Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (16 page)

Shuffling noises came from under the trailer, then a lonesome wail, like the end of a howl. I knelt and peered into the gloomy shadow. I could just make out the white parts of the dog
’s body. Tuppence swished the tip of her tail.

“
Come out of there. What are you doing?”

Tuppence kept wagging but didn
’t budge. She whined.

“
Are you stuck?”

More whining.

“Oh, for goodness sake.” I grabbed the flashlight and aimed it at the dog. Two pairs of eyes looked back — Tuppence’s and a smaller set up between the wheels.

“
Oh. Who did you find? Not everyone thinks your overtures are friendly, Tupp.”

I wished I had one of those boards on casters for sliding under cars. I laid down and inched under the trailer by lifting and sliding my shoulders a couple inches, then my butt a couple inches over and over again, using my feet for propulsion. Not unlike those horrible spongy green caterpillars with yawning mandibles that hump in the middle then fling their front end forward. Hump
— fling. Hump — fling.

Do you ever stop and think, I can
’t be doing this — not really —?

I was sick with worry about my missing intern, I
’d witnessed a kidnapping/bashing/possible drowning of a young man who might be my intern, and I’d been robbed at gunpoint. But, it took worming under an RV to free an unknown animal from the misplaced enthusiasm of my dog to make me think my life might be surreal. Or a nightmare.

“
It had better not be a skunk, a raccoon or a possum, or we’re all going to stink to high heaven,” I scolded and wiped cobwebs off my face.

By now, Tuppence was wagging violently and shivering with excitement.

I scooted into a better position and aimed the flashlight again. It had orange and white fur, which ruled out the wildlife I most dreaded. It was also rumbling.

At first I thought I
’d left something motorized running in the RV. But I hadn’t started the dishwasher, and I was pretty sure the fridge wasn’t that loud. The rumble developed a little squeak — like a ball bearing out of place, and I realized it was a cat.

I wiggled my finger in the air to see if the cat would take a swipe. I didn
’t fancy the idea of a clawing cat fight in this tight space. No reaction. The purring continued.

Slowly, I brought my hand toward the cat until it poked a nose out for a quick sniff. If anything, it was squeakier now. I was trying to work out how to get my hand around to grab the cat
’s scruff when it hopped onto my chest, wrapped its tail around tiny feet and kept right on purring.

Tuppence was practically hyperventilating and scrabbled closer.

I pushed her away. “Don’t scare it now.”

I rubbed the cat
’s cheeks, and the cat pushed back, eyes squinting in pleasure. I scootched out, holding the little creature in place.

Once free of the trailer, I sat up and cradled the cat in my arms. It was scrawny underneath mangy fur.

“Not eaten in a while, have you? Well, I think I have a can of tuna.”

I kept the purring cat in a football tuck while awkwardly opening the can. I dumped tuna on a plate and let the cat eat on the counter since Tuppence was frantic with anticipation.

“Go lie down,” I told the dog. Tuppence reluctantly obeyed.

When the cat finished cleaning its whiskers, I carried it to the living room and set it on the floor in front of Tuppence but kept my hands cupped around the cat just in case.

“Okay, let’s see if you can be friends.”

Tuppence nosed the cat which let out a tiny hiss. It stalked away on stiff legs, back arched, then returned and repeated the hiss and stalk.

“You silly. You’re taunting the poor old dog.”

Tuppence whined.

“Yep, have at it Tupp, but if you get clawed, it’s your fault.”

Tuppence stood and nosed the cat again. It immediately dropped to the ground and rolled over, using its back feet to kick Tuppence away. Then the cat walked straight underneath the dog and wound around her legs, purring, while Tuppence dodged her head every which way trying to keep an eye on it.

I laughed. “What should we name him? Should he be Tommy to your Tuppence, partners in crime-solving and mischief-making?” And so it was.

I called Sheriff Marge, promising myself it would be the last time today. Day Seven was almost over.

“Still nothing,” Sheriff Marge said, “but you should see the hordes of boats on the river, poking along the banks. Fishermen with lanterns. Word’s spread that the drowning victim might be Bard Joseph, and people are out searching as though they expect a reward for finding him.”

“
But Julian hasn’t offered one, has he?”

“
No. Julian has sense.”

“
How is he?”

“
Gone home. Hoping Bard’ll drive up to the house and yell, ‘I’m home.’ Same way you’re hoping Greg’ll come walking out of the woods and say, ‘Oh, I felt like going camping.’”

“
What are you hoping?”

“
I don’t hope in these situations. I just deal with the facts. And there are so few of those my hands are practically tied. A body would be a fact, but I’m not hoping for that.”

“
What about my robber? I’m worried that when he realizes how little he got, he’ll try again somewhere else. It could get ugly.”

“
I had Nadine call all the retail establishments along Highway 14 to tell them to watch out for a guy with funny teeth, a John Deere hat and a coat big enough to hide a break-action shotgun. Most store owners are packing too. They’ll be vigilant.”

“
So he picked one of the few places with a cash register and no gun behind the counter. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks.”

“
Maybe not.”

CHAPTER
15

Loud ringing jolted me awake. I smacked the snooze button on the alarm. It kept ringing. Sunday
— I’d semi-promised Pastor Mort that I would go to church. Maybe that’s why he was calling me. Calling. The ringing.

I sat up and patted the blankets, feeling for my phone. The ringing stopped. I flipped on the light and peeled back bedding layers. I
’d kicked my phone off the end of the bed, and it was trapped where the top sheet tucked under the mattress. I checked caller ID and dialed back immediately.

“
Sorry. I was asleep.”

“
There’s a body,” Sheriff Marge said.

I moaned and sank onto the bed.
“Who?”

“
Don’t know. He fits the basic description for both Greg and Bard. We need to go identify him.”

“
We?”

“
Yes. You’re the best person to give a positive ID if it’s Greg. I’m calling Julian next. Want a ride? I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

I pulled on a wool skirt, tights and Mary Jane flats then a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt and a warm cabled sweater. Identifying the dead seemed something to dress up for, out of respect.

I stepped down into the kitchen, headed straight for the coffee maker, loaded it and pushed the start button. Maybe Sheriff Marge would need a mug, too.

Tuppence looked as though she wanted to get up, but Tommy was curled against her side just behind her front legs.

“Since I don’t have a litter box, you’ll both have to enjoy the outdoors today. If Tommy’s still here when I get back, I’ll work out some permanent arrangements, okay?” I scratched behind Tuppence’s ears.

My mind was startlingly clear, as though it refused to acknowledge what I feared most and instead focused exclusively on mundane activities. It could be Greg
’s body several miles downriver — I knew it, but I didn’t feel it yet.

Basic maintenance. How could life be normal with a dead body on a riverbank? I supposed weeping paralysis would come later, but for now I was numb and scarily efficient. Maybe I should call Pastor Mort.

Sally answered the phone. It was early, but Sally had a clear, cheerful voice not rusted by sleep.

I kept my tone detached as I explained. I didn
’t sound like myself at all. “I just wanted to tell someone. I don’t suppose it can be announced publicly until we know who it is, next of kin and all that.”

“
I understand,” Sally said. “We’ll be praying for you and Julian.”

“
Does Julian go to church?” He’d mentioned God yesterday.

“
Not often, but he and Mort have long talks sometimes. Julian’s a private man.” That’s what Sheriff Marge had said. “I’ll bring a casserole over later.” Food can be balm for the soul. If it included cheese, it just might work, for a little while.

I sighed.
“Thanks. Oh, how’s Paulina?”

“
Just fine.” Sally chuckled. “Her usual exuberance returned, and she bounced in the back seat of the bus the entire ride back to school. I didn’t hear any of the other kids teasing her. I think they’re a little awed by her experience.”

I poured coffee into two travel mugs, doctored mine with milk and sugar, but left the other black for Sheriff Marge. A vehicle squealed to a stop outside. I scooped up the drowsy cat and shooed Tuppence outside. After depositing Tommy in Tuppence
’s kennel where he burrowed into the old blankets, purring, I dumped food into Tuppence’s bowl.  A dash back inside for the mugs, and I climbed into the steamy, warm SUV. The defroster was going full blast.

“
Here.” I handed the black coffee over to Sheriff Marge.

“
Thanks. That’ll pin my eyelids open.”

“
Short night?”

“
Long night. No sleep.”

“
How’s Julian?”

“
He’ll meet us there.”

“
That didn’t answer my question.”

Sheriff Marge scowled.
“Julian doesn’t discuss his feelings with me. Was that a cat?”

“
Yeah. Stray. Tuppence treed him, so to speak, under the trailer last night.”

Sheriff Marge grunted.

“Can you tell me what you know?”

“
Sure. Ironic in a way. The river is crazy with people who have no business being on it, acting like treasure hunters. Seems they forgot the body would move with the current if it wasn’t snagged. So, a guy with tribal fishing rights named George Longshoe, minding his own business, went out this morning to check his nets, and his boat quite literally bumped into a body floating several inches below the surface. He towed it to shore and called 911. I talked to him. Sensible fellow, matter-of-fact. He’s waiting for us, to give his statement.”

Highway 14 wound through deep forest as we drove west. Wisps of fog hovered over the wet pavement and snaked through the trees. Every once in a while, glimpses of a much more dramatic river gorge emerged
— plummeting cliffs, thick trees, fog shrouding a river that was deeper and narrower here, and moving at a crushing pace, not that you could tell from the surface.

We crossed the
Columbia on the Hood River Bridge which offered spectacular views in both directions on clear days.

Sheriff Marge drove east to a rundown riverside campground. It was full of what appeared to be squatters, but I guessed they were permanent residents. I didn
’t know other people had the same living arrangements I did, but this was a ghetto compared to my upper Fifth Avenue apartment.

Tarpaulins and sheets of plywood provided additional shelter and extended the living quarters outside old, moss-covered trailers. Junk, the kind collected over a lifetime, lay scattered around and between the sites, much of it fishing related. Floats, traps, gasoline cans, propane stoves, hip waders, homemade smokers, broken lawn chairs.

We followed muddy ruts which ended at a boat ramp and a rickety dock. Sheriff Marge wedged the Explorer between an unmarked white van and a police cruiser. The fire department was there, and an ambulance.

I counted three more police vehicles and a dirty Wasco County Sheriff
’s Explorer — Sheriff Marge’s counterpart on the Oregon side. I wondered if county sheriffs got a bulk rate on SUV purchases. There were more functioning vehicles in the campground now than there had probably been in all its years before, combined.

A few dinghies and one skiff with an outboard motor bobbed along the dock. A cluster of uniformed people stood to the side of the dock
— and beyond them, a blue tarp covered a prone ridge that was just over six feet long. The water lapped at arm’s reach from the body as it lay on river rock and dark green algae-filmed mud.

“
Okay. Give me a minute.” Sheriff Marge stomped toward the group, said a few words, and everyone except Sheriff Marge turned to look at me.

I hadn
’t counted on having an audience for this ordeal. I stared at the ground. I was also wearing the wrong shoes. Mud oozed around the soft brown leather of my Mary Janes while I concentrated on breathing at a normal rate. In — out. In — out.

Sheriff Marge
’s thick-soled boots came into the picture. “I want to go ahead. Because if it’s…well…then we can spare Julian.”

I nodded.

I slipped and fought to stay upright as I followed Sheriff Marge across the muddy shore toward the blue tarp.

A pudgy man wearing blue rubber gloves squatted beside the tarp and squinted up at me. He wore glasses with thick black frames, the lenses blurred by a thin layer of condensation. He blinked. When I nodded, he pulled the corner of the tarp back.

Puffy white skin stretched over his nose and chin, and deep blue shadows beneath made him look old and weary. Dark hair was plastered in clumps over a bloodless gash on his forehead. His brown eyes stared at something far beyond me and nothing, almost sinking into midnight blue. It was a gaunt, cold version of the boy in Julian’s photo. Bard did not have his father’s eyes.

Sheriff Marge exhaled. 

The tech replaced the tarp, and I shifted my gaze back to my shoes.

“
I hate this.” Sheriff Marge returned to the group of official people, leaving me to fend for myself.

I struggled up a low bank and sought shelter next to a clump of tall grass and a few volunteer saplings. I closed my eyes
— still numb.

Julian would arrive in a few minutes. If he saw me, he
’d know. It would be all over my face. Maybe that would be easier for him. Maybe I should go to him, first.

A firm hand grasped my arm gently, just above the elbow, and stayed there, its warmth soaking through my sweater. I turned.

A thick-set man about my height gazed at me with impenetrable black eyes. Deep lines from the sides of his nose to the corners of his mouth lengthened his dark brown face. His salt and pepper hair was parted in the center and cut to his shoulders. He wore a denim shirt, jeans and black rubber boots. The band of a gray t-shirt peeked out above the top shirt button.

“
I’m George Longshoe.”

“
Thank you, for all you did. For helping us know.”

“
You want hot tea?”

I ducked my head.
“Very much. But I think I should stay until his father arrives.”

“
Of course. You are his mother?”

“
No. I am waiting for someone else to wash up.”

George nodded as though that made sense.

“But I hope —” I wanted to explain that
my
person might still be alive — maybe.

The rumble of a diesel engine gearing down came from the mud track behind the parked vehicles.

I moaned, and George looked at me with increased concern. “His father.”

George eased my arm through his.
“We’ll meet him.”

He led me over rough grassy ground so I didn
’t slip, and we faced Julian between two police cruisers before he could see the blue tarp.

Julian dipped the brim of his Stetson.
“George.”

“
Julian.” They clasped hands.

Julian looked at me. Those golden eyes plunged deep and found the answer. His face did not change.
“Where is he?”

I held out my hand, and he took it. The assembled officials hadn
’t noticed us yet. George accompanied us and did the honors of folding back the tarp.

“
My son.” The words were clenched, tight, and came from the back of Julian’s throat.

George replaced the tarp. Julian stared out over the water, at the trees in their fall brilliance reflected in the little harbor
’s calm ripples. Out to the forested edges of the opposite bank. The fog had lifted. I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back and kept a tight grip.

I wanted to bury my face in his shoulder and cry for him since his tears wouldn
’t come. But I couldn’t fall apart. Not now. He was draining my strength — from my hand to his, and I couldn’t let him down.