Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) (8 page)

“Shoot.”

“
Most likely they’re all the same, and they’re all crocus bulbs or, technically, corms.”

“
Anything special or unusual about them?”

“
Hard to tell from the picture, but he said crocuses are very common, not native to North America, but they grow easily in the local climate zones. They’ve been cultivated for colors and shapes — lots of varieties, but the only valuable ones are saffron crocuses.”

“
Saffron?”

“
Saffron threads are the dried stigmas of one type of crocus — crocus sativus. The flowers and corms aren’t particularly valuable in themselves. The high labor cost required for harvesting three stigmas per bloom is what makes saffron so expensive.”

“
But saffron could be grown here?”

“
If you wanted to put in the effort. Yeah.”

“
Wow. Thanks.”

“
Sure. See you in a bit.”

So Spence Snead came home injured from
Vietnam and decided to take up crocus farming? Seemed far-fetched. Maybe he developed a taste for saffron-based sauces. Maybe it was a hobby. Maybe the bulbs belonged to someone else in the family. Not Wade, though. I just couldn’t picture him stooped over carefully plucking three tiny red stigmas out of each delicate flower.

CHAPTER
8

I found a parking spot close to the marina. I’d be blocked in later, but it didn’t matter.

The wind whipped around and sliced through my layers
— already. I pulled my scarf tighter and trotted down the gangplank toward the floating Burger Basket & Bait Shop. It’s a fun little diner during the summer if you don’t sit too close to the stinky bait coolers. Finney Hooper owns the place, and it’s closed in the winter with the exception of New Year’s Eve. In a goodwill gesture for the community, Finney turns on the heat and provides basic creature comforts and restroom facilities for everyone while they’re waiting for the fireworks to start.

I spotted Sally and Mort through the Burger Basket
’s wrap-around windows. They were moving long tables into a buffet line.

At the door, I stopped and peered into the darkness beyond the docks. A bright white light bobbed on what I supposed was a corner of the fireworks barge. Every once in a while, a form would pass in front of the light, blocking it. The guys must be making final adjustments. Pete would have moved his tug out of the way, probably moored at the
Port of Platts Landing pilings, and the firefighters would come and go from the anchored barge via someone’s private fishing boat.

I stepped into the humid warmth of the Burger Basket.

“Meredith, good to see you.” Pastor Mort’s face was shiny with perspiration. “You’re my cue to start shuttling in the cookies.”

“
Need help?”

“
Nope. I have my orders.” He smiled toward Sally then whispered. “I get to do the heavy lifting while you ladies do the arranging. Just set aside a couple of Mary Hardy’s peanut butter crispy bars for me.”

I chuckled.
“Will do.”

I helped Sally spread tablecloths until Mort arrived with the first delivery of cookies loaded in a giant Red Flyer wagon. He had several containers tucked under his arm, too.

“What’d I tell you? Heavy lifting.”

“
Genius.” I took the containers from him, and he piled the wagon’s contents on a table.

Mort left for a second load.

While Sally and I were popping open lids and arranging cookies on platters, I asked, “Did you know Spence Snead?”

“
Oh, goodness, yes. But it’s been a while since — one of the hardest funerals Mort’s ever done.” She cocked her head. “You’re asking for a reason.”

“
I met Wade a few days ago and got a little of the story from Sheriff Marge. You know how she keeps everything bottled up. I can’t imagine — but it was clear she really cared about Spence, and about Big John’s friendship with Spence.”

“
Yes.” Sally straightened and pressed an empty container to her middle, her arms crossed over it. “It was very hard for everyone, but they were especially close. Big John was a Vietnam vet too, saw action in some of the same places as Spence but at different times. Big John was devastated when Spence died, and I don’t use that word lightly. No one thought — no one expected that Spence was so close to — was considering suicide. I’m not even sure Spence knew. It might have been a spontaneous decision. He was depressed, despondent — often.”

“
Did he have hobbies?” What a lame question, but I was curious.

“
Hunting, fishing — the usual.” Sally shook her head. “I don’t know. He kept his cabin in good repair, so I expect he had carpentry skills.”

“
Gardening?”

Sally
’s brow wrinkled. “Just about everyone around here with enough land dabbles in gardening, but I don’t recall anything particular in that vein.” She gave me a half-smile. “What’re you working on, Meredith?”

“
I don’t know. Wade brought me some family documents, and I think he’s looking for things of historical or maybe collectible value. They seem rather ordinary, but I think I’m missing something.”

“
Hmmm. The family’s not wealthy, at least they never lived like it. Not poor, either — just modest, average.”

A terrific metallic crash came from the kitchen.

“Finney,” Sally answered my surprised look. “He’s starting both commercial coffee pots. No sense in messing around with twenty-cuppers when Finney has the equipment necessary to satisfy hordes of fishermen — and fireworks-watchers up past their bedtime.”

In all, there were four wagon-loads of cookies, creating an amazing spread. Mort insisted I join him in a pre-event tasting of peanut butter crispy bars. I am now addicted. Sally assured me the recipe is in the coming-soon community cookbook.

Frankie was one of the first viewers to arrive. She was swaddled up to her eyeballs. I guessed she knew how to dress for the cold if she survived Pennsylvania winters. “Oh, isn’t this marvelous.” She clasped her gloved hands together. “Quaint. Charming.”

I was going to lose it if she offered one more adjective. I exhaled and went to check on Finney in the kitchen.

He was stretched over a counter prying at the latch for the metal roll-up door. He hit the lever and the door shot up with a rackety clatter, ending in a bang.

“
There. That should keep ‘em going.” He handed me a bleach rag and pointed to the public side of the now open pass-through window. “Wipe down the grill and check the nozzles.”

At the far end of the counter, the giant coffee urns sat hot and steaming. I flipped the handle on a nozzle, and a thick stream of dark coffee flowed freely. I slid a mug under it. Finney was notorious for his super strong, hair-on-its-back coffee, so I only filled the mug halfway.

Finney shoved insulated pitchers of whole and non-fat milk through the window. “You want the good stuff?”

I nodded.

He slid me a smaller canister of cream and a cinnamon shaker.

“
Where’d you learn to make coffee like this?”

“
Navy. Cooked on a sub for four years.”

I wrinkled my nose.
“Aren’t you too tall for a sub?” Finney’s a good foot taller than I am, which would put him in the mid-six-foot range. He’s scrawny to boot, probably a redhead at one point because his skin is more tan freckle than not. There’s a space big enough for a drinking straw between his front teeth. He looked like a grown-up scarecrow in plaid flannel shirt and baggy jeans.

“
Was in the Navy for twelve years. Got a growth spurt in my early twenties and thought it best to find something else to do, some place where the ceilings were higher.”

“
Which was?”

“
ASROC crew.” He must have seen the confused look on my face. “Anti-submarine rockets. Went to a special school for it.”

“
So you went from living in a sub to firing at subs.”

“
Truth is, we never shot at anyone — well, except practice — while I was aboard.” Finney’s mouth twisted to one side, and I got the impression he was still disappointed over the lack of action on his watch.

“
Better for your head, though.”

He grinned, and his green eyes turned merry.
“Yep.”

“
I like your French fries, especially dipped in tartar sauce. I order them every time I eat lunch here.”

Finney turned pink between his freckles and shuffled his feet.
“I can do pretty much anything with a deep fat fryer.”

“
Do you cater?”

“
Huh?”

“
If we were to hold a big party at the museum, would you be interested in making food for the guests?”

“
Oh, sure.” Finney’s head bobbed. “So long as it’s simple stuff, but I can feed a crowd, that’s for sure.”

“
I’m just starting to think about it, but I’ll get back to you, okay?”

“
Yep.” Finney clinked his coffee mug against mine. “Bottoms up.”

I sauntered into the main seating area. Frankie was sitting alone amid empty metal folding chairs. A few families had just arrived and milled around the door dealing with coats and hats and at least one stroller. I needed to give Frankie another chance and not let a few offhand comments dictate my opinion of her, especially since we
’d be working together. I slid into a seat beside her.

“
How does Platts Landing compare, size-wise, with Reading?” I asked.

Frankie laughed.
“Reading’s population is close to 90,000.”

“
I’m afraid this will be quite an adjustment for you.”

“
I already love it. I’m amazed, though, that you have an institution of the Imogene’s caliber in such an out-of-the-way place.”

I nodded.
“It’s a good thing we’re not dependent on entrance fees for support. All our staff salaries and collection purchases are funded by the Hagg Family Trust. They’re committed to bringing arts and culture to this part of the Columbia River Gorge. In fact, Sockeye County residents get free admission at any time.”

“
Why do you need a fundraiser then?”

“
The bylaws of the trust allow only a small percentage of the trust’s funds to be spent annually for capital improvements. You probably noticed the mansion’s showing her age. The board of directors would like to pull in additional donors and expand interest in the Imogene’s preservation. People tend to be more committed if their pocketbooks are involved.”

I leaned in and whispered.
“Just my opinion, but I also think the board wants to use fundraisers as a vetting technique for future board members. A few of our trustees are in their 80s, and I think they’re scouting for new blood. The appointments are for life, and each trustee chooses their own replacement.”

“
Where does Rupert fit in this?”

“
He’s the last Hagg. Originally, the whole board was made up of Haggs, but the family died off pretty fast.”

A look of alarm crossed Frankie
’s face.

“
Oh, Rupert’s perfectly healthy,” I hurried on. “But he is the last of the line. He’ll need to groom a successor.”

“
You?”

“
Nooo.” I smiled and shook my head. “I love curating far too much to give it up. I’ve had my fill of dreary meetings and budget worries. I’d rather restring marionettes, research unsigned paintings and figure out how to display pewter tea caddies.”

Frankie patted my knee.
“It’s good to know what you want.”

The room was filling up. I watched Frankie out of the corner of my eye while she observed the townsfolk
— adults with hugs and back pats for each other, kids with cookie crumbs on their faces playing tag around their parents. The volume level was escalating rapidly.

I wondered what Frankie wanted. A cross-country trip on a lark, and at her age? I guessed she had a destination in mind. I might be looking for a new gift shop manager in a few weeks or a few months when she decided to move on.

Then again, I’d dumped everything, leaving a high-paying job and my family, such as they are, for the great unknown — a job I’d never done before and residence in a fifth-wheel trailer instead of a respectable house. All because of an unfaithful ex-fiancé. And I learned I love the freedom. So who’s to say? Maybe Frankie would stick.