Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (5 page)

“
I watched Big John do it all those years. He always talked about investigations, asked what I thought about people and situations. I figured a couple decades of that was enough education to go on. Pays off, you know, knowing people.”

I wondered what it would be like to always refer to my husband with an adjective in front of his name. Steely Dan, Pistol Pete, Fat Albert. Maybe you got used to it. Maybe it was like those southern double names. Billy Bob. Bobby Ray. Big John. And by all reports, he had been big
— well over three hundred pounds. Made Sheriff Marge look like a debutante by comparison.

The sheriff
’s an elected position. Marge had been appointed to fill the role when her husband died of a heart attack mid-term. She’d run unopposed in every subsequent election.

“
I saw you at the game — with Pete Sills,” Sheriff Marge said.

I blew out a breath and rolled my eyes.

“Uh-huh.” Sheriff Marge leveled gray eyes at me over the top of silver-rimmed reading glasses. She doesn’t bother with a beaded lanyard or even take the time to prop the glasses on the top of her head. She keeps them where she needs them and looks over them when she doesn’t.

“
Hi, Meredith. Great to see you.” Mac leaned over the back of my chair, his callused hands weighing on my shoulders. “What can I get you to drink?”

From my vantage point, I had a rather disturbing view up his nostrils. It
’s obvious the man works with sawdust. I was glad I was wearing a high-necked t-shirt, otherwise he would have had an equally disturbing view down my cleavage.

“
Arnold Palmer?”

“
Sure thing for a pretty thing.” He trotted toward the bar.

“
Mmhmm.” Sheriff Marge grunted.

I sighed.
“Yeah.”

“
You know what they say about hick towns. And I can say this, ‘cause I’m from here.”

“
What?”

“
The odds may be good, but the goods may be odd.”

I screeched a very unladylike laugh before I was able to clamp a hand over my mouth. When I recovered, I asked,
“What about you? Ever think about dating again?”

“
Nope. Big John was my one and only. Besides, I’m too old and tired for that sort of thing. I’d rather bust meth-heads.”

People shushed each other until the room quieted except for the shuffling of hungry children. Pastor Mort stood on his tiptoes between the main dish table and the dessert table. 

“Welcome, folks. Good to see so many of you here. I’m going to thank the Lord for the meal, then you can line up on both sides of the tables to fill your plates. As usual, we let families with small children go first.”

A little girl with blond ringlet pigtails stood on a chair next to her seated dad, her arms around his neck.
“That’s me!”

Pastor Mort chuckled.
“We should all come before God with the delightful hunger of children. He provides for us beyond measure.” He bowed his head. “Lord God, thank you for this food and this fellowship. Thanks for taking care of us. Help us to seek You, Your truth, Your Word and the salvation You provided through your Son when we deserve the opposite. Amen.”

An orderly rush to the food tables ensued.  I hung back with Sheriff Marge and enjoyed the scene. There
’s always more than enough food. The women consider cooking a competitive sport, measuring success by how much of their entry is consumed. Casserole dishes scraped down to the ceramic glaze score a 10.0.

“
Here you are.” Mac slid into a chair beside me and handed me a tall glass of iced tea mixed with lemonade, dripping with condensation. He’d stuck an umbrella toothpick in a lemon wedge and floated it in the drink.

“
Oh, thanks. It’s very — tropical."

“
Hey, I thought I saw Bard Joseph the other day, driving through town,” Mac said.

Sheriff Marge
’s eyebrows shot up.

Mac shrugged.
“I was just surprised. That’s all.”

“
How about some coffee? Black.” Sheriff Marge scowled.

“
Comin’ up.” Mac stood and walked back to the bar.

“
Troublemaker?” I asked.

“
Hmmm?” Sheriff Marge wasn’t paying attention.

“
The person Mac just mentioned. I don’t know any Josephs.”

“
Wealthiest family — what’s left of it — in the county. Land rich, anyway. Maybe not cash rich. But you wouldn’t have met them. A bit reclusive.”

Sheriff Marge and I got in line and filled our plates from steaming crockpots and casserole dishes in quilted cozies. I
’d left my embarrassing old blanket in the truck and let my casserole sit naked on the table.

I have a rule not to eat my own food at potlucks. That would be like stuffing the ballot box. Plus, it
’s important to sample all the other goodness available. A couple times unpleasant surprises have marred my experience, but it’s still a risk I gladly take. I wedged a slice of pear pie with a crumble pecan topping next to scoops of beef stroganoff and rice pilaf.

Sheriff Marge stopped to talk to a family of migrant workers, some of the last remaining since the apple harvest had wrapped up a week or so ago.

I spied a single empty chair between the Levines and another church family with a whole passel of little kids. I knew I was being rude to Mac, but he has a tendency to over-interpret even a whiff of encouragement — or rather he has an ability to find encouragement in innocuous actions or words that completely baffles me.

I leaned across the table toward Sally.
“Have you ever thought about putting together a recipe book as a community fundraiser? I think it would be a bestseller in the museum gift shop.” Certainly better than those dusty refrigerator magnets.

Sally
’s eyebrows arched. “A couple other people have mentioned the same thing, but I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“
I could help get quotes on printing if you did the recipe collecting.”

The mom of the young family on my other side raised her fork to hold her place in the conversation while she finished chewing.
“I could do the page layouts and covers. I worked for an ad firm before I married Paul. I’m a little rusty, but I still have the software. I could work on it during nap times.”

I recognized Paul as a grain inspector from the port. He was busy trying to spoon what looked like pureed beets into a chubby baby
’s clamped mouth.

“
I could put an announcement in the church bulletin, an APB for recipes,” Sally said.

“
APB?” Sheriff Marge’s antenna picked that up through thirty feet of mingled conversations, and she bustled over.

Sally laughed.
“For your caramel brownie bar recipe.” She filled in until Sheriff Marge nodded.

“
Ahh.” Sheriff Marge stabbed a stout finger at the gooey golden mound on her plate. “Then Meredith will have to share her recipe for these cheesy potatoes.”

“
Deal.”

The Seahawks lost, as usual. The subdued crowd stacked folding chairs and wiped down tables. I collected my empty casserole dish. It was so clean it looked like Tuppence had had a go at it, except not as slimy. Perfect score.

I joined the throng of adults assembling the remains of tableware and sleepy children and packing them into cars for the ride home.

Pastor Mort ambled out with me.
“We’d love to see you at church sometime.”

He wasn
’t just saying that because he was supposed to. The Levines really mean it; they’re good people. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to church — a lifetime, a career and a fiancé ago. Church-going would probably do me some good, maybe make me less of the loner Greg and Pete had so helpfully pointed out lately.

“
I’d like that, too.” I smiled at Pastor Mort. “And tell Sally to call me when she’s ready to brainstorm about the cookbook.”

o0o

On Monday, a free day all to myself, I layered jeans and a thermal long-sleeved t-shirt over silk long johns. I pulled on wool socks and hiking boots, found my fingerless mitts and flannel-lined canvas field coat.

After loading a backpack with a few sandwiches and several bottles of water, I called to my ecstatic hound and flopped a blanket on the passenger side of the bench seat so she could curl up on it. It was way too cold to drive with the windows down, so Tuppence would have to make do with leaving nose smears on the glass.

I drove east on Highway 14 to Lupine, the county seat and closest town substantial enough to have a hardware/household goods/craft supply/drug store. I took Greg’s suggestion and bought a bright yellow plastic potty chair. No pink and blue versions here, just utilitarian yellow.

Then I kept driving, up the gorge toward the empty expanse of rolling latte tan hills with the horizon rimmed by gleaming white wind turbine phalanxes. A thick drizzle misted the windshield. The truck was old enough not to have intermittent windshield wipers, so I flicked the lever every minute or so.

The gray Columbia churned with short whitecaps casting off flicks of spray. The river was a bit agitated. I wondered if salmon and sturgeon were hunkered at the bottom, sitting this one out.

I pulled into the empty gravel parking lot at a Lewis and Clark heritage trail marker.
“Ready to get wet?”

Tuppence thumped her tail once and licked her chops. She was so ready she was salivating.

She had definitely been neglected the past couple months. With winter coming fast, we had to get our exploring in while we could, rain or no.

I put on my hat and opened the door, my booted feet landing in a puddle. Tuppence scrambled over and jumped into the same puddle. Had to start somewhere.

I flipped my coat collar up and inhaled deeply, grinning. This was the life. Who would have believed, two years ago, that I would go hiking in the rain without another human being in sight and love it.

We set off cross-country. Hard to get lost with nothing blocking the view of the biggest landmark
— watermark — around. Even better, the landmark was directional. Downstream was west, toward home and eventually, if you kept going, Astoria and the Pacific Ocean.

The white tip of Tuppence
’s tail waved like a flag marker in the tall grass. I forged a straight path across Tuppence’s zigzags. The grass would green up with just a few rainy days like this one, and the hills would magically transform into a land resembling the Emerald Isle.

I huffed up a hillock, my thighs and calves burning by the time I reached the top
— the residual effect of too many late-night grilled cheese sandwiches.

I spun slowly to take in the entire panorama. Squalls were coming up from the southwest. Under the thick overcast layer, tight-fisted black cloud knots rushed low over the hills, trailing torrential downpours like veils. Several tempestuous, runaway brides on the
Oregon side. There but for the grace of God. I shook my head, grinning again. It’s good to be free.

Tuppence poked her nose down a hole and sneezed.

“Not at home? Or they didn’t invite you in?”

Tuppence glanced at me over her shoulder, then started to dig.

“Come on, girl, leave them alone. Come on.” I whistled and trekked up the next incline.

Four hours later, we made our way back. Tuppence had definitely lost her zip. My legs wobbled. I
’d sleep hard tonight and feel it tomorrow, but it was so worth it.