trying to kiss the back of my hand. Whoops. “I’m ready.”

I hurried down the stairs and closed the door before
Clyde could be subjected to hound inspection. No need to unnerve him so soon.

Clyde
opened the passenger door of his black Cadillac sedan, and I slid in and bundled the coat on my lap. The car was warm inside.

“
Interesting living arrangements,” Clyde said when he was buckled in. “I take it the museum doesn’t provide a housing stipend.”

“
Why should they?”

“
Well, this far out, I thought …”

“
I have the best river view anyone could hope for.”

“
Ahh. The compensation of nature.” Clyde’s smile was papery thin. He followed the instructions of the GPS’s female voice to turn left out of the campground.

“
Have you spoken to Greg’s mother again?”

“
No. I told her I’d call when I had news. And since there’s been no news, I haven’t called. Unpleasant woman.”

“
What about his sisters? Have you talked to them?”

“
Does he have sisters? I expect his mother will inform the necessary family members.”

I squinted out the windshield as the headlights bore though blank darkness.
“I suppose she will let Angie know, then, as well.”

“
Angie?”

“
His girlfriend, on a dig in Turkey. I don’t know her last name.”

“
Angie Marshall? He can’t possibly be dating Angie Marshall.”

“
Like I said, I don’t know her last name.”

The GPS woman interrupted to instruct
Clyde to turn off Highway 14 onto Dennis’s road.

Dennis was waiting for us, long apron tied around his middle, menu cards in hand. Little beads of sweat glistened on his forehead as he led us to a small table under a propane heater hood. I pulled on my coat.

Dennis laid the menu cards in front of us and then read them out loud. “The specials today are stuffed salmon fillet on a bed of wild rice risotto with sautéed vegetables and roast Cornish game hen on a bed of wild rice risotto with sautéed vegetables.”

“
Do you have any appetizers?” Clyde asked.

I quickly laid a hand on his arm.
“You know, I’m exhausted from the search today. I wonder if we could skip straight to the entrée?” Not to mention that my feet were freezing on the concrete patio where the heater couldn’t reach them.

Clyde
grunted.

I smiled up at Dennis.
“The specials sound wonderful, but I’m afraid I couldn’t do them justice tonight. I know you have some great cheeses on hand. Think you could make me a grilled cheese sandwich?”

Dennis bobbed his head.
“Absolutely. And you, sir?”

“
I was really hoping for something from the wood-fired oven,” Clyde grumbled.

“
Sorry, sir. That’s a summer feature.”

“
I’ll take the game hen.” Clyde tossed the menu card against Dennis’s apron-clad front. “What about a wine list?”

“
The new ones aren’t printed —”

Clyde
gave an exaggerated sigh. “A bottle of your best red — merlot.”

Dennis fled to the kitchen.

“Well, we’ll just have to make the best of it, then, shall we?” Clyde said.

“
Of course.” I gritted my teeth. “What’s your research area?”

By the time my sandwich arrived, I knew, without a doubt, that
Clyde, regardless of how urbane he might consider himself to be and how interesting his subject matter could have been, was also self-absorbed and fatally boring. He was a cultural anthropologist for one — himself.

Dennis rescued me. He set a plate of golden, crunchy toast oozing cheese like a slow lava flow on the table.
“Muenster on sourdough. I took the liberty of adding thinly sliced Granny Smith apple and chopped toasted walnuts. I hope it’s alright.”

“
Dennis, you’re a saint.”

He ducked shyly and darted away.

“Absentminded galoot,” Clyde said. “He still hasn’t brought the wine.”

“
I’m sure you don’t mind if I dig in. So, what’s your next book about?”

I sent out a secret thank-you over the airwaves to Dennis for forgetting the wine. There are no taxis out here, so I needed
Clyde sober enough to drive me home. Although at this point, I wouldn’t mind punching him in the chops to get his keys. Maybe he’d stop talking. I tuned him out and savored every bite.

Fortunately,
Clyde was oblivious to my lack of attention. I had cleaned my plate and started to doze, then got a second wind worrying about Greg. The blue propane flames flickered and hissed overhead.

I closed my eyes and pictured a map, the route from Platts Landing to
Corvallis that Greg would likely take. All state and interstate highways — well-traveled roads. Someone must have spotted him. I hoped that person or persons remembered seeing Greg and made the connection with the TV news segment seeking information.

The game hen arrived ten minutes after I
’d finished my sandwich. Clyde forked up a mouthful of risotto, grimaced, examined his cloth napkin, reconsidered and swallowed. I absently watched the lump move down his lengthy esophagus.

“
Completely uncooked.” Clyde cleared his throat.

He went at the bird with a knife and fork and sawed and sawed without gaining traction on the rubbery appendages. He sighed and set down the silverware.
“Also uncooked, I’m afraid. This is inexcusable. Let’s go.” He laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “That’ll cover your sandwich.” He ushered me to the Cadillac.

He insisted on walking me to my door. I turned to thank him for dinner. He wasn
’t that much taller. I’m not sure how he got the angle, but there he was, lips mashed against mine, tongue poking around. He tasted like lettuce.

I backed up and bumped my head on the awning brace. I really wanted to spit, pull an old Amos Stanley right then and there.

“That is not — professional,” I spluttered. I held up a warning finger and prepared to knee him if he came any closer. “And completely uncalled for.” My heartbeat pounded in my ears.

“
You’re clearly distressed.” Clyde retreated. “I just wanted to comfort you.”

I snorted and fixed an evil-eye glare on him. Like I
’d believe that.

I watched his tail lights until they were safely out on Highway 14. He was the type who might sneak back around to see if I
’d changed my mind. I blew out a big breath. Between Mac and Clyde, I was feeling a bit manhandled.

I brushed my teeth
— twice — and gargled.

On a hunch, I pulled up a professor rating website. Eighty percent of the comments on Dr. Clyde Elroy were some variation on the
‘booooring — drones on and on’ theme. Tell me about it.

“
Don’t go to class,” one poster noted. “Just attend the study sessions run by the TAs. They basically give you the test answers.”

I kept skimming. A few other comments stood out:

“Got a little too friendly during office hours. I buzzed out of there and didn’t go back. Aced the course anyway.”

“
Has his favorite graduate teaching assistants (I was not one of them) and gives them the best projects. But then they’re doing his research for him, so not sure it’s worth the extra attention.”

“
Kinda creeped me out. Kept watching me during lectures. Offered special office hours since I showed interest in the class, but I did NOT take him up on that.”

The comments were all anonymous, but I had a pretty good idea of the gender of the office hours commenters. The first one really struck a chord. I
’d had an information systems professor make a pass at me once — in the empty hallway outside his office. I’d pretended to be so naive I didn’t know what he was suggesting. And then I’d skipped the rest of his classes that quarter except the final. He gave me an A.

There always seemed to be a few girls who found that kind of attention exhilarating
— something about older men and the necessary clandestine nature of the affair. I figured those professors and those girls were pretty good at spotting each other.

Clyde
impressed me as a coward — socially awkward but opportunistic, and apparently doing enough to keep afloat professionally. He’d written a couple books, which universities liked to see from their professors. Maybe there was a streak of brilliance somewhere in that mind of his. Hard to tell. Greg had said Angie liked working for him.

I stretched and exhaled. No point in wasting time thinking about
Clyde.

Still no sign of Greg. The end of Day Four. Too many days. The odds of his survival were decreasing rapidly. Greg was smart, though
— practical. He’d keep his wits about him.

I fell asleep praying for Greg. God
’s forte is dealing with overwhelming odds, right?