Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (3 page)

“
Any time.”

As we sauntered back to the museum, I caught a glimpse of the
Port of Platts Landing’s grain elevators through the trees. Pete Sills’ tug had a barge bumped against the pilings. He usually managed to be in town for the home football games. I considered hunkering in my trailer tonight instead.

CHAPTER
3

I spent the afternoon weaving facts and anecdotes into descriptions for the chamber pots. A detailed history of
pre-indoor-plumbing days emerged, showing how manufacturers tried to spruce up the basic equipment with more and more elaborate designs.

Greg took on the task of entering the pots into the database and matching the identification records with the photos. I looked up several times to find him staring into space, mouth drawn into a frown.

Angie’s infatuation with another man must have been gnawing at him. Or was there something else? I considered asking but hated to be openly nosy. He’d talk when he was ready, I hoped.

I stretched my arms toward the ceiling, then rubbed the back of my neck.

“Ready to call it quits?” Greg asked.

“
Yeah. I love how this exhibit proves anything can be interesting if you learn enough about it.”

“
That’s how it is for me and football. Never played, didn’t understand the rules, but the enthusiasm in this town is contagious. Now I know a touchdown is seven points.”

“
Six,” I said. “Then one more point if they kick the ball through the goalposts afterward. Or two more points if —”

“
Oh.” Greg shrugged. “Well, I’m getting there.”

“
If you need a tutor, sit by Lindsay. She’s a football encyclopedia.”

I packed my laptop but left everything else in place for tomorrow
’s marathon session.

“
See you at the game,” Greg said, making a break for the door.

“
Mmmmm.” I kept my mumble noncommittal.

I locked up and trudged to my truck. The game might be just the thing to cheer Greg up, help him forget his girl trouble for a few hours.

But at the age of thirty-three, I don’t consider myself eligible to have man trouble. How could I have man trouble when the man is oblivious anyway? Sure, I thwart the half-hearted requests for dates from lethargic, lonely males — that’s easy. But then there’s Pete. He isn’t lethargic, doesn’t seem to be lonely, and barely acknowledges my existence. All terribly irritating.

“
Oh, grow up,” I muttered as I turned the key in the pickup’s ignition.

After feeding Tuppence and grilling another cheese sandwich, I pulled on my rattiest old sweats and wool socks.

“Don’t you think avoidance of Pete Sills is the best course of action?” I asked the dog.

Tuppence swung her tail in a low arc.

“Yeah, I figured you’d side with him. But you’re not rendered weak-kneed by crinkle-cornered blue eyes and chronic three-day stubble, are you?”

Tuppence licked her chops.

“Oh. So maybe you are.”

I sat on the floor in front of the fireplace with Tuppence
’s head on my knee and the laptop open beside me. Next up was an enameled graniteware chamber pot, bucket-style, with lid. Lids on chamber pots really were innovative, at the time. I slid into curator mode and typed:

What would you do with a chamber pot in the morning? If you were wealthy, you probably had a maid who would empty it, clean it and slip it back under your bed. If you weren’t rich, you had to do the chore yourself. At first, people took the easy way and flung the contents of the chamber pot out the window. That was generally not appreciated by other folks in town if there was a walkway under your window. Common courtesy demanded chamber pots be emptied in the privy or outhouse. Lids were a fairly late addition to chamber pot technology and ensured the contents remained secure on the journey to the privy.

Sharp rapping rattled the door. I jumped, and Tuppence let out a muffled “Mmmrf,” as if embarrassed she’d been caught napping. I pushed Tuppence off my lap and creaked my sore joints to standing.

A voice outside called,
“Hellooo?” Pete Sills’ voice.

My heart went into spin cycle, and I looked down at the torn knees of my sweatpants. Classy, suave, sophisticated
— not. I took a deep breath. Why worry about what Pete Sills thought?

I flung open the door.

Pete, in his rough red and black buffalo plaid jacket, Carhartt pants and steel-toed work boots, looked straight into my eyes. “You going to the game? I could use a lift.”

I sighed. Since my reason for avoiding the game was standing on the doorstep, there was no need to maintain the charade.
“Yeah. I need to change first.”

Pete took a step up, meaning to come in.
“I’ll wait.”

“
No,” I snapped. “Outside. You’ll wait outside.”

Tuppence wriggled through the doorway to greet Pete. Of course,
she
loved him. She had a thing for men, the dirtier the better. Pete’s pants were stained with machine grease.

Pete arched his brows, an amused smile flickering across his face. He shrugged and stepped back to the welcome mat and stuffed his hands in his pockets. I slammed the door and dove for the bedroom.

I yanked off my comfortable, lounge-around clothes, pulled on the jeans and sweater worn earlier and stuffed my feet into my warmest hiking boots. A quick look at my face and hair in the mirror — but there was nothing I could salvage in short order.

I cringed, remembering how thin RV walls are. Pete probably knew exactly what all the shuffling and lurching inside was accomplishing. I muttered silently about his persistent inopportuneness while I grabbed a puffy down jacket, hat and a rawhide treat for Tuppence.

Pete was leaning against the passenger side door of my truck. He’d already loaded his bicycle in the bed with one handlebar hooked over the tailgate. He kept the bike on his tugboat and used it for trips into nearby towns when he stopped to load and unload barges. I realized the high school football field was too far away to pedal to in the dark.

He smiled. He had very white teeth against his dark stubble. Probably wore braces as a kid. Maybe I should go easier on him. Maybe.

I opened the driver’s door and climbed in. Pete slid onto the bench seat from the other side, smelling faintly of licorice and dusty wheat. His large frame took up more than his half of the seat. And then I discovered I didn’t have the keys.

I tumbled out of the truck, found I hadn
’t locked the trailer door either, grabbed the keys from the hook inside and locked the trailer, a residual big-city habit. Probably not necessary out here, but it made me feel better — when I remembered to do it. Although it would have been deathly mortifying tonight if I had remembered to lock the trailer with my truck keys still inside. The image of Pete pedaling to Junction General with me balanced on the handlebars so we could borrow jimmying tools made my stomach lurch.

I scooted back into the truck. Pete didn
’t say a word, which irritated me even more. Why did the man make me so flustered? It was just so stupid. I clamped my gloved hands around the steering wheel and resolved to be more mature.

We drove to the stadium in silence. I thought about starting a conversation, but everything seemed ridiculous after my brainless escapade. It wouldn
’t be helpful to reveal more scatteredness by opening my mouth. Good thing my truck is kind of noisy.

Pete paid for my ticket before I could argue and led me toward the packed bleachers.

“Meredith! Over here.”

Greg
’s arms windmilled about halfway up at midfield. I hoped he’d saved only one seat. But when the friendly crowd saw two were trying to squeeze in, they moved over and adjusted their seat cushions to make room. Pete pressed in, fitting on the end of the bench —  shoulder, hip and thigh tight against me. My stomach flip-flopped.

Lindsay reached across Greg and patted my knee.
“I’m so glad you came.”

I was only able to nod back over the roar of the crowd as the home team took the field.

The Platts Landing Polecats gave the Sheldon Senators the walloping Ford claimed they needed. Lindsay hollered like the cheerleader she used to be, getting our entire section into the groove. Lindsay’s boyfriend, the quarterback, ran in for the team’s fifth touchdown with just seconds remaining in the half, and the team went to the locker room ahead 35 to 3.

Pete stumped down the metal stairs into the celebrating throng. I shivered in the sudden chilliness caused by his absence. I
’d forgotten he was there in my enthusiasm for the game and hadn’t realized he’d been blocking the wind. I hunched into my coat and listened to Lindsay explain the offsides penalty to Greg.

“
Brilliant. You should do sports broadcasting. Your explanations are easy to understand,” Greg said.

I leaned in.
“Yep. I told him he should sit by you so he could learn the game.”

Lindsay beamed, then flushed.
“When you grow up with a bunch of brothers and a dad who are crazy about football, you can’t help it. It’s the only thing I know much about.”

“
Aw, come on.” Greg wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I bet you know lots of stuff. You just haven’t had the chance to show it yet.”

This time Lindsay
’s blush went deep into her hair. I leaned back and smiled. Good-bye, Angie — maybe.

Pete reclaimed his spot and handed me a loaded hot dog and a can of Barq
’s root beer. “You don’t like cola, right?”

“
Right. Thanks.” How did he remember that? Was he paying attention, or was it a fluke?

Anyway, the hot dog was great. Ambiance is vital for hot dogs. They only taste good when charred over a campfire or at football games when your team is ahead. Smothered in sauerkraut, onions and mustard, this one hit the spot.

I licked my lips and grinned at the fact that I certainly wouldn’t have kissable breath tonight. Take that, Pete Sills. Not that he’d ever tried. Maybe he didn’t like my freckles. Or how I always acted so ditsy around him. Well, if those were his problems, he was too shallow to waste time thinking about.

Yeah, right.

The Senators staged a short-lived rally late in the third, causing a fumble near the goal line and intercepting a line-drive pass, but the Polecats pulled off a 42 to 17 win. The crowd slapped each other on their backs, yawned, stretched and cascaded down the bleachers.

A man in a blazer, khakis and loafers stood on the sideline, talking to Lindsay
’s boyfriend. He was definitely not a local — not in that get-up. He had to be a college scout. I felt a twinge of pity for Lindsay. The girl was about to be left behind by a boyfriend already two years her junior. She needed a stick of ambition dynamite lit under her. Maybe Greg could do that. Maybe he already had.

Pete and I moved with the flow toward the parking lot. My behind was numb from the cold, hard bleacher seat and tingly from fresh blood flow. No hip-sashaying motion here. More like a chicken waddle.

I wrinkled my nose at a whiff of marijuana wafting from the group in front of us — a mix of high-schoolers and parents. Didn’t people have sense enough not to smoke pot at such a public event and in front of kids? Or maybe it was the kids. Then where were their parents?

I sighed
— I was sinking into indignant old woman mode.

The slapping sound of big, flat feet pounding the pavement rushed up behind me. I side-stepped quickly.