Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (14 page)

I nodded.

“Well, I seen plenty in my time.” A whoosh of air escaped from Nadine’s padded chair as she sat down.  “Coffee’s free if you want any.” She waved toward the open box of red stir-sticks and sugar packets on the creamer-gritted counter. Self service.

Sheriff Marge stormed back.
“I’m going to the marina. I’ll let you know if anything comes up. Nadine, thanks for coming in.”

My jaw dropped. Nadine had come in, for this
— looking like that? She must sleep fully made up and completely corseted.

The floor quaked as the steel door banged shut and Sheriff Marge rumbled down the stairs.

“Have you worked here long?” I ventured.

“
Since 1962, when I married a deputy and offered to help type his reports.” Nadine sipped from the lipstick-rimmed mug. “Should have known better.”

“
Than to start typing reports?”

“
Than to marry a cop.”

“
Oh.” I frowned. “So you divorced him?”

“
Didn’t get a chance. Widowed. Three times now.” Nadine sighed like it was all their fault.

“
I’m sorry.”

Nadine emitted a harsh laugh that turned into a coughing fit.
“That’s alright. I’m working on number four.”

“
Really? Anyone I know?”

Nadine looked around like we weren
’t the only two people in the building then leaned forward, her breasts shoving papers out of the way on her desk. “Julian Joseph.”

Another Joseph. I had only heard of them, the elusive wealthiest family in the county. I did some quick math. If there was a son a little older than Lindsay, then his father must be at least a decade, and up to two decades, younger than Nadine. Maybe Nadine
’s intended was an uncle or grandfather. How many Josephs were there?

The diversion of Nadine
’s potential love life didn’t alleviate the overwhelming numbness cloaking my brain. But, I didn’t want to think about reality. Not yet. “Well, good luck,” I said.

Nadine rattled on about her hopes for the future, and the sound of her voice became mushy white noise. I slowly tipped over and sank into cushions that formed taco shells around my body.

CHAPTER 13

I woke up eye level with corn chip crumbs embedded in the rough weave of the lime green cushions. Someone was jiggling my foot. Grey daylight seeped through the dusty aluminum-framed windows. And then I remembered.

“Did you find him?” I asked, pushing myself upright.

“
Not yet,” Sheriff Marge said.

A tall, muscular man stood next to her. He wore a felt Stetson, inside. It was probably glued to his head. He also wore a hefty canvas field jacket and creased jeans over scuffed cordovan cowboy boots. He had odd, golden eyes that gazed intently, rarely blinking
— like an eagle. And permanently tanned, lined skin. An all-weather sort of man. The boots weren’t for show.

“
This is Julian Joseph.” Sheriff Marge gave a stiff nod in his direction. 

“
Nice to meet you.” I darted a quick look at Nadine’s desk, but it was unoccupied. Missing the chance of a lifetime.

“
Seems we may have the same problem,” Julian said in a drawling baritone.

I looked from him to Sheriff Marge. Obviously, I
’d missed something while I’d been sleeping.

“
Julian’s son, Bard, may or may not have also been missing for a few days,” Sheriff Marge said.

“
Why?” I asked. Stupid question.

“
It’s possible he has more of a reason to go missing than Greg,” Sheriff Marge said. She held up a picture. “Is this the man you saw, who was knocked unconscious?”

I took the head shot. It looked like a high school yearbook photo. A young man with dark hair and eyes trying to appear strong and manly by not smiling at the camera. His little scowl came across as a pout.

“That picture’s six years old, but it’s the best one I have,” Julian said. His eyes bore into mine, and they weren’t hopeful.

“
Is he your height?”

“
A couple inches taller.”

Tall, from a distance, same color hair. The assailant who turned to look at me
— that face I’d never forget. But the man in the middle? “It all happened so fast. I just assumed it was Greg.” I squeezed my eyes shut and sighed. “I can’t be sure.” I handed the photo back.

High heels clomped on the steps outside. Julian reached over and opened the door for Nadine, who carried a paper grocery sack. She performed a slow, slinky catwalk all the way to her desk. Julian seemed oblivious to her protruding breasts and swiveling hips.

“I got y’all some breakfast.” Nadine even put on a drawl for him.

She unloaded toaster strudel, toaster waffles and microwaveable sausage sandwiches, all in boxes. I recognized them from the freezer section of Junction General, the fastest food in town. Nadine plunked kiddie squeeze boxes of apple juice beside the entrees.

“Can I get something started for you?” She batted her fake eyelashes at Julian.

“
No, thanks. I’ll stick with coffee.”

Sheriff Marge tore open the strudel box.
“Grab what you need, Meredith. Henry located two spots he thinks the dive team should check. You can come if you stay out of the way. They’ve cleared the area around the marina. No body.”

I stood.
“Okay, thanks. Bathroom?”

Sheriff Marge waved a strawberry pastry toward the hallway. I locked myself in the spartan room and didn
’t recognize the freakish specter in the mirror. My hair was plastered to the side of my head — the side I’d slept on, and the imprint of couch upholstery was still deeply embedded in my cheek. A trail of dried drool crazed from the corner of my mouth. I looked closer. My chin was a ghastly shade of aubergine and still very sore. Good thing I wasn’t trying to pull one over on the richest guy around. I flushed and washed and fluffed and rejoined the others.

Sheriff Marge handed me the open strudel box and an apple juice.
“They’ll thaw out on the way,” she said. “Julian, it’s your call.”

“
I’ll meet you there,” he said.

I felt like I kept missing the important stuff.
“So, Julian just reported his son missing now?” I asked once Sheriff Marge picked up speed on the highway.

“
He’s a private person. Always has been.”

“
So private you can’t tell me what’s going on?”

Sheriff Marge looked at me over the top of my glasses.
“Alright. Julian’s wife died about fifteen years ago. Good woman. He didn’t handle his grief in the best way for the boy or himself. Bard rebelled, mostly in passive ways, trying to get his dad’s attention. Didn’t work. Then he went off to college in California, dropped out, scrounged around, and, I think, ended up couriering drugs for a cartel — probably Sinaloa.”

Sheriff Marge shifted to her left and hitched up on her gun belt to move her pistol out from under her bulging hip.
“He’s only had intermittent contact with Julian for the past few years. Then he showed up, about a week ago, said he wanted to settle down, live at home for a while. Naturally, Julian was pleased but also wise enough to know Bard had ulterior motives.” She looked over at me again. “Okay. This is the confidential part, for now.”

I nodded.

“The marijuana grow we found a couple weeks back — it was on Julian’s property. Julian has so much property I’m sure there’s a lot going on he doesn’t know about. The grow was well hidden. So well hidden that we think someone who was familiar with the land planned it.”

“
Bard.”

“
Possibly. And then we raided it. Which could get him in a lot of trouble with people who don’t accept excuses or apologies.”

“
Wow.”

“
I haven’t made any public statements about the seizure because I wanted to see how things would shake out — see if we could find some of the workers. A grow that size meant several people were tending the place, plus they had to have a boss keeping tabs on them. It’s worth over $40 million.”

“
Wow.”

“
Yeah. I talked things over with Julian, and he was keeping an eye on Bard, which was easy because he was hanging around the ranch, mostly. But on Thursday Bard told the housekeeper, Esperanza, he was going for a drive, and he didn’t come back. He’s done that before — tends to leave without explanation. Telling Esperanza was a new level of accountability for him. But now we think he might not have left of his own accord.”

“
Is Bard an only child?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Wow,” I whispered one more time.

Sheriff Marge slowed and pulled off the highway into a gravel turnout. Then she followed muddy tire tracks that wound between the massive trunks of old growth fir trees. Underbrush scraped the sides of the Explorer as Sheriff Marge alternately gunned and eased the accelerator to fight through axle-crunching potholes. We emerged in a meadow clearing where the grass had been shorn to the nubs by deer.

The clearing was full of pickups and cars marked with various search and rescue organizations’ logos. A van’s rear doors were wide open, forming a command center. A couple of wet suits were flopped over the doors. The few people standing around wore orange vests and radios clipped to their belts. Extra oxygen tanks lay in a neat row on the ground nearby.

“
We have to go on foot the rest of the way,” Sheriff Marge said. “This is the closest rendezvous spot.”

Julian pulled up next to us in a brand new bronze-colored Ford F-450, the powerful diesel engine making a huge racket. He shut it down, jumped to the ground and opened my door.

“Ever watched a dive team work?” he asked.

“
No.”

“
Me neither.”

Sheriff Marge waved to the men by the van, then headed toward a trail of trampled ferns that disappeared into the trees. I picked up the rhythmic rushing sound of the river after a hundred yards. There was no bank
— just a steep drop-off.

A cluster of men stood near the edge. The burliest one was feeding a yellow nylon rope into the river. I stretched to see, and a few minutes later, a diver in scuba mask and hood popped up beside where the rope went into the water. He went back down just as quickly.

The dive team’s boat was anchored twenty yards offshore. A second diver tipped over the side of the boat and disappeared in the water.

An uprooted tree, long denuded but still with an intricate pattern of crisscrossing branches at one end and crisscrossing roots at the other end was wedged perpendicular to the cliff face, probably pressed against boulders below the surface by the current
’s force. Flotsam was trapped in the branches - fishing line glistening like cobwebs, the carcass of a Canada goose, chunks of lumber, an empty plastic two-liter bottle. The yellow rope inched toward the tree, and I guessed it was tied to the first diver.

I stared at the muddy water gurgling around the tree until my eyes burned. I willed something to surface, some sign of Greg or Bard. Then I realized that if the dive team found anything, it would be a confirmation of death.

I prayed with greater vehemence they would have to give up empty-handed. Better to keep hope than have it crushed. For how long, though? I glanced at Julian. He was focused on the point where the yellow rope entered the water — just as I had been. First his wife, now his son.

Maybe watching wasn
’t such a good idea. I didn’t want his last memory of his son to be whatever the divers brought up. I touched his shoulder.

“
I’d like to go back. I’m not sure I can handle this,” I gestured toward the river. “I know Sheriff Marge needs to stay. How would you feel about driving me to the museum? I understand if you want to be here.”

Julian shook his head.
“Glad to.” He took my elbow and led me back to his truck.

We made the journey in silence. The throb of the diesel engine lulled me into a semi-trance as I nestled in the cushy leather bucket seat. I thought about staying there
— right there — cocooned, until the horribleness was over. Julian could drive forever — to someplace where there weren’t rivers people drowned in.

Julian pulled into the museum parking lot and turned off the engine.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I’m so sorry. If I had gotten there a little sooner, if I had dived in right away, things might be different. Whether it’s Greg or Bard, I let him go.” I stretched the fingers of both hands, then clenched them into tight fists as if reenacting what could have been. “I let him go.”

Julian glared in a way that froze the words in my mouth.
“The stupid thing about these trucks is the center console,” he said.

He opened his door and jumped out, hurried around the front of the truck and wrenched open my door. He half lifted, half slid me out and pulled me hard into his chest.

“It is not yours to bear. Do you understand? It is not yours to bear,” he said in a fierce whisper. “It’s mine. I drove Bard away. I made him come to this. And if it’s Greg,” he tipped my head up to look in my face, “you’re more to him than his own family. Sheriff Marge told me.”

“
Not enough to give my life for him. I thought about that, you know, at the edge of the dock.”

He eased his grip, but kept his arms around me.
“Guilt by omission is agony compared to guilt by commission. It has no boundaries — no edges. It poisons your soul.” He shifted his gaze to the river. “Meredith, don’t let your mind go there. God knows we are but dust, and He is gracious accordingly.”