Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) (3 page)

  Then I remembered I
’d have to go through the job posting rigmarole again. I printed new flyers. We don’t have Craig’s List or a local newspaper, so jobs in Platts Landing are filled by word of mouth in the best case scenario and through flyers posted around town otherwise. Techniques from The Dark Ages.

I dialed Sheriff Marge.

“Yep.” The brakes of her Ford Explorer squealed in the background. Sheriff Marge drives as though everything is an emergency. And she talks on her phone while driving through a Bluetooth clipped to her visor. She will wrap herself around a tree one day.

“
Nothing of significance is missing.”

“
She had what — two days — in the gift shop?”

“
Um, well, we might be missing a broken bear figurine.”

“
A what?”

“
A ceramic black bear about four inches tall. A back leg’s broken off.  Not a big deal. Lindsay would have thrown it away except she thought it was glueable.”

“
I’ll check. So far, Edna’s never taken valuable stuff — just trinkets, doodads that strike her fancy. She likes animals.”

“
I noticed. I don’t want to press charges, and I don’t even want the bear back. But I am worried about her if you think her outburst wasn’t normal.”

“
I’ll swing by around dinnertime. Have a chat with both Edna and Ramona. See what’s up.” Sheriff Marge hung up.

I emptied Wade
’s bag onto my desk and sorted it into piles by type of object. There were lots of loose papers, correspondence still in the original envelopes, photographs and even a sampling of three-dimensional items — war medals and ribbons and an assortment of small rocks, feathers and what appeared to be a few withered flower bulbs.

“
Ooo. Uh-oh.” I inhaled sharply as one of the bulbs disintegrated to powder in my hand.

I tapped the flaky bits onto a clean sheet of paper. If Wade thought these things were valuable, he should have stored them better.

I knew if I even started skimming the papers, I’d become absorbed and end up staying at the museum until the wee hours. Not to mention I had one hungry hound at home.

I turned out the light, locked my office and skipped down two flights of stairs to the main ballroom. Lindsay
’d already locked up, so the room was lost in shadow. But I could traverse the Imogene blindfolded and made it to the front doors without bumping into anything.

A blast of cold air hit me in the face when I stepped outside. The sky was the deep cerulean that follows the sun around the curvature of the earth. In the east, velvety midnight blue was rising higher, dotted with the blinking lights of a couple passenger jets. Not a cloud in sight, which explained the frigidity that took my breath away.

Early stars would wink on in a few minutes. But another easterly gorge gust jolted me into a quick trot across the parking lot to my pickup. The wind chill was not conducive to lingering over scenery.

CHAPTER
3

I sped to the Imogene early the next morning eager to start on Wade’s research, but I had real work to do first. Not that the real work isn’t fun — I love organizing Rupert’s finds and assembling them into cohesive displays for visitors. I bounded up the grand staircase wearing a quilted down vest over a long-sleeved thermal t-shirt, flannel-lined jeans and fingerless mittens. The museum’s furnace system is set to vacant until shortly before opening time, so I’d spend the first few hours of my day mummified in layers of natural fibers.

I was breathing hard by the time I unlocked the door to my office. Running the museum
’s stairs was about all the exercise I’d been getting lately. I should take my dog, Tuppence, for a hike over the holiday.

I plunked my tote bag and coffee thermos on the floor and powered up the laptop. Twenty-eight Wishram baskets needed description cards before they could be exhibited in our Native American room, which had been the men
’s smoking lounge back when the museum was the Hagg family’s vacation mansion. I shoved Wade’s things out of the way and rubbed my fingers together to prepare them for typing.

Five hours later, I pushed away from the desk and arched my back. Done. The baskets were ready for interment in their final resting place, a climate-controlled glass-shelved display case. Greg could do the honors when he arrived.

I grabbed the pile of Snead family correspondence and quickly sorted the envelopes into chronological order based on postmarks. The ink on a few had so deteriorated with age that I couldn’t read the dates, so I put those on top of the stack — oldest to newest. The lettering ranged from spidery fountain pen to manual typewriter to bold block capitals in blue ink, the hurried script of a young man. Most were addressed to Parker Snead, some to Stuart Snead, and a few to Spencer Snead. I was a little surprised no women’s names appeared since women were often the more faithful correspondents before the days of email and texting.

Next, I examined the photographs, checking for names written on the back or other identifiers. After a few passes through the pile, I picked out a couple boys/men who made regular appearances. Using clothing and haircuts as indicators, I also shuffled the pictures into chronological order. In what was clearly a photo of siblings in droopy swimsuits at the beach, two boys sandwiched a younger sister, their arms around her, silly grins on their faces.

The taller teen with a Leave It To Beaver clean haircut reemerged as a young man with sideburns and thick fu manchu mustache. Hello, 1970s. Then a buzz cut. Hello, military. I assumed he was drafted for Vietnam. Then a photo of both brothers with buzz cuts, bare-chested and flexing their biceps on a suburban front lawn. The older brother had a tattoo on his left shoulder.

I couldn
’t find the younger brother in any other photos.

I almost missed the older brother when he appeared in later pictures. He had changed so much
— a worn, thin face, no more hamming for the camera, never locking gaze with the photographer, turning away, slumped in a lawn chair clutching a beer bottle. He wore a patch over his right eye.

“
Hiya.” Greg Boykin, my intern, poked his head in the open doorway.

I smiled.
“You’re early.”

“
You know I love the Imogene, but now I have particular incentive to be in Platts Landing,” Greg replied.

“
She’s a sweetheart to cover the gift shop.”

“
You won’t get argument from me on that score.” Greg grinned and pushed his glasses up on his nose. He tilted his head and glanced over the papers spread on my desk. “What’s this?”

“
Practically the Snead family diary. I feel like I’m intruding.” I sighed. “Wade Snead asked me to see if there’s anything valuable. So far it all looks personal and not much older than the 60s.”

Greg folded his lanky frame onto a chair and stretched his left leg out, resting the heel of his walking boot cast on the garbage can.

“How’s your leg?” I involuntarily rolled my shoulder, testing my healed collarbone. We’d gotten our broken bones from falling into the same cavern, but Greg’s injury was much worse.

“
Hurts.” He shrugged and picked up the stack of correspondence and thumbed through it. “Usually descendants have a pretty good idea of what qualifies as a family heirloom.”

“
Unless they’ve been watching too much
Antiques Roadshow
.”

Greg snorted.
“Or are desperate for cash.”

“
Hmmm. I didn’t get that impression. Historical curiosity, I thought. Wade mentioned they’re a local family. There’s no monetary value here.” I waved my arm over the desk.

“
Feathers?” Greg asked.

I chuckled.
“And flower bulbs.”

“
Maybe that’s the place to start — the unusual stuff.” He scooted closer and spread out a pile of photos I’d set down. “This guy with the eye patch — he’s here again later but with two good eyes.”

I squinted over Greg
’s shoulder. It was the same man, but changed even more — frail, hunched, so much I’d missed the connection. “Maybe it was just an injury, not permanent.”

“
I don’t know.” Greg held the photo inches from his face. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

“
Coming right up.” I retrieved the clamp-on, swing-arm magnifying glass from the third drawer of the filing cabinet and screwed it onto the edge of the desk.

Greg pulled it over and switched on the light. He wiggled the lens and peered through it.
“Look at this.”

I leaned over.

“See how his right eye isn’t tracking? Everyone is looking over here, at something just below and to the left of the photographer. It’s like something just happened to attract their attention. Except his right eye. It’s still staring straight at the camera.”

“
Maybe the injury made his eye immobile.”

“
Or maybe it’s a glass eye.”

“
Do you know anyone with a glass eye?” I asked.

Greg shook his head and leaned back.
“I think they’re very realistic now and most people wouldn’t notice. You?”

I sat down.
“No, but I found one once.”

Greg
’s eyebrows pitched up.

“
When we were looking for you, searching a marshy area where a passing motorist had reported a small silver car parked on the shoulder.”

Greg groaned.
“I’m so sorry for putting you through that.”

I patted his arm.
“No worries. I’m sorry healing’s taking so long.”

“
It’s not, according to the doctor. He says everything’s going well. Just a painful type of break.”

“
No infection?”

“
Nope. I’ve been lucky.”

“
Yeah, considering what could have been—” I exhaled and squeezed his arm again.

“
What kind of bulbs are these?” he asked.

I opened my laptop and spent a few minutes searching.
“If they were blooming, I could probably figure it out, but there’s not much here for identifying bulbs.”

Greg poked at the fragile spheres.
“Sure are small. Too dried out to sprout. Hey, I’ll try something.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, positioned the magnifying glass and took a picture of an enlarged bulb with his phone. “One of my friends is working on his doctorate in forest ecosystems. His research area is reforestation in Thailand, but he might know someone who does bulbs. The plant people are pretty tight.” Greg laughed.

“
In other words, all your friends are geeks.”

“
Unfortunately, yeah.”

“
Well, that’s enough for tonight. You have someone to take out to dinner.”

Greg stood and saluted, then hobbled out of my office.

oOo

My Chevy Cheyenne pickup
’s engine roared to life, then settled into a throaty growl. I grinned. There was never any question about what this baby could haul. I rolled down the access road and turned onto Highway 14.

First stop
— the Sidetrack Tavern. The Friday night after Christmas, and the large, brick red box of a building was gaudy with Christmas lights, a gigantic inflatable Santa wedged between antennas on the roof and flashing neon beer signs.

The parking lot was packed with dirty 4x4s raised on knobby tires. I had to park on the shoulder of the road. I crunched across the gravel, my breath coming in steamy puffs. At the small, awning-covered concrete slab in front of the door, I split a group of loitering men, a couple of them in full Harley regalia.

One spat tobacco juice. “’Lo,” he said, staring but not quite leering.

The others gave curt nods, eyes fixed under bushy brows.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I replied.

Harley #2 leapt into action, lunging for the door handle.
“Let me get that for you.”

I ducked my head and hurried inside. Country music twanged from a jukebox in the corner. I
’d never seen anyone dancing on the smooth, aged oak floor, probably because there were never enough ladies to make such an activity interesting. The Sidetrack cleans up really well, however. On Sundays after church, Mac hosts the community football potlucks here. That’s when he turns on all the lights. For the moment, though, I squinted through the hazy blue glow from multiple big screen TVs.

I spotted Mac behind the bar and made a beeline for him.

“Hey, Meredith.” Mac grinned, his missing left earlobe all the more obvious because of the tight knit cap on his head. Mac builds all the custom display cases for the Imogene in his spare time. He lost the tip of his pinkie finger and earlobe in the same power tool incident, the details of which I never quite understood.

“
Meredith!” a pink and blond blur squealed and dodged under the hinged, fold-up counter section. Val smothered me in a ferocious hug.

“
Hey, I didn’t know you were coming to visit.”

“
Spur of the moment thing,” Val said. “Mac thought he’d be busy, and I have this week off — between Christmas and New Year’s. Besides,” she leaned in and whispered, “Mac’s such a sweetie, and I missed him.”

I snuck a glance over her shoulder at Mac who was grinning from ear to ear. Uh-huh. The feeling must be mutual.

Way back — well, in the not-too-distant past in Val’s case — we’d both dated the same two-timing deputy prosecuting attorney, Ham Wexler. And we’d both been suspects in his murder. It’s the kind of thing that can make a couple girls bond with each other.

“
What’s that?” Val indicated the manila folder clutched in my hand.

“
Okay if I post another flyer?” I waved the folder in Mac’s direction.

“
Already?” Mac’s face switched to puzzlement. “You just took down the first flyer.”