Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (2 page)

“
You’re behaving like the teenage brother I missed the pleasure of having.” I laughed. “You want to give the tour? Try explaining how an American chamber pot ended up in Germany. Did a family love it so much they had to take it with them on vacation? Maybe it belonged to a diplomat, and he wasn’t sure what kind of facilities would be available in his new country of residence.”

Greg shoved his glasses up on his nose and staggered to his feet.
“Nope. That’s your department. Dibs on the last piece of pizza.” He kicked at some stray packing paper. “Then let’s get this junk out of here.”

We dragged the flattened cardboard boxes through the cricket-chorused night
— the little creatures’ last hurrah before they hibernated or whatever it is they do during the winter. The recycling dumpster sits under a buzzing mercury halogen floodlight. Bugs swarmed in the light shaft, eddying upward to slam against the glass lamp.

“
Thanks so much for helping,” I said. “I feel bad that you’re driving up from Corvallis every weekend. You must not have a social life.”

“
Nah. It doesn’t matter.” Greg turned, beads of sweat glistening on his scalp through his close-cropped brown hair. “Angie’s in Turkey this quarter, on a dig.”

I hadn
’t met Greg’s new girlfriend, and I still didn’t like her. Something to do with the way Greg puppy-dogged about Angie, like he was intimidated by her yet panted faithfully at her heels all the same. I wrinkled my nose. “Is Dr. Elroy giving you independent credit for this term as well as summer term? I’d be happy to fill out assessments for you — whatever you need.”

“
Yeah, I expect he’ll e-mail you in a few weeks. He’s not big on paperwork.”

“
My kind of guy.” I followed Greg down the ramp.

“
Yeah, you might like Dr. Elroy. I’ve had him for a couple classes, but this internship is way better than sitting through lectures.”

“
I
might
like him?”

“
I have a feeling he’s a lot more interesting outside the classroom than he is in it. Angie TA’d for him last year, and they really hit it off. We weren’t dating then, but she told me about a couple cool research projects she got to do for him. They were on a first-name basis. I still get the impression he wouldn’t like me calling him Clyde.” Greg grinned. “But I’m sure he’d love to talk shop with a professional peer. Besides, you’re a borderline museum hermit, you know. All you do is work. Maybe you need an intervention.”

“
What, and give up communing with chamber pots? Really, Greg.”

He chuckled and surveyed the transit carts with his hands on his bony hips.
“So, plan of action?”

“
I think oldest to newest. Let’s document each one, circa date and maker, location of use if possible, any interesting history about the companies who made them.”

“
Celebrity endorsements?”

“
If you can find a photo of someone important sitting on a pot just like one of these, I’ll give you a raise.”

“
Considering that I work for free, I’ll take cookies or your carrot cake with the really thick frosting.”

“
Deal. We’ve done enough for tonight, though.”

I trudged upstairs to my office on the third floor. Greg followed with the stack of packing slips.

My office had once been planned as a child’s nursery. Rupert’s great-great-uncle built the mansion as an idyllic vacation home in anticipation of a large extended family that never materialized. Other than the occasional high-society parties, it sat in hollow emptiness for many years until the trust fund found another purpose for it.

The room is light and airy during the day, with a huge picture window providing a breathtaking view of the Columbia River Gorge. The walls are lined with packed bookcases (the trust fund splurges on my book allowance)
— the rows of books two-deep on many shelves.

A solitary green light blinked through the black window, a channel marker for boat traffic on the river below. I flipped on the desk lamp. Greg slid the packing slips under my Murano glass paperweight and stepped to the shelves.

“Do you have anything on the geological history of the Columbia Gorge and Native American culture in the area?”

“
Yeah.” I pointed to the sections. “I wish we had more exhibits of local historical significance. It’s a shame that we have chamber pots from Germany but no Chinook, Wishram, or Klickitat artifacts from before the Lewis and Clark expedition.”

“
You know, Angie would be able to sniff some out. She’s amazing. I should bring her up here when she gets back.” Greg’s face looked a little pinched — was he worried?

I tried to keep a polite nuance to my grunt.

He slid books off a shelf. “Okay if I borrow these?”

“
Sure, just write down the titles and pin the note to the corkboard on the back of the door,” I replied. “My sophisticated check-out system.”

Greg perused for another half hour while I e-mailed Rupert to let him know the shipment had arrived at last and intact. I included a reminder nudge about a textile exhibit and suggested tapestries since he was, or had been recently, in
Germany. Rupert’s itinerary was as impulsive as his purchases.

And, I couldn
’t resist looking up a few of the chamber pots to scan for histories and dates — just something to get us started in the morning.

We clumped down to the main floor and crossed the ballroom exhibit hall in the gloom. The after-hours lighting system kept us from banging our shins on things, but it made the display cases look like encircling giants waiting for the signal to pounce. I could walk through the museum blindfolded, so they didn
’t bother me. The giants were old friends.

Greg shuffled a little, as though distracted.

Our footsteps bounced back from all directions. The room felt smaller when you couldn’t see the walls.

“
You seem tired,” I said, missing his usual banter.

“
It’s a long drive. Guess I’m ready to crash.”

“
So, are you going to the game tomorrow?”

“
Uh, I’d like to. Are you?”

“
I think so. Now that I’ve seen what’s in the shipment, I think it’s manageable. The annual school tours start next week, and I’d love to have the display ready for them. I’ll warn the principal so she can head off any parental complaints about the, uh — basic — nature of the exhibit.”

“
Aw, they’re kids. They’ll be fascinated.”

Greg looks like a vertically-stretched version of the one owlish, bookish kid in every fourth-grade class who can seriously recite Thomas Crapper
’s contributions to sanitation.

I set the alarm and bolted the doors behind us.

Greg inhaled deeply as we walked to the parking lot. “Early?”

“
I’ll be here at seven. Come when you’ve had enough sleep.”

Greg lodges with Betty Jenkins on the weekends. The Jenkins homestead is humble but sturdy enough to withstand the vibrations from the two-, three-, and four-engined freight trains that thunder by all hours of the night and day.

The Columbia River Gorge is a commerce thoroughfare — by barge on the water, by rail, and by Jake-braking semi-trucks on highways along both banks. Sounds carry miles over the water. The residents are accustomed to the noise, forget to notice after a while. But Greg has to work at getting acclimated every weekend.

I climbed into my pickup and listened with satisfaction as the engine came to life with a throaty growl. Greg accordioned into his Toyota Prius. When his headlights came on, I pulled out of my spot and drove along the access road to Highway 14. The museum property borders the county park, and they share the large parking lot.

I turned left onto the highway and watched in my rearview mirror until Greg turned right, toward town. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bothering him.

CHAPTER
2

When I pulled into spot C-17 at the Riverview RV Ranch, a leggy, long-eared hound eased her lean body through the open door of her kennel, tail wagging in a lazy clockwise circle.

“Hey, Tuppence, old girl, sorry I’m late.” I scratched the dog’s white and black speckled back while she took inventory of my pant legs and shoes.

Inspection complete, I unlocked the door to my fifth-wheel trailer and let Tuppence climb the two steps ahead of me. The hound is a recent addition to the home landscape. She
’d been Wirt Maple’s dog. But last spring, when, for the first time in thirty years, Wirt failed to show up at the Junction General Store on a Saturday to do his weekly shopping, Gloria Munoz, owner of the Junction, called Sheriff Marge Stettler. And Sheriff Marge drove forty-eight miles into the hills to find the leathery old farmer dead in his rocking chair with Tuppence, nose on paws beside him, starting to starve.

Sheriff Marge brought the dog back and dropped her off at my place, saying she
“knew of two girls who could use each other’s company.” And that was that. I named the hound after one of Agatha Christie’s curious sleuths — I’d happened to be reading
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
that night.

The RV
’s a hand-me-down from a dead guy, too, sort of. When I took the curator position at the museum and started looking for a place to live, I discovered rental housing was non-existent in Platts Landing. A snarky colleague — actually the man who was stepping in to fill the coveted director of marketing position I had just quit — joked that living in the boonies meant you had to take your home with you, like a turtle. And, he was right.

I found a deal on a six-year-old, but never used, luxury fifth-wheel trailer from the widow of the man who
’d bought it for his retirement and then promptly died of a massive heart attack. It’d been parked in the widow’s driveway until she could bear to part with it, the memories of their dreams and plans for travel too strong to fade quickly.

The 1972 fully restored burgundy Chevy Cheyenne to tow the trailer came the next day, from a macho young man oh-so-sorry to see the baby that was older than he was drive away. But he was desperate for cash, and I needed the horsepower.

I had a fifth-wheel hitch installed in the pickup’s bed, packed the few belongings I hadn’t given away, turned the house keys over to the realtor and bid good riddance to my city life.

I hadn
’t regretted it for a moment.

And I wouldn
’t let myself do that. No matter what.

“
You want some of the stinky canned stuff of questionable origin?”

Tuppence answered with a few tail thumps.

“I thought so. You’re so predictable.” I plunked Tuppence’s metal food bowl on the hardwood floor.

I arched my back and stretched from side to side while a cheese sandwich sizzled on the griddle. Chamber pots aren
’t heavy, but all the stooping and rummaging through boxes had taken their toll on my neglected muscles. Tuppence and Greg were right — I needed to get out more. Maybe when the new exhibit was finished.

I sank into one of the recliners and poked a button to turn on the gas fireplace. The big picture window above the fireplace showed a black hole tonight, but the inky
Columbia River slid by a few feet away.

Tuppence swung her long body over, front and back halves working independently, and sat with her nose resting on my knee. She watched every bite, eyebrows raised to track my hand from plate to mouth.

“Yes, I do feel guilty, but I’m not sharing. I only had two slices of pizza and that was hours ago.” I wiped my fingers on my jeans, and Tuppence consoled herself with sniffing the greasy streak for crumbs.

My body had stiffened in the semi-bent position. I groaned, kicked the footrest down and pushed out of the warm depths of the chair.

I tidied a few things while Tuppence made her nightly rounds. When she snuffled at the door, I let her back in and pulled her dog bed from under the sofa. She sniffed all over to make sure it was the same as last night, then flopped down, ears splayed, eyes closed. I would let her sleep in the bedroom except she snores. Sometimes she dream sniffs and snorts like she’s flushing out a rabbit or fox — or an elephant if volume is any indicator.

I patted the dog
’s side, then padded upstairs to the bedroom and slid the pocket door closed. Living in a fifth-wheel is like living in a split-level — up half a flight of stairs to the high portion that extends over the towing pickup’s bed.

The alarm buzzed before daylight, but I rolled out of bed without hitting the snooze button, my brain already leaping ahead to what the day held in store. I showered fast in the narrow cubbyhole of a shower stall and welcomed the coffee aroma drifting in from the kitchen.

I finger-combed my wet brown curls in a fruitless effort to tame them. Barbara, at The Golden Shears, had called it a no-fuss pixie cut. I only cared that it was wash-and-wear.

I leaned into the mirror for a closer look at the freckles that had popped out over the summer. But what was the point in bothering about them since nothing changed anyway? After swiping on mascara and blush to give my pale face some color,  I dressed in layers for a day that would go from cold to hot to cold and then downright freezing on the metal bleachers at the football game.

When I slid open the bedroom door, Tuppence raised her head, realized nothing exciting was happening and let her head drop back on the pillow. I poured a mug of coffee with whole milk and brown sugar and ate in front of the laptop. Remembering the chamber pot label claiming a US patent, I did a quick patent search. Expired — of course.

Tuppence staggered over and sat with her chin on my thigh. I stroked her head, making a mental checklist for the day.

I don’t have the educational background to be a museum curator — my MBA is a long way from a degree in anthropology, history or archeology — but curating is in my blood. I have to work harder at research than someone who has been trained to the profession, but I love everything about my job — fact finding, categorizing, creating order and meaning from mismatched objects, solving puzzles and sharing discoveries. Seeing visitors’ reactions when they learn what life was like for people just like them but generations ago gives me a rush of satisfaction. If Rupert wasn’t paying me, I’d still find a way to volunteer.

I glanced at the clock and jumped from my seat, sending Tuppence sprawling.
“Sorry, old girl.” 

I scrambled to clean up the breakfast mess and dashed outside to fill Tuppence
’s bowls with kibbles and clean water. 

“
Eat up before the squirrels get it.”

Tuppence snorted.

I drove out of the campground as quietly as possible. There were no signs of life yet outside the cluster of tents staked in the Russian olive grove or around the huge bus RV from Tennessee. Tourist traffic was dwindling and soon I’d be the only resident of Riverview Ranch except Herb and Harriet Tinsley, the elderly twins who live in the original farmhouse and maintain the campground that had been their grandparents’ homestead.

I brought the Chevy up to speed on the highway and scanned the misty pink horizon where it filtered into gold, pale blue and then deep cobalt with tinges of violet. I leaned forward to peer up through the bug-splattered windshield and couldn
’t keep from smiling. Sunrises in the city are dismal affairs compared to this.

Just as I turned onto the tree-lined city park road, bronze rays flashed over the distant hills and chased all the other colors away. Brilliant light strobed between tree trunks as I wound closer to the river
’s edge and parked.

Mica in the
Imogene Museum’s greenish-gray stone walls sparkled in the sun. The mansion staggers up and up, three stories above ground like blocks a toddler had arranged in a pile — a surprisingly modern form for having been built in 1902. Cubism in architecture a few years before cubism showed up in paintings by Picasso and Braque — probably unrelated, but I like to dream that the museum’s anonymous architect was a friend of Picasso’s.

I arranged a work station in the basement with my laptop on a card table and a couple of folding chairs. I pulled over a spotlight on a rolling stand and used a digital camera to click documentation photos of all 72 chamber pots. Greg arrived and set about assigning identification numbers to each piece.

I called Mac MacDougal as soon as I thought it was polite, considering he’s the owner of the only tavern in town and likely awake until the wee hours. Mac’s first love is his woodworking shop behind the tavern. He lives in the loft of the big pole building and spends his free time puttering around with power tools.

“
Yeah?” Mac croaked into the phone.

“
Sorry, Mac. Did I wake you?”

“
Nope. Just hadn’t used my voice yet today. Got a job for me? I heard you got a shipment.”

“
Yup. Five standard display cases with three glass shelves each, full lighting.”

“
I’ve worked ahead, so I already have three standards on hand. Just waiting for the glass shelves. I can finish the others by Tuesday, probably.”

“
Mac, you’re a wonder. I owe you.”

“
You could come have a pint with me.”

“
Oh, uh, well, I’ll see you Sunday at the potluck.” I hung up.

Shoot
— not Mac, too. As a single woman in Sockeye County, I’m overwhelmingly outnumbered by single men. The ratio in the thirty-to-sixty age group is probably five to one. I’m surrounded by lonely farmers, wind farm technicians, mechanics, truckers, railroad workers and bartenders. Although surrounded is a loose term, given the sparse population.

I went back to shuffling chamber pots into chronological order.

I took Greg to lunch at the marina’s Burger Basket & Bait Shop. While we waited, Greg stared out the window at the few fishermen who dozed in lawn chairs on the floating walkway. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his face was slack. I know graduate school can be tortuous, and most graduate students have a dazed appearance that increases the closer they get to giving their defense. But Greg had appeared to be handling the pressure with equanimity — until now.

When our food arrived, I dunked a couple fries into tartar sauce and stuffed them in my mouth. Greg, who normally ate like he was packing Mary Poppins
’ carpetbag, dismembered his parsley sprig garnish.

“
You’ve been quiet today. Rough night?” I asked.

Greg didn
’t respond, so I kicked him under the table.

His head popped up.
“Huh?”

“
What’s wrong? Trains keep you awake?”

“
Nah. Angie e-mailed.”

“
And?”

“
Ever since she got to Turkey, she’s been raving about this guy, Lorenzo — a professor of something or other from Florence who’s on the same dig. She thinks he’s a genius.” Greg ran his thumb through the condensation on his water glass. “With my luck, he probably has those dark, Italian good looks, wears pointy shoes and drives a Ferrari.”

“
I think he’s short, balding, flat-footed, has an enormous hook nose and drives his mother’s Fiat. His belly hangs below his belt, and he’s bow-legged. He has halitosis and obvious ear wax.” I cocked my head. “Shall I keep going?”

Greg snorted.
“No. But thank you.”