Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) (9 page)

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I couldn
’t agree or disagree. What did he know about the shipment? Maybe more than he was so adamantly denying.

“
Thanks for dinner. Best I’ve had since Mom’s goulash.”

I nodded and rapped on the door for Archie to let me out.

o0o

I nearly did the splits on the sidewalk. An invisible ice glaze covered everything. The rain was coming faster now, adding layer upon layer. I slid my feet slowly, heading for the grass and bark dust in the dormant flowerbeds where the surface was rougher and safer.

I pounded on the truck’s door handle to break the ice shield. Tuppence whined as I scooted into the seat.

“
I know, old girl. I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”

I'd had studded tires put on the truck a few weeks back, but the ice was probably thicker than the stud depth. I let the truck roll straight back out of the parking spot. Now was not a great time to put a dent in Archie
’s cruiser.

We crept through town
— which didn’t bother anyone because no one else was out. Locals know better than to drive in these conditions. On the highway, I was glad to see the few other cars on the road were moving as slowly as I was. No impatient tailgaters tonight.

The pickup slid a few times, and the windshield coated over even with the wipers going full speed. I pulled onto the gravel shoulder, stepped out of the truck and inched around the hood to scrape the ice off. My hands were painfully stiff, and I rubbed them until I could grip the steering wheel again.

Shoulders scrunched into tight knots, I leaned forward, peering into the dark. The headlight beams lit up the slanting rain — the drops looked like a rapid meteor shower through the black night. Ice chunks clicked and crackled as they slid around on the truck’s surface and broke free. 

At last, I pulled into the Riverview RV Ranch
’s drive. As I followed the circular road through the campground, I tried to pick out the blue Datsun pickup in the tent area, but it was too dark to tell if Ferris was still there. I nosed the pickup close to the fifth-wheel’s overhang.

"Whew.
” I kneaded my neck muscles. “Come on, Tupp. Be careful when you jump.”

I grabbed the side mirror to keep my balance. Tuppence scrabbled on the pavement, legs splayed. We skated to the steps. I beat on the door with my fist to loosen the ice and finally pried it open. The door snapped shut behind us like an airlock. The ice coating muffled sounds and insulated the trailer into a cozy cocoon.

I slid my arms out of my dripping coat and tossed it in the bottom of the shower. The alarm clock in the bedroom flashed — the power had already gone out at least once. I snagged a bath towel and rubbed Tuppence down.

I checked the time on my phone
— 10:38 p.m. Awfully late, but Pete had insisted. I dialed.

He picked up on the first ring.
“Where are you?”

“
Home.”

He exhaled.

“I’m fine. Sorry to make you worry. How are things on the tug?”

“
Dogged-down.”

“
What?”

“
The watertight door clamps are called dogs. Dogged-down means I’m floating safe and dry.”

I sighed and massaged the back of my neck with my free hand. After a few seconds, I realized I should probably say something.
“When will you be back in town — after the run to Boardman?”

“
A week probably.”

“
Want to come for dinner then?”

“
Yes.”

I pictured him leaning against the galley counter, broad shoulders stretching his buffalo plaid jacket and those deep blue eyes. Mmmmm.

“Meredith?”

“
Hmm?”

“
Are you falling asleep?”

I yawned.
“Just dreaming, but that’s a good idea. ‘Night.”

o0o

I awoke in a cold sweat — miserably damp and chilly. I groaned and reached for the comforter. My hand splatted on saturated fabric — frigid, saturated fabric. I sat up and clicked on the light, except the light didn’t turn on. Groaning louder, I thrashed the covers off my legs and rolled out of bed. The carpet squished beneath my feet and instantly froze my toes.

“
No,” I moaned. “No, no, no, no, no.”

I rummaged through drawers in the dark until I found a flashlight. Shivering, I directed the weak beam around the room and caught something twinkling on the ceiling. A line of dangling droplets stretched from one side of the room to the other. While I watched, half of them shimmied free and were replaced by new, growing drops. The whole roof seam must have popped open.

I squeezed my eyes shut. This kind of thing didn’t happen in real houses. Living in a fifth-wheel didn’t feel so glamorous right now — not so free-spirited and fun.

I gave myself a mental kick in the seat. Quit that. I love where I live and how I live. It
’s a fact of life that bad weather wreaks havoc on RVs. What’s a leak once in a while? I pushed straggly curls out of my face and clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering.

Okay, so my problem was more like
Niagara Falls. Everything was soaked — pajamas, blankets, pillows, mattress, carpet. The vinyl wallpaper at both ends of the ceiling seam bulged to about halfway down the wall. A grand mess — a freezing cold grand mess.

It looked as though the dresser and closet were safe for now. I stripped and threw my pajamas in the shower, then pulled on a sweat suit and two pairs of socks. I hopped around on the bathroom linoleum, trying to warm up.

“Brrr, brrr, brrr.” Not good enough. I stumbled down the steps to the kitchen.

No power meant no furnace heat. Maybe the gas fireplace would still work since it ran off the propane tank. I scuffed into the living room and tripped over Tuppence
’s big pillow bed, plunging to a soft crash-landing on the sofa. The dog groaned and stretched.

I fumbled for the switch, found it, and blue flames flickered behind the glass screen. I hugged my knees to my chest and stared into the fire. Tuppence nudged my foot and whined softly.

I rubbed her ears. “Sorry for the intrusion. My bed’s all wet.” I wrinkled my nose. “You don’t snuggle as well as Pete does, but I’ll let you on the furniture for one night.” I patted the sofa cushion, and Tuppence clambered up beside me.

I pulled her warm, furry weight across my lap and scratched her belly.
“You’re a good dog,” I murmured. “Better than a blanket.”

Tuppence shifted awkwardly, and her cold nose found a gap between my sweatshirt and pants.

“Yow! Not that. Keep your nose to yourself.”

Tuppence yawned.

I settled back, working my fingers through her silky fur. I realized how much I liked Val’s honesty about missing her dog. There was no reason why two women who had dated the same man couldn’t be friends, was there? Especially if they agreed the man was a cad.

When it was light, I
’d figure out who to call. Maybe I should have spent the night on the tug, dogged-down and warm. Pete was protective of my reputation, though, and thoughtful — a vast improvement over Ham’s callousness. I couldn’t stomach the idea of what rumors would fly if I
had
spent the night.

Nevertheless, I wished Pete was here.

CHAPTER 8

I waited until the semi-decent hour of 8 a.m., then called Mac MacDougal, owner of the Sidetrack Tavern and cabinet maker for the museum. Along with Sheriff Marge, Mac knew nearly every person in the county — at least every beer-drinking, football-watching male. I figured the best person to fix my leaky roof would also have those three traits.

I stood in the bedroom doorway surveying the damage and explained.

“Jim Carter,” Mac said. “Best handyman around.”

I wrote down the number.
“Thanks, Mac.”

“
Hey, do you need a place to stay? You could stay here. No strings or anything — I mean unless you want, but, uh, well, yeah — you could have my bed.” My mouth fell open. “I have an old army cot to sleep on,” Mac added quickly.

I inhaled.
“Um, thanks, but my sofa’s pretty comfortable. I’m fine.”

“
Well, my offer stands if you ever need it.”

“
Right.”

“
Hey, can you stop by sometime? I want to show you a new display case design I’m working on.”

“
Um, sure. In the next couple days?”

“
Sounds good. Tell Jim he gets a free drink from me for helping you out.”

I hung up without replying. I didn
’t know whether to laugh or be irritated. Poor Mac. He needed a girlfriend — but some other girl. Val was newly available. Hmmm.

I dialed Jim Carter
’s number.

“
Jim’s Rental Center.”

I described my predicament.
“Do you think you can fix my roof?”

“
Maybe.”

“
Uh, could you come out to look at it, or should I tow the trailer to you?”

Jim sighed noisily into the receiver.
“I guess I could come out.”

“
Great. When is good for you?”

Jim shuffled through papers and muttered. I held my breath, fearing he would say his next opening was in two weeks.
“I can probably get there in half an hour.”

I almost dropped the phone.
“Oh, thanks. Spot C-17.”

“
Hafta rearrange my deliveries,” Jim grumbled and hung up.

I wrinkled my nose and stared at the phone. What a crab. Half an hour. I tossed the phone on top of the dresser, grabbed an armload of clothes and dashed for the shower, grateful the power was back on and the rain had stopped.

I rushed through an abbreviated morning routine and started a full pot of coffee hoping the aroma would make Jim more amiable.

Metal clanked outside, then thuds shook the trailer. I poked my head out the door. Overall-clad legs stood on the top rung of a stepladder. The man
’s top half rested on the fifth-wheel’s roof.

“
Hello,” I called.

A horrible ripping sound stopped my greeting, and a strip of flashing sailed over my head. I ducked.

The ladder wobbled, and I grabbed it. Jim grunted and pushed himself farther onto the roof. More ripping and crunching — a wood splintering sound.

“
What are you doing?” I yelled.

Jim scooted to the edge, found the top of the ladder with his foot and peered down. The skin under his brown eyes drooped in wrinkles, reminding me of a bloodhound.
“Grab the blue tarp from my truck. And bungee cords.”

I scowled. But since I know nothing about RV repair, I decided to follow orders. And prayed Jim knew what he was doing.

Jim’s white utility pickup and small trailer blocked my drive. Two porta-potties in the trailer made the connection in my mind — the same Jim that Ford said would not be happy about picking up the damaged porta-potty at the museum. No wonder he was crabby. I found the tarp and bungee cords behind the passenger seat and handed them up to Jim.

“
Not the cords.” He tossed them back down.

Jim wrestled with the tarp, flipping the edges off the front and both sides of the fifth-wheel
’s high section. He clomped down the ladder and hooked bungee cords through the tarp’s grommets and attached them underneath the overhang. He emerged, huffing, and set his fists on his hips.

“
What I thought. Water leaked under the seal and lifted it when it froze last night. Gotta dry before I can fix it.”

Jim was an Eeyore-faced man, narrow at the forehead and jowly about the chin. A yellow Caterpillar baseball hat rested on prominent ears.

“But you can fix it?” I asked.

“
That’s what I said.”

“
I want to apologize for the porta-potty accident at the Imogene a few days ago. I’m the museum curator.”

Jim grunted.

“Would you like some coffee? It was kind of you to come so early.”

Jim patted his overall bib in the vicinity of his stomach.
“Alright.”

He followed me into the trailer and sat heavily on a dining chair. Tuppence ambled over to inspect. He stroked the dog
’s head.

I set a steaming mug in front of him.
“Milk? Sugar?”

Jim waved his hand and slurped the scalding liquid.

“Bagel with cream cheese?”

“
Yeah. Okay.”

I popped a split bagel in the toaster, leaned against the counter and tried to think of something to say that wouldn
’t offend him. “Mac MacDougal recommended you.”

More slurping.

“He said you’re the best handyman around. You must have tons of experience. What are your specialties?”

“
This ‘n that. Appliance repair, remodeling, excavating, hauling — got the latrine servicing business on the side, and U-Haul rentals.”

“
Excavating?” I perked up. “We have several large statues that need to be installed on the museum’s grounds. Would you be interested?” I realized I hadn’t even seen the
Wind in the Willows
statues yet — they were still impounded in Terry’s damaged semi trailer. I hoped the crates and packing material protected them during the truck’s slide and near collision.

“
Ground’s saturated. I’ll take a look.”

“
I’d really appreciate that.” I slid a plate onto the table.

Jim crammed a huge bite of bagel in his mouth. He stood and stomped up the steps to my bedroom. I cringed and tried to remember if there was anything personal lying about.

“Carpet’s gotta come out.”

I followed him up the stairs.

Jim was already kneeling in a corner, pulling the carpet off the tack strips. He jerked a large section up, creating a miniature tidal wave toward the stairs.

“
Hang on — hang on.” I dashed for the kitchen and my roasting pan. I shoved the pan under the lip of the top step. “Okay. Ready.” I wadded towels around the pan.

Jim had the carpet and pad out and rolled up in his pickup
’s bed in fifteen minutes. He hauled in two heavy-duty fans and set them in the corners of the bedroom.

“
Be back in a couple days,” he shouted over the din. “What color?” He pointed to the floor.

Everything in the RV is a shade of brown with wood stain. A mechanical engineer
’s idea of decorating, meant to hide wear and tear from road travel. “Uh, a neutral? Tan, beige — something like that.”

Jim scooped up the remaining bagel and left, letting the door bang.

I shook my head. Not the friendliest fellow, but I couldn’t complain about his response time. What a mess.

I dragged a bath towel across the kitchen floor to mop up the water trail left by the soggy carpet. Tuppence nosed around and got in the way.

“Should we live in a regular place, Tupp? Would you like that better? We could live in Gloria’s new apartment once Ham’s gone.”

The dog did a full-body shake, her long ears slapping under her chin and over her head.

I waited until she finished. “Are you sure?”

Tuppence snorted.

“I guess we both need our freedom, huh?”

o0o

When I arrived at the museum, Lindsay flagged me down with a sheaf of papers. “Could you look over my application? And write a reference for me?”

I veered into the gift shop.
“So you’re ready?”

“
As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” Lindsay sighed. “If a college application is this hard, what are classes going to be like?”

“
It feels like a test, doesn’t it?” I laughed. “But you’re going to do just fine. I know it.”

Lindsay flipped her blond hair behind her shoulder.
“I’m hoping to finalize the essay this weekend and submit the whole thing on Monday. The reference needs to arrive by December 1st.”

“
No problem. Who are your other references?”

“
Greg said he’d write one, and I thought I’d ask Sheriff Marge.”

“
Having the county sheriff as a reference will look good.”

“
I hope she writes more than ‘haven’t had to arrest her yet.’”

I chuckled.
“Nah, your letters are going to be effusively positive. I’ll give you a copy of mine.” I climbed the stairs.

I stopped in mid-stride at my office door, pivoted and tiptoed back down one flight of stairs to the chamber pot display room. Looking quickly both directions, I entered and nudged the door closed behind me. I slipped into the bathroom, peeked in the toilet tank, counted, and breathed a sigh of relief.

I had forgotten to ask Lindsay if there were any visitors in the museum. Anxious that one or several might appear any moment, I hurried back to my third-floor sanctuary and slid into the lumpy, leather-covered chair. Whew.

It took a while for my heartbeat to stop pounding in my ears. The sooner the gold was someplace safe, the better. But Sheriff Marge had a lot going on, so I decided to give her some time before I called to nag her
— like maybe ten minutes.

I spread out the pages of Lindsay
’s application. It was surprisingly well done. Lindsay is a little ditsy sometimes, but she’d put a lot of thought into her answers. Good job, kiddo. I grinned. After all my careful prodding, it was satisfying to see Lindsay develop a goal and really go after it. The fledgling was going to leave the nest, provided she was accepted at Washington State.

I typed an honest letter extolling Lindsay
’s virtues. I mentioned reliability, work ethic and unflagging cheerfulness. And the fact that Lindsay was a football encyclopedia with a knack for explaining the game to the uninitiated in clear and simple terms. In other words, she’d make a great sports broadcaster or coach. Plus, she was cheerleader cute, but I didn’t step outside politically correct bounds in my note. The sports management program chair would find that out when Lindsay went for preview weekend.