Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) (22 page)

I checked the return address.
“Hmmm.”

“
What?” Frankie pinched a jingling earring.

I yanked on the tab to tear open the box.
“I can’t imagine what he would send me, except—” I lifted a heavy bubble-wrapped lump from the box — and a note — and a folded check.

Can
’t tell you how much Ginny and I enjoyed our visit to the Imogene. Best anniversary ever, and we’ve had some good ones. My model cannons (253 at last count) will need a home when I’m gone — before I’m gone, ideally. Hope you will accept this as a deposit. It fires 00 buckshot. Careful — don’t put an eye out. Ginny and I plan to make several trips over the next year and — if you’re willing to accept them — we’ll bring a portion of the collection each time. Sincerely, Wally Hayward.

I opened the check and gasped.

Frankie leaned in on tiptoe to peek. “Oh my. What are you going to do?”

I shook my head, grinning.
“Write a thank you note and order several display cases. We should lock visitors in the museum more often.”

SNEAK PEEK

TIN

FOIL

an Imogene Museum mystery — book #4

When Meredith Morehouse, curator of the eclectic Imogene Museum, and her friend, George, narrowly miss death via explosion, Meredith’s curiosity instinct kicks in. The explosion could’ve been accidental, but if not, who was the target?

Meredith
’s about to take the witness stand in Sockeye County’s trial of the decade. George is a semi-retired fisherman. But George’s earlier hint that he needs to talk to Meredith’s new beau, hunky tug boat captain Pete Sills, about something he’s seen indicates not all is peaceful on the mighty Columbia River.

Can Meredith and Pete sort out George
’s frightening suspicions before someone puts one or both or all three of them out of commission?

CHAPTER 1

I shifted against the sticky nylon webbing of George’s lawn chair and ran my fingers along the seat’s frayed edge. This was George’s best chair — his company chair. He chose to use a three-legged campstool in order to preserve the chair with arms and a back for his occasional guests.

George rattled pots and clanked dishes in the minuscule kitchen while heating water for our tea. I didn
’t know how he could stand to be inside his tin can trailer. He was probably boiling right alongside the water. He’d insisted that drinking hot tea on a blistering day would help us cool off. Seemed counterproductive to me, but I’ve learned that George’s advice is worth following.

I stretched again, trying not to have any of my skin doubled back on itself in the sweltering lean-to of tarps and two-by-fours that expanded George
’s living space and sheltered his expansive library. The canopy provided shade but restricted air flow. It was a toss-up as to which was preferable, and neither was going to relieve my discomfort.

I am not an elegant perspirer. Forget glistening
— I wiped trickles from my brow with the back of my hand. My short brown hair, normally curls with a mind of their own, gave up all ambition and stuck limp against my scalp and neck.

George stepped down from his trailer onto the green indoor-outdoor faux-grass carpet, two stoneware mugs in hand. He handed me the one with teal glaze drips hanging from the rim like stalactites against the speckled exterior
— my favorite.

“
You ever think about moving, George?” I asked. “Living somewhere else, somewhere more protected from the elements?”

“
In time, I may join the elders. The elements are not a problem.”

“
How old do you have to be to qualify as an elder?”

“
It is more a matter of experience and the clan’s need for your wisdom and judgment than age.” George raised his mug in salute and took a sip.

George
’s tea reminds me of the coca tea I drank once in Arequipa, Peru to ward off altitude sickness. It acted more like a diuretic. Maybe the idea is that if you spend most of your time in the bathroom, you won’t notice that you’re also short of breath.  George’s concoction makes me feel warm — not necessarily helpful today — and mildly, serenely euphoric. I slurped in moderation. I have not asked for the recipe — no doubt a local harvest of roots and leaves I would hike right past without a second thought.

“
How are you holding up?” George leaned forward, elbows on knees, his bottomless brown eyes studying me.

I wrinkled my nose and focused on the sagging bookshelves behind him.
“Trying not to think about it. The prosecuting attorney and I reviewed my initial statement the other day, as preparation.”

“
The scene keep playing in your mind?”

I nodded.
“The dreams have started again. And I’ll have to relive finding Ham’s body several more times while on the witness stand. I have no idea what the defense attorney will ask.”

George grunted sympathetically.
“It must be done.” Then he inhaled deeply and straightened. “When will Pete be in town? I would like to speak with him.”

I tried to hide my surprise behind my mug. Pete
’s my friend — the term boyfriend seems too juvenile, and we’re just getting started at this dating business, so it’s a weird claim to make — and a tugboat captain. He’s away pushing barges much more than he’s in port at Platt’s Landing — one of the reasons dating is moving at glacial speed. I didn’t know Pete and George were acquainted with each other, but they’ve both lived and worked on the Columbia River most of their lives.

“
End of the week.” I balanced my mug on the chair arm. “Need him to do a job for you?”

George shook his head, his smooth salt-and-pepper hair brushing his shoulders and his lips pressed together.
“He is a keen observer. I want to see if his observations match mine.”

“
What’s wrong?”

George barely waggled a finger.
“It is too early to worry. Come.” He set his mug on the ground and reached for mine. “Let’s find a breeze.”

We emerged into the blinding glare of an overhead sun. George touched my elbow, directing me along the rutted tire tracks
— the main drag in this shanty village of ancient camper trailers — toward the rickety dock and little cove protected from the river’s lazy churning.

I squinted and shielded my eyes with my hand.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll grab my sunglasses. They’re in my truck.”

The last thing I remember was George
’s heavily lined face nodding in concern. He was just turning to walk up to the paved road with me, ever the gentleman, when he slammed against me — both of us flattened into the packed dirt by a giant fireball.

NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Imogene Museum mystery series is a tribute to the Columbia River Gorge and the hearty people who live in gorge towns on both sides of the Oregon/Washington border. It’s an extraordinary piece of God’s real estate, and I savor driving, sightseeing, picnicking and camping its entire length. Hitching a ride on a tug run from Umatilla to Astoria is on my bucket list.

If you
’re familiar with the area, you may realize that I’ve taken liberties with distances in some cases. Mostly I squished locations (albeit fictional) closer together to move the story along and also to showcase the amazing geologic and topographic features of the gorge. In real life for many gorge residents, the roundtrip to a Costco or a bona fide sit-down restaurant might well take a full day. This kind of travel time is not helpful when you’re chasing a fleeing murderer. But if you’re not Sheriff Marge and have time to enjoy the scenery, the gorge is spectacular, and I encourage you to come experience it for yourself.

However, please don
’t expect to actually meet any of the characters in this book. All are purely fictional, and if you think they might represent anyone you know, you’re mistaken. Really. I couldn’t get away with that.

oOo

Profound thanks to the following people who gave their time and expertise to assist in the writing of this book:

Todd Cranmore, BCO/BADO of Erickson Labs Northwest for his detailed explanations of prosthetic eye production and fitting processes as well as how to identify a prosthetic eye. Ocularists perform an amazing combination of art and science to restore their patients
’ appearance and confidence. So cool.

My insightful beta readers
— Debra Biaggi, Teri Stillwell and BJ Thompson.

Sergeant Fred Neiman, Sr. and all the instructors of the Clark County Sheriff
’s Citizens’ Academy. The highlights had to be firing the Thompson submachine gun and stepping into the medical examiner’s walk-in cooler. Oh, and the K-9 demonstration and the officer survival/lethal force decision making test. And the drug task force presentation with identification color spectrum pictures and the — you get the idea.

I claim all errors, whether accidental or intentional, solely as my own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I live in the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. After too many years as a VP of inventory and analysis, I find writing mysteries much more stimulating than squinting at spreadsheets. When not typing, doodling or staring out the window, I’m usually planning my next local tourist adventure, listening to NASCAR races and Mariners, Seahawks and Trailblazers games on the radio, or sneaking dessert for breakfast.

I post updates on my website
www.jerushajones.com

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