Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) (7 page)

She nodded.
“But he would never leave. He didn’t do that.”

“
Who?”

“
Spence. He didn’t — he wouldn’t—” Edna shook her head, refusing to finish the thought.

I drew a deep breath. Abandoned, first by her father and then by Spence, the replacement father figure.

I thought I should change the subject. “Well, Tuppence sure likes you. Look how comfortable she is.”

Edna smiled and tickled Tuppence
’s whiskers. The dog sneezed without bothering to fully wake up.

There was a light tapping on the door, and it swung open. Mrs. Garman shuffled in, precariously balancing three mugs on a tray.
“Would you girls like hot cocoa?”

I jumped up and took the tray.
“How wonderful. Thank you.”

Mrs. Garman backed out of the room, a pleased smile on her face.

Edna reached out for a mug, and I took one myself. Was the third for Tuppence? I set the tray on the dresser beside the bear and returned to the bed.

Cradling the warm mug in my hands, I leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“Edna—”

“
I know,” she interrupted.

“
Know what?”

“
I can’t work for you. I want to, but I can’t.”

I sipped the brown liquid
— a little sweet, a little salty, and only a very little chocolaty. “When you said you take care of animals, what did you mean?”

“
I never break them. And if they’re broken, I fix them. Better—” She glanced at the bear on the dresser. “Better. I was going to glue the leg, and it wouldn’t have showed. The crack, I mean.”

“
Can I see some of the animals you’ve fixed?”

Edna was up in a flash. She pulled open her closet door, dragged a little stool out and climbed on it. Her head and shoulders disappeared into a top shelf above the hanging clothes. She emerged with a boot box.

Edna knelt beside the bed, removed the lid and tenderly lifted out tissue-wrapped packets. She folded the paper back to reveal a wide assortment of animals — a couple were clearly from a Noah’s ark set, a bronze bucking pony with leather saddle, a blown glass dolphin, a bendable rubber Goofy. Underneath the packets, I caught a glimpse of drawings and photos of animals. It didn’t appear as though Edna discriminated based on value, media or type — if it looked like an animal, she loved it.

Several of the figures had been cracked, chipped, shattered, or otherwise injured in their past. Edna pointed out expertly executed repairs.

“If you know an animal is being cared for, do you take it?”

Edna scowled.
“Some people act like they will take care, but they don’t.”

“
How about at the museum? Do you think we care for the animals there? Other than the bear?”

Edna thought for a few seconds then gave a short nod.

“Sometimes we get animals that are broken or dirty, just because they’re old. In fact, right now I have two marionettes in my office, a giraffe and a monkey, that I had to untangle and clean. I had to be really careful and use the right solutions so I didn’t damage their paint. Do you think you could do that kind of work?”

Edna
’s face lit up so much she looked like a different person. “Oh!”

“
You’d have to leave them at the museum. You could not bring the animals home with you.”

“
I know.” She clasped her hands between her knees. “I know.”

“
Think it over, and if you’re interested, come see me next week.”

Edna beamed.

CHAPTER 7

I shivered in the truck, my teeth chattering while I waited for the engine to heat up and send a few blasts of warm air my way. The sun had set fast, or else time had flown by while I was in the Garman house. A zillion stars winked overhead.

I drove slowly, my mind wandering over the sadness evident at the Garmans
’ — the way one visitor and a dog had brightened Mrs. Garman’s day. How much did I really know about my neighbors, about their heartache and needs? Why are people so determined to appear stalwart and sufficient? I do it — all the time. It’s my habit to brush off offers of assistance.

What would happen if I said
‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ more often? And just how nosy would my neighbors let me be if I wanted to find out what their true needs are?

Tuppence sat up straight and alert, her ears swaying as her head swiveled back and forth. I
’d have to lock her in the trailer tonight since the booming fireworks would be audible for miles around. Tuppence isn’t trained as a hunting dog — she does her hound scenting thing quite naturally, if unpredictably — but that also means she’s not desensitized to gunfire and other loud, scary and distracting noises. So her pillow bed and a gigantic rawhide treat were in her near future.

I came to the intersection with Highway 14, turned west and picked up speed. Red taillights bumped and blinked ahead of me. I squinted through the windshield and took my foot off the gas.

Sure enough. Somebody’d been celebrating already. The beat-up pickup swerved from the shoulder to the center line and back again. The muffler dragged on the pavement, sending out random sparks when it flinted against a rough patch. Either the driver had already run over something or didn’t care that his vehicle was coming apart around him.

I nudged my truck over to the shoulder, put it in park and pulled my phone out of my purse. Tuppence whined.
“Yeah, I know. He’s going to hit somebody.”

The drunk driver continued on, but haltingly. We were on a straight stretch, and he
’d be in sight for a while at that pace. I dialed Sheriff Marge.

“
Yep,” she hollered.

“
DUI westbound on 14 between Cork Creek and Platts Landing,” I said.

Sheriff Marge muttered something unintelligible. Her tires squealed in the background, and there were crunching noises.

“You okay?” I shouted.

“
Course I am. Just turning around. Describe the vehicle.”

“
Brown F-150, very old and dented, dragging a muffler.” I flinched as the pickup made an abrupt right-hand turn and skidded nose first into the drainage ditch. “He’s in the ditch now. We might need an ambulance.”

“
That’s Amos Stanley’s truck,” Sheriff Marge said. “Not much of a drinker. Might be a medical problem. Are you close enough to check on him?”

“
Yep. I’m going.” I hung up and threw my truck into gear.

I pulled around Amos
’s truck and hit the brakes. “You stay here,” I needlessly told Tuppence as I slammed the door. I only knew Amos as the old guy who hawks loogies on the sidewalk in town, preferably when there’s a lady around to see it. I don’t know why he does this. I just give him a wide berth — normally.

I slid down the four-foot embankment and yanked on the driver
’s side handle. The door fell open with gravity pulling it, and I had to jump out of the way. The bottom corner of the door sliced into the mud and stuck fast. I landed a couple inches deep in mud too. Amos was face first into the steering wheel.

I patted his shoulder.
“Amos!”

He moaned. Good sign. But was he having a heart attack?

“Amos!” I yelled again.

“
Go ‘way,” he mumbled, still implanted in the steering wheel. “Takin’ a nap.”

“
Oh no. You have to wake up.” I shook him gently.

No response.

I pinched him — hard.

“
Yow!” Amos tried to sit up, but the angle was against him and he slumped over the wheel again. A trickle of blood ran from a gash across the bridge of his nose. “Leave me ‘lone, woman.”

“
Nope. You have to talk to me. Do you feel numb? Is your speech always this slurred?”

“
Jes’ like a woman. Chatter chatter.”

“
I promise I will be this annoying until the ambulance arrives. Do you know you drove your truck into a ditch?”

“
Did not.”

“
And you need to get your muffler fixed.”

“
Like it that way.”

“
Maybe you’re just lazy.”

Amos turned to look at me, his eyes narrow. He ran his tongue around inside his lips, puckered and shot a stream of saliva through his teeth, missing me by mere inches.

I glared back. “So you
do
do that on purpose.”

Amos cackled.
“Hee hee. Women.”

“
Where do you think you are?”

“
Well, I sure ain’t in church. Get outta my way.”

Amos half lunged out of the truck trying to reach the door handle, which, I noticed, meant he hadn
’t been wearing a seatbelt. I jerked my feet out of the mud with sucking sounds and staggered back. The door was wedged firmly, and Amos couldn’t budge it. He was also now stretched awkwardly, his hips in the seat but clinging to the extended door with his hands, his head lower than his backside. Essentially doing a 45-degree-angled handstand over a muddy ditch.

“
Aahhh,” Amos said. His arms began to shake. His back dipped and belly sagged like a sway-backed mare’s. “Aahhh,” and this sound was accompanied by a gurgle.

I liked him incapacitated, but I didn
’t want him to get hurt even more, so I stepped forward and scooped my arms under his midsection. “Want to get back in the truck now?”

“
Pfhuff.”

I let him sag.

“Yeah, yeah. Alright,” he spat out.

“
Tell you what,” I said, my nose uncomfortably near his armpit. “I’ll make you a deal. You stop spitting at or near or even in the presence of women — any woman at any time, and I’ll help you back into your truck.”

“
What iffen I forget?”

“
Oh, you won’t forget. You’ll remember the dark, bitterly cold night when you drove your truck off the side of the road in a fit of stupidity and were saved by a kindhearted, longsuffering woman.”

Amos grunted.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. Here he was, helplessly at risk of wrenching his back and much more while a woman held him up, and he still had to think about it. I hoped he’d hurry up because I was going to need to inhale in another couple seconds and I didn’t fancy doing so in such close proximity to him.

“
Yeah. Okay.”

I heaved. He pushed.

I slipped.

“
Gaaargh.” But Amos had hold of the doorframe and slid back behind the wheel.

I flopped against the open door, panting.

The wailing of an emergency siren emerged in the distance, and I eyed Amos.

He cracked a wry smile.
“Alright. You’re alright, I guess.”

“
Are you alright?”

“
Little dizzy.” He rubbed his forehead, then jerked his hand away when he saw the bit of blood he’d swiped from his nose. “What’s that?” Panic edged his voice.

“
Just a small cut. Probably won’t even need stitches.”

“
Huh. I must be a sight.”

My eyebrows shot up. Amos cared about his appearance? I bit back a smile.

“I see that.” Amos fished a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his face.

Sheriff Marge rolled up, an ambulance glued to her bumper. They parked on the shoulder, and I caught people
’s silhouettes in the flashing lights. Sheriff Marge’s thick, short form with the big Stratton hat was easy to pick out. She did a skateboard skid down the embankment, and I put out both hands to stop her.

“
Well then, Amos, what’ve you been up to?” She was breathing hard.

“
Not much ‘cept wreckin’ my truck.”

“
I see that. Need medical attention?”

“
Nope.”

“
Yes,” I said. “He’s dizzy.”

Amos glared at me.

“And ornery.”

Amos chuckled.
“Alright. Get me outta here.”

The medics arrived and assisted Amos to the ambulance, leaving Sheriff Marge and me to scramble up to the road by ourselves. I found a prickly bush to hang on to and pointed it out to Sheriff Marge. We were both winded by the time we crawled onto the pavement.

“Going to the fireworks?” Sheriff Marge asked.

“
Yeah. You?”

She shrugged.
“Depends on how many drunks and crazies are out tonight. How many people light something on fire they didn’t mean to — or did mean to. Not my favorite day of the year, but I’ll try to swing by later.” She turned to look at Amos’s truck. “I’ll get Verle to pull that beater out in the next couple days. Tow truck drivers are just about as busy as emergency personnel on New Year’s.”

The radio on her shoulder crackled and the voice of the dispatcher, Nadine, garbled something about teen boys shooting off firearms behind someone
’s house.

“
See you.” Sheriff Marge trotted to her Explorer, climbed in, pulled a squealing U-turn and sped off toward town.

The driver of the ambulance honked and waved, and he pulled out too. I caught a glimpse of Amos through the lit widow in the rear door. He was pressing a bandage to his nose.

I suddenly ached as though I’d been in a wreck myself. I rolled my neck and massaged my trapezius muscles. It was going to be a long night.

Tuppence whined when I opened the truck door.

“Sorry for the wait, old girl. I know you’re hungry.”

Back in my cozy nest at the Riverview RV Ranch, I fixed another grilled cheese sandwich and settled Tuppence with her consolation prize for being confined all night. Then I pulled on a second layer of everything
– long underwear, thermal t-shirt, sweatshirt, scarf, hat, puffy down coat, mittens.

My phone rang.

“Of all the—” I had to yank off several items to gain the mobility and dexterity necessary to pick up the phone and speak into it. “Hello?”

“
Hey, Meredith,” Greg said. “I heard back from my friend’s friend about the flower bulbs. Wanted to tell you now because it’ll be too noisy and crowded to go over the details at the fireworks tonight.”

He had a point. I stretched for a pad of paper and a pencil.