Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) (6 page)

I had Mom move her Mercedes to a shady spot next to my campsite. Her sleek, shiny car seemed inappropriate for daily life and the frequent gravel roads in
Sockeye County.

We climbed into my trusty old pickup, and I headed toward Highway 14.

Already people were standing in loose groups in the church’s parking lot, enjoying the sunshine and catching up with friends. I slid out of the truck just as Pete roared into the spot next to mine. He rocked the motorcycle up onto its stand and removed his helmet.

“
Babe.” He grinned and swung off the bike. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in for a quick kiss.

Normally, his scent of licorice and Barbasol
— not to mention his warm lips — would make me weak-kneed, but I felt a little awkward knowing my mother was gaping from the other side of the pickup.

I snuck a hand up to his chest and cleared enough space to whisper,
“I need to talk to you.”

“
Good morning.” Mom’s voice was high and clear — and very close.

I flinched and turned. She was standing a couple feet way, eyes narrowed at Pete.

“Um, this is my mother, Pamela,” I muttered. “She arrived yesterday afternoon.”

Pete
’s grip on my waist tightened, but he didn’t hesitate. “Pamela, good to meet you.”

“
Is it?” She sighed. “Well, I’m here now. Shall we go inside?” She pivoted and marched toward the church’s double door entrance on those fantastic espadrilles.

Pete fixed me with a stern look, his blue eyes intense, one brow arched.

I swallowed, my throat dry. “No warning. No explanation. Just showed up,” I whispered. “Please, please, please come for lunch. I need backup.”

His mouth didn
’t smile, but his eyes did — flashing those crinkle-corners for me. “I think she’s going to have
me
for lunch. But if you need me—”

“
Do I ever.” I touched his cheek. “I made a huge pan of lasagna. I’ll try to keep it between you and her so she has something else to eat first.”

CHAPTER 6

Mom perked up at the prospect of meeting a bunch of strangers
— one of the ways we are vastly different. She received a warm welcome. Visitors in Platts Landing are few and far between, so they are gushed over when they do appear. Most people would probably find so much enthusiasm overwhelming, but Mom reveled in it.

She surprised me, too, by knowing the words to the first couple verses of every hymn we sang. How could have I grown up with this woman and still be mystified by her? And when was she going to fill in the blanks?

After the service, Pastor Mort Levine and his wife, Sally, found us and introduced themselves to Mom.

“
Pete.” Mort pumped Pete’s hand. “How long are you in town?”

“
Just here for the weekend — for the fundraiser.” Pete smiled at me. “Leaving in the morning for Arlington. They’re unloading the last of last year’s wheat harvest to make room for this year’s. Looks to be a heavy crop.”

“
That’s what I’m hearing too.” Mort nodded. “Which is much needed good news. Out to Astoria with the load?”

“
Yep. It’s heading to China.”

Mort shook his head.
“International trade and how the goods move around still amazes me. We’ll be praying for safe travels.”

Sally beamed in agreement and patted Pete
’s arm.

“
Appreciate it.” Pete grinned.

In the pickup with the windows down, now that our hair didn
’t need to remain in place for church, I informed Mom that Pete would be joining us for lunch.

She scowled, staring straight forward.
“How long have you known him?”

“
Um, six — no, eight months — wait, I think around a year.” I shrugged. “A while anyway.”

“
What does he do for a living? I didn’t understand about the load of wheat. Is he a farmer?”

“
Tugboat owner and operator. He moves all kinds of loads up and down the Columbia-Snake River System.”

Mom
’s lips pressed together in a thin line, and I knew what she was thinking — blue collar. My jaw tightened, and I felt my face flush. I hated those snap judgments she made about people based on their appearance or their jobs or the cars they drove — putting them into categories without really knowing them. I wanted to explain that Pete is the most patient, gentle, kind, caring, hard-working man I’d ever known, but I also knew it would be a fruitless attempt.

“
What was that about a fundraiser?”

“
Oh, uh—” I’d been expecting a disparaging remark about Pete. Fundraiser? Of course, that is much more in my mother’s territory. “For the museum. Friday night. Black tie and chili.” I giggled at the discrepancy, and yet the chili had certainly contributed to the success of the evening.

“
You planned it?”

“
Frankie and I did. Frankie’ll be at the museum tomorrow, so you can meet her then. She’s a sweetheart.”

“
How many attendees?”

“
Frankie’ll have the final count. I think between 350 and 400.”

“
Meredith.” Mom’s voice sounded choked. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped.”

“
Frankie’s great at event planning. She handled all the details—” I glanced at Mom. She was close to tears, blinking rapidly, still staring straight ahead. “Um — it was pretty simple, really. It’s kind of far for you—” I clamped my mouth shut. Whatever I said, it would be the wrong thing.

I checked the rearview mirror. Pete was still back there on his motorcycle, trailing us to the campground. I said a silent prayer of thanks and exhaled slowly. I
’d never make it through the rest of the day with my mother without Pete’s steadying presence.

oOo

We survived lunch — well, I did — barely. I could tell Pete was figuratively gritting his teeth throughout the ordeal. Mom was strained, her chatter not coming as effortlessly as usual, as she searched for innocuous topics.

She extracted some of Pete
’s history — the high school injury that negated a full-ride college football scholarship and his subsequent enlistment in the Navy; saving every spare cent so he could buy his tug, the
Surely
, after fifteen years of service and an honorable discharge; building his business on word of mouth and a willingness to take the unusual or particularly challenging tow jobs.

Mom was deadpan throughout, question after question, as though she was clicking through an eligibility checklist. Pete
’s voice deepened with the tension, and I scooted closer to him, sliding a hand under the picnic table to rub his knee. I felt guilty that I was enjoying a few minutes of freedom from Mom’s critical spotlight while she focused on him instead.

I was about to suggest dessert as a diversion when an enormous motorcoach with California plates and towing a U-Haul trailer rumbled around the loop and stopped beyond a full hook-up site several spaces away. The driver rolled down his window, stuck his head out and started creeping in reverse. I recognized the thick glasses and pointed nose of Melvin Sharpe, the filmmaker I
’d met at the fundraiser.

The RV lurched and jerked as the brake lights flashed on and off, the coach swaying from side to side under the strain of making the turn. Except he didn
’t make the turn, and the U-Haul ended up with one wheel in the fire pit of the next campsite over.

Melvin and someone in the passenger seat hollered at each other, then the motorcoach leaped forward and the U-Haul bumped out of the fire pit.

“Just give me a minute,” Melvin shouted.

“
You’re going to ruin it,” a female voice flung back.

I cringed.
“Maybe we should have our pie inside. Backing up with such a big coach plus a trailer is hard. Having spectators is worse.” I stacked our plates and stood.

A door on the far side of the coach slammed, and a pair of feet in red stilettos appeared in the gap between the bottom of the coach and the ground.
“You can’t do anything right,” the passenger yelled.

And this coming from a woman who thought spiked high heels were appropriate for camping? Straight from
Hollywood, that pair. With my nerves and patience already stretched taut, the woman who belonged to those shoes — and that screechy voice — was about to push me over the edge.

“
À la mode?” I asked with forced cheerfulness and sped for the steps up to my fifth-wheel.

Typically, my fellow campers are practical and friendly, the kind of people you have instant rapport with. But not always. I wondered how long making a documentary would take and if I
’d have to listen to my new neighbors bickering every evening until then.

Pete, carrying the lasagna pan and chuckling, climbed the steps behind me. Mom followed, looking over her shoulder as the coach slammed into reverse for another attempt.

I scooped ice cream over peach pie slices, and we huddled around the dining table. RVs aren’t particularly well insulated, so we could still hear yelling, but at least I couldn’t pick out the insulting words anymore. Mom kept peeking out the window, as though fascinated by this inappropriate social behavior.

“
His name’s Melvin Sharpe. He was at the fundraiser Friday night. He’s doing a documentary on locavore culture, and apparently he, or his writers, think Platts Landing is a forward-thinking community in that regard.” I snickered. “The truth is, we just eat what there is. We’re certainly not snobbish about food. Everyone figures that if you grow it, you’d better not waste it.”

“
This—” Pete gestured with his fork at the pie and spoke around a mouthful, “—is great.”

I grinned.
“Windfalls.” The campground is nestled in the remnants of old orchards — peach, pear and apricot. The fruit is free for the taking, one of the perks for residents.

We scraped our plates clean in silence, and Pete helped me wash the dishes.

Mom stayed seated, gazing out the window and toying with her coffee mug until she finally said, “They’re parked now and seem to be setting up. Should we go say hello?”

Pete raised his brows at me and shrugged.

I nodded in response to his unasked question. Mom feels most comfortable in the middle of a big group. This lazy Sunday afternoon was probably driving her crazy. “Sure.”

We tromped across the intervening campsites and rounded the big coach. Melvin had his head stuck in a side compartment, and he was pounding on something.

Pete cleared his throat. “Need a hand with those jacks?”

Melvin peeked under his arm, squinting through the thick glasses.
“Um yeah I guess not sure what—”

“
Pete — baby!” A well-endowed, blonde bombshell appeared in the coach’s side door — she of the red stilettos. “What a surprise!” She flew down the stairs and flung her arms around Pete’s neck, smacking him with a big, juicy kiss. She sort of missed — or maybe he flinched? — and she hit the corner of his mouth, leaving a lipstick streak on his cheek.

Pete took a step back, flushing dark.

The blonde hung on him, giggling. “Oh, you cutie. I haven’t seen you in forever,” she gushed.

I did not have the decency to stop staring and close my mouth. When sense returned
— just a momentary lapse — I whirled, turning my back on the scene, my breathing fast and shallow. In a fraction of a second, I’d scoped all escape routes and identified the most promising one.

Mom materialized at my side and gripped my elbow with iron fingers.
“Steady,” she hissed.

“
I’m leaving,” I whispered.

“
No, you’re not.” Mom gritted the words out in a barely audible voice, exhibiting amazing ventriloquism skills. She steered me back around to face the awkward group.

Melvin had also risen to his full height, and he was shuffling his feet, his Adam
’s apple bobbing fast.

Mom strode forward, straight up to Pete who had his hands on the blonde
’s waist while she murmured into his neck. She stuck out her right hand. “Pamela Morehouse. So informative to meet you.”

The blonde had to disentangle herself from Pete in order to shake Mom
’s hand. “Tiffany Reese. I love your shoes.”

I was shuffling backwards, doing my best to disappear. Where
’s an invisibility cloak when you need one? I felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach. Maybe if I closed my eyes, what I was seeing would become a bad dream instead of reality—

I thudded into the front corner of the motorcoach and slid around the headlight and grill, smearing bug guts on my blouse in the process. I leaned there, panting. Tuppence nudged my leg and wagged hopefully.

“You’re right. The perfect time for a walk,” I muttered.

Tuppence dropped in a play bow, her behind up in the air and tail swishing from side to side.

I set out at a fast clip, Tuppence trotting at my heels. I tried to stretch my hands out of the tight fists they had clenched into. And I focused on breathing. In — out. In — out. It’s just that this had happened before — different man, same predicament. And once was more than enough for me.