Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) (23 page)

CHAPTER
24

Sheriff Marge pulled up in front of my fifth-wheel, joining several other vehicles.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“
Just a little welcome home party.”

I groaned.

“They won’t stay long, but they were driving me crazy with offers to help. I had to suggest something for them to work on to keep them out of my hair. Come on.”

Sheriff Marge bustled around and slammed the Explorer door shut after I eased myself to the ground. Tuppence greeted us and wriggled around our legs in glee.

“Mac drove your truck back, and he and Ford have been taking care of Tuppence and the cat.”

“
I know. They visited me in the hospital. All of them.” I bent stiffly at the waist to stroke Tuppence’s head.

Sheriff Marge chuckled.
“And Rupert arrived late last night.”

I stopped still.
“I forgot.”

“
He’s mighty glad his beloved employees are okay. And I think he brought you another surprise.”

I grinned.
“I’m not sure he can top the chamber pots.” It would be good to see my boss. He’d be around for a couple months until wanderlust claimed him again.

Sheriff Marge opened the RV door and held it as I carefully climbed the steps. The trailer hummed with conversation and laughter. I poked my head through the doorway into a mass of warm bodies. Standing room only.

“Hey,” Mort said. “There she is.”

Mac, Ford, Mort and Sally, Lauren and Paul, Lindsay, Betty, Nadine
— her bullet bra taking up space for two — and Rupert.

He looked good
— tanned — so he hadn’t spent his entire trip in Germany. I’d have to weasel out the details of his excursion. Maybe a couple more inches around the waist, too. Rupert always savors the local specialties, wherever he is. Think of a shorter, more rotund version of a sixty-year-old Sean Connery — that’s Rupert. Minus the brogue, but just as roguish. He gives perma-set ladies the vapors, and I adore him for completely different reasons.

I sidled through painful jostling and patting as people tried to welcome me without bumping my sling. Rupert nearly crushed me anyway with a meaty bear hug that left me gasping.

“We’ll catch up,” his deep, gravely voice tickled against my ear, “after you’ve taken a few days off. You should rest.”

Sally and Lauren cornered me in the kitchen. Casserole dishes and crockpots covered every square inch of counter space.

“We organized some food —” Sally began.

“
And, we thought it’d be a good chance to vet some of the recipes for the fundraiser cookbook,” Lauren added. “I have evaluation forms here, so you can fill out one for each casserole. We’re not telling who made what so you can be completely unbiased.”

“
They’re second- or third-hand recipes that have been submitted,” Sally said. “Since we weren’t familiar with them personally, we thought they should be tested. Everyone’s so glad you and Greg are safe, and they wanted to contribute somehow.” She looked around, hands on hips. “I’m afraid we may have overdone it a little.”

“
Is it alright if I share?” I asked.

“
Of course.”

I bit my lip.
“You all are so good to me.” To my surprise, I teared up a little.

I got squeezed from both sides.

“Ooo — we’re not supposed to do that. Are you okay?” Lauren asked.

“
Yeah,” I whispered. “I’ll take hugs from friends any day.”

Guests rotated through. Gloria from Junction General, Herb and Harriet, Dale
— who must have rushed over from the courthouse — and his wife Sandy, and several others from the football potlucks whom I recognized but didn’t know by name. They departed quickly, as promised.

Only Mac and Ford remained when there was a knock on the door
— Julian.

“
I knew about the party, but —” he said. His face was lined and haggard, as though he had been going without sleep. “I saw George, and he sent along some smoked sturgeon for you.” He handed me a neatly wrapped packet.

“Thanks. Come in. You’re timing is perfect. You could relieve me of more casserole.”

The faint smile reached his eyes. He held my gaze a few seconds.

“Mac, Ford.” He acknowledged them with a nod of his Stetson.

“
You guys look this stuff over and see what you want,” I said. “I’m counting on you to take a lot.”

Another knock. I opened the door.

Pete with an orchid. A really gorgeous orchid. Better than chocolate. And from Pete — hunky, irritating Pete. Pete, who, last time I’d seen him, held my hand. And in the cavern, he must have held even more. I wished I could remember that part in greater detail. I wished I could remember if I’d mumbled something stupid or brash or terribly forward in my delirium.

I realized my mouth was open.
“Oh.”

“
Those other flowers won’t last too long, so I brought you a plant.”

“
It’s beautiful.”

“
Can I come in?”

“
Yeah, oh, yeah, of course.” I backed out of the way. “We’re just divvying up the casseroles.”

More nods and taciturn greetings. There was a whole lot of testosterone in my trailer. It felt stuffy.

“Have you decided what you want?” I tried to break the awkward tension.

The four men crowded around my kitchen island surveying the goods.

“I don’t know about this broccoli thing,” I said, scrutinizing a brownish-gray gelatinous slab dotted with moss green florets. The puckered, drying surface was pulling away from the edges of the 9 by 13 pan. It looked like it had been made two weeks ago.

Mac leaned over my shoulder to check it out and shrank back.

“I’ll take it,” Pete said.

“
You like broccoli?” I asked doubtfully.

“
I can handle it.” He gazed at me with steady blue eyes. The showdown at the OK Corral.

I flinched first.
“Okay.” I wouldn’t mind him handling a few other things as well.

I replaced the foil cover while the men scooped mounds of scalloped potatoes embedded with jalapeno pepper slices, chicken rice pilaf, sweet and sour meatballs, turkey tetrazzini, spinach stuffed cannelloni, and other dishes less identifiable into containers. Then they loaded plates from the dessert pans
— brownies, jam bars, lemon bars, cherry strudel.

“
Let me know your favorites. I have to report back to the cookbook committee.”

I saw Mac, Ford and Julian to the door, but Pete lingered.

“Need help cleaning up?”

I must have looked surprised.

“I do all my own cooking on the tug, you know.”

“
Thanks. I am a little limited since I’m not naturally left-handed. I will have trouble lifting heavy pans. Could you clear space in the fridge and cram everything in there?”

He worked efficiently, not at all flustered. I would have been jittery if our roles were reversed. I was jittery anyway.

“Thanks for the orchid. It really is lovely.”

“
Sure,” he said, into the fridge. “I’d like to see you again.”

Kind of hard not to see me in a town this size. Was he asking for a date?
“You do have to bring that pan back. I don’t even know who it belongs to, so I’d hate to have it go missing on my watch.”

His mouth didn
’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You may have to come get it, then.”

I scowled.

“I’ll let you know when I’m done with it.”

He balanced the pan on his forearm and gazed at me from the other side of the island so long I thought I was going to melt. Either that or jump over the counter into his arms. Talk about jittery, but I couldn
’t tear my eyes away from his.

He let himself out, and I exhaled.

I collapsed onto the bed, my neck, shoulder and ribs aching. The party had given me an unexpected shot of energy — now the crash. Then I got up to pop a couple Tylenol per doctor’s orders and nestled against the pillows for a long nap.

My stomach woke me up. I swallowed a couple more Tylenol then padded into the kitchen in the semi-darkness and found the pan of brownies. Good enough. Not bothering to turn on any lights, I settled in the recliner with the pan on my lap and Tuppence
’s head on my foot and ate until I was almost sick — but not quite.

Brakes squealed to a stop outside. I scootched out of the chair and opened the door before Sheriff Marge knocked.

“Just checking on you. Sorry I had to leave before the party wound up. I hope they didn’t stay too long?” Sheriff Marge puffed from her climb up the two steps.

“
Not at all. Thanks for arranging everything.”

“
Gotta love these people. They pull you out of the side of a cliff so they can bury you in casseroles.”

I chuckled.
“I do. Love them.”

“
DEA just gave us our suspects’ real names and confirmed they are Sinaloa cartel members. They want to comb the rest of Julian’s land. They think there could be other marijuana grows out there.”

“
Right away?”

“
I suggested they hold off until after the funeral, and they agreed.” She scanned the kitchen. “You’re all cleaned up. I was going to help you do that.”

“
Pete did it.”

Sheriff Marge raised her eyebrows.
“So, he’s useful in the kitchen too?”

I grinned and shook my head.
“And I had several volunteers to help eat the food.”

“
Oh, I was going to tell you — I noticed there was a broccoli and cream of mushroom soup dish. Write that one off. Absolute veto. I know whose that is, and it will make you sicker than a dog.”

I stared at Sheriff Marge in horror, my jaw slack.

Sheriff Marge squinted. “What? Well, it could just be me, but if I were you, I’d be careful.”

o0o

I napped between short walks with Tuppence the following day. Tylenol or Advil every four hours and lots of fresh air. I was getting the creaks out, building stamina, luxuriating in my new freedom. The worry about Greg — the overhanging helplessness and dread — had been a huge weight, its magnitude not fully realized until it was gone. I talked on the phone with both Greg and Rupert several times.

Sheriff Marge picked me up on Saturday morning for the drive to Julian
’s ranch. I scanned the port dock by the grain elevators and the marina as we sped past, looking for Pete’s tug, but it wasn’t there. Did I owe him an apology for a bout of food poisoning?

Sheriff Marge reached across me and popped open the glove compartment.