Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (9 page)

CHAPTER 8

I awoke to the patter of rain, big fat blops that collected on tree branches overhead then splatted on the fiberglass roof. My eyelids were glued shut with the crusty eye gunk that happens when I don
’t sleep normal hours like a normal person. I rubbed them open and peered at the clock — 5:37 in red numbers. I exchanged yesterday’s clothes for a comfortable old sweat suit. Maybe if I exercised I could get rid of the fitful nervous energy that made my limbs twitch.

Tuppence stood at the threshold for a minute watching the rain, then opted to stay inside and continue her beauty sleep. So much for faithful companionship. 

I started off at a slow trot, counting strides between pools of light cast by the lamp posts spaced every third campsite. The drizzle quickly coated my face and neck with a sheen that wasn’t yet sweat, but exertion kept my skin from feeling clammy. When was the last time I had gone for a run?

Hikes are good; running is bad. I remembered this after about a quarter mile when my side cramped and my sinuses ached from inhaling cold air. I walked back to the RV, shivering as I cooled down. Pathetic.

A steaming shower revived me. Plus coffee.

I decided to direct my energy toward making the chamber pot exhibit shine as a tribute to Greg and drove to the museum. Lindsay found me in the display bedroom a few hours later, dust-streaked and disheveled but making progress.

“Any news?” Lindsay didn’t look like she had slept much either.

“
No. Except you don’t have to worry about Mark. He was at the University of Washington after you fought Saturday and all day Sunday, so he couldn’t have done anything to Greg.”

“
Good riddance,” Lindsay muttered.

“
Really?”

“
Yeah, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and about what Greg said. Washington State has a sports management program that includes broadcasting. There are all kinds of options — marketing, working with Boys and Girls Clubs and youth teams, public relations. That would be so cool.”

“
You’d be perfect. Sounds like it suits you.”

“
You really think so?”

“
Absolutely. When are you going to apply?”

“
I downloaded the form last night. Can I list you as a reference? And would you look it over before I send it in?”

“
Yes, to everything.”

Lindsay had a determined glint in her eyes while she scanned the room.
“This looks good.”

“
Yeah, well,” I pushed curls off my forehead and took a step back. “It’s getting there. I should have given the room a thorough cleaning first. I don’t know why I didn’t notice how bad it was when Greg and I moved the bed in here.” I stomped on a dust ball as it skittered across the floor. “But first I need to run an errand. How are things downstairs?”

“
Quiet. I can hold down the fort.”

I cleaned up in the public restroom on the main floor. The ancient hot water pipes clanked and vibrated but produced what I needed for a quick face and hand wash and hair pat-down. The radiator ticked under the frosted glass window. It was cold out there.

What had Greg been wearing when he left? I hugged my arms across my chest and hoped he was warm enough, wherever he was. Maybe Betty would remember. That’s right — he’d packed all his clothes. He could have pulled on everything — multiple layers — unless he got separated from his luggage. I leaned my forehead against the window. Where was he?

o0o

Betty met me on the front porch again. She seemed to have a sixth sense about visitors. “Come inside, honey. Have you heard anything?”

I shook my head.

“I keep thinking he would have talked to me if I’d kept my mouth shut.” Betty filled the percolator from the tap.

“
He told you about Angie and Lorenzo. We usually just talked about work and research, his classes. He didn’t say much about his family, but I got the impression he had sisters — he certainly knew how to tease like a younger brother. But his professor only mentioned a mother.”

“
Oatmeal raisin?” Betty opened a Tupperware container.

“
Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks.” I accepted a cookie and chewed slowly.

“
He has twin sisters, a few years older. His dad left when the kids were little, and the mother sort of held things together. But I got the sense she was relieved when Greg moved out. Both of the girls married military men, and they’re living overseas now. I think he’s trying to figure out what a family should be like, before he starts one.”

Greg was thinking about starting a family? I exhaled. Well, Greg could get a much better definition of family from Betty than he ever would from me. I bit back a smile. How like him to find the best source of information. I washed the cookie down with a slurp of hot, strong coffee.

“The reason I stopped by was to ask about the wash basin and pitcher in Greg’s room. Have they been in your family long?”

“
Oh my, yes.” Betty adjusted the paisley scarf around her neck. “I think my grandparents received them as a wedding gift, or at least early on in their marriage. Isn’t that funny? I guess like giving newlyweds a blender today. There used to be a chamber pot, too, but it’s long gone. Probably broken on a trip to the outhouse.”

“
That’s the thing. Our new display at the museum — the one Greg and I were working on this past weekend — is a collection of chamber pots.”

Betty leaned back in the dinette chair and dissolved into peals of tinkly mirth until her eyes watered. I couldn
’t help but join in.

“
That Rupert Hagg,” Betty finally sighed. “What will he think of next?”

I grinned.
“Well, you should see one of the chamber pots. It has exactly the same design — the blue Dutch windmills — as your wash basin and pitcher.”

Betty
’s eyes widened. “No.”

“
I wondered if they originally came in matched sets, and you just confirmed it. I’m being very bold, Betty, but how would you feel about lending your wash basin and pitcher to the museum for the display?”

“
I’d be delighted. It’s not like I use them anymore. I just put them in Greg’s room for decoration.” Betty jumped up and hurried down the hall, her voice trailing after her. “I have some newspaper. I’ll wrap them up for you.”

I stepped off Betty
’s porch with two neatly masking-taped bundles in my arms, smearing newsprint all over my jacket. “I’ll get you an official receipt.”

“
Of course, dear. There’s no hurry.”

“
The exhibit opens tomorrow, so please come visit your treasures.”

“
I will, sweetie.” Betty waved until I turned onto Highway 14.

Adding Betty
’s wash basin and pitcher meant I had to rearrange two and a half display cases, but I was able to give the matched set the entire eye-level shelf in the third case. I printed “courtesy of Mrs. Elizabeth Jenkins” cards to prop next to the two loaned pieces and also made Betty’s receipt while I was thinking of it. I didn’t want to risk having Betty’s family heirlooms lost in the jumble should we ever dismantle the display. Cataloging had definitely improved during my tenure as curator, but there was still a huge backlog of older items needing identification numbers and descriptions. I might have to shuffle displays as more of the items in storage became available for exhibit.

I lugged the ancient resident
Hoover with the frayed cloth-covered cord upstairs. The beast weighed a ton but still sucked up anything and everything without regard to race, creed or insurance value, including floor rugs and beaded slippers if the operator wasn’t careful. The exhibit of Victorian-era ball gowns had narrowly escaped an incident with the Hoover.

After banishing all dust balls and cobwebs, I smoothed the comforter on the bed and fine-tuned the furniture arrangement. I stood in the doorway and surveyed my work. The exhibit looked good, especially with the bright yellow potty chair in the bottom corner of the last case to draw visitors
’ attention.

What was I going to tell the kids during the tour tomorrow? I usually worked up spiels in my head that covered the most interesting facts but left flexibility for answering questions. But I couldn
’t focus, not with worry about Greg gnawing at the back of my mind. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed Sheriff Marge.

“
Meredith, I’m glad you called. We got a tip. It’s a long shot, but I’m organizing a search anyway. Maybe it will keep people from interrupting me.”

I winced.
“Where?”

“
Just this side of the bluff past milepost 134 on Highway 14. You can park off the highway there, then walk to the west of the bluff. A long-haul truck driver reported ‘one of those little hybrid things, silver-colored’ parked there on Sunday with the hood up. Dale’s been over the site and not found any distinguishable tire marks. No sign of a car going down the embankment, but we’ll have a look anyway.”

“
I’ll be there as fast as I can, probably half an hour,” I replied to dead air.

I dashed downstairs to the gift shop.
“Lindsay, I’m going out. There’s a search up the highway where someone might have seen Greg’s car.”

“
I’m coming with you.” Lindsay grabbed her purse and coat.

I stopped mid-stride.

“It’s okay, isn’t it? Only forty minutes until closing time, and no one’s in the building right now. Visitors, I mean.”

“
Yeah. Let’s go.” I locked the big front doors behind us. “I’ll drive, but I’m going to stop and pick up Tuppence. I have this probably fruitless hope her nose might be useful. And she expects the window seat, so you’ll have to sit in the middle. Do you mind?”

“
No problem.”

o0o

Lindsay held the door open, and Tuppence jumped in while the truck was still rolling, like a touch and go landing. I threw it into gear and roared out of the campground. There were already half a dozen vehicles at the parking site Sheriff Marge had described. I pulled in behind Mac’s step van.

I grabbed a leash from the glove box and snapped it onto Tuppence
’s collar. People usually drove 80 on straight stretches of Highway 14 even though the posted limit was 60. We clung to the edge of the gravel as we walked around the bluff to a large, marshy area full of cattails and tall grass that spread for about forty acres. The cattails had exploded into what looked like giant hairballs, the kind of fluff that collected on sheep ranchers’ barbed wire fences.

Deputy Dale Larson stood at the top of the embankment with a clipboard under his arm.

“Meredith, Lindsay — great. You can join the east end of the line.” He pointed. Dots of brightly colored hats and jackets were scattered over the field — other searchers. But the farthest right section was empty.

“
His car’s not here. There’s no way it could get far in this muck. So, you’re looking for small stuff — wallet, sunglasses, items of clothing, shoes, anything that might indicate Greg has been or still is in the marsh. Okay?” Dale looked at our feet. “Did you bring waders, rubber boots?”