’t seemed surprised, just defensive. I would be too, given what the goon had said. Death threats? But I was irritated that Melvin hadn’t fought back. He was making himself an easy target.
As I locked the door and crept through the dark kitchen to my bedroom, I listed my own problems — a recalcitrant, sofa-surfing mother who was sleeping soundlessly tonight, a stolen painting and a good friend in the hospital with a broken leg. I wasn’t sure I had the mental space to worry on Melvin’s behalf too.
CHAPTER 11
I showered quickly. I bent in half in the skinny stall to examine my bruised, scraped and bug-bit legs. I ’d need to wear pants tomorrow or people would wonder what I’d been up to.
I considered calling Sheriff Marge or one of her deputies about the overheard threats. But Melvin was as capable of dialing 911 as the rest of us if he wanted to, and I didn ’t think law enforcement could do much about hearsay on my part without him initiating a request for help or protection.
Still damp and appreciating the sensation of cool cleanness after a day of sweaty scavenging, I flopped on the mattress and pulled the shade off the bedside lamp. I popped open the small box I ’d brought home from the museum and removed the slides of Cosmo and his friends.
I held them in front of the bare bulb one at a time, squinting to see if I could pick out any telling details. I was willing to bet the stubby blond guy with the prominent belly was the one nicknamed Gnocchi.
That left the tall, gangly one as Juice. He didn’t look like much of a drinker — not much flab on him, nor redness about the nose. The tips of his face — nose, chin, ears — stuck out, giving him a unique silhouette, and his arms, legs and fingers seemed disproportionately long. I wondered if he had the same disorder people used to think Abe Lincoln had — Marfan syndrome.
Juice was dressed in a snug leisure suit with an abundance of pleated patch pockets and flared pant legs — the cutting edge of fashion at the time and probably custom-made to fit his narrow height. Beside him, Cosmo and Gnocchi looked downright frumpy in baggy suits with neckties loosened and collars unbuttoned.
Three overdressed guys at a barbecue — they stuck out as loners among what were probably family activities going on around them. It just seemed weird. Weird in general — what were they doing at the party? And weird specifically — why were these images part of the Imogene’s photo archives? What had Cosmo been up to, besides eating baked beans?
oOo
When we arrived at the museum the next morning, I set up Mom with a sorting task — a box of impossibly jumbled Bakelite earrings I’d found in the basement. At the rate I was unearthing costume jewelry down there, we’d soon have a display of zany things women have adorned themselves with over the centuries. This particular box held earrings replicating foods and flowers.
I felt guilty about it, but I also felt as though I needed to stash Mom somewhere for awhile — for her own safety, and mine. I’m so accustomed to doing my own work, going about my own business, and having the freedom to adjust my schedule accordingly, that having a dependent in the form of my mother was wearing my patience thin, and I was frustrated by my lack of productivity.
I snuck up to the library/taxidermy exhibit and called Dale. I wished I ’d been able to pop in and visit Sheriff Marge since her discharge from the hospital, and I was anxious for word on her health as well as her frame of mind.
“ She’s in the office for the first time today,” Dale said in a hoarse whisper. “Hang on.”
I heard a door slam and heavy, thudding footsteps and knew Dale had just exited the modular building that served as the sheriff ’s department command center and was now out in the weed-infested parking lot, probably leaning on his cruiser.
“ I don’t know how we’re
As I locked the door and crept through the dark kitchen to my bedroom, I listed my own problems — a recalcitrant, sofa-surfing mother who was sleeping soundlessly tonight, a stolen painting and a good friend in the hospital with a broken leg. I wasn’t sure I had the mental space to worry on Melvin’s behalf too.
CHAPTER 11
I showered quickly. I bent in half in the skinny stall to examine my bruised, scraped and bug-bit legs. I ’d need to wear pants tomorrow or people would wonder what I’d been up to.
I considered calling Sheriff Marge or one of her deputies about the overheard threats. But Melvin was as capable of dialing 911 as the rest of us if he wanted to, and I didn ’t think law enforcement could do much about hearsay on my part without him initiating a request for help or protection.
Still damp and appreciating the sensation of cool cleanness after a day of sweaty scavenging, I flopped on the mattress and pulled the shade off the bedside lamp. I popped open the small box I ’d brought home from the museum and removed the slides of Cosmo and his friends.
I held them in front of the bare bulb one at a time, squinting to see if I could pick out any telling details. I was willing to bet the stubby blond guy with the prominent belly was the one nicknamed Gnocchi.
That left the tall, gangly one as Juice. He didn’t look like much of a drinker — not much flab on him, nor redness about the nose. The tips of his face — nose, chin, ears — stuck out, giving him a unique silhouette, and his arms, legs and fingers seemed disproportionately long. I wondered if he had the same disorder people used to think Abe Lincoln had — Marfan syndrome.
Juice was dressed in a snug leisure suit with an abundance of pleated patch pockets and flared pant legs — the cutting edge of fashion at the time and probably custom-made to fit his narrow height. Beside him, Cosmo and Gnocchi looked downright frumpy in baggy suits with neckties loosened and collars unbuttoned.
Three overdressed guys at a barbecue — they stuck out as loners among what were probably family activities going on around them. It just seemed weird. Weird in general — what were they doing at the party? And weird specifically — why were these images part of the Imogene’s photo archives? What had Cosmo been up to, besides eating baked beans?
oOo
When we arrived at the museum the next morning, I set up Mom with a sorting task — a box of impossibly jumbled Bakelite earrings I’d found in the basement. At the rate I was unearthing costume jewelry down there, we’d soon have a display of zany things women have adorned themselves with over the centuries. This particular box held earrings replicating foods and flowers.
I felt guilty about it, but I also felt as though I needed to stash Mom somewhere for awhile — for her own safety, and mine. I’m so accustomed to doing my own work, going about my own business, and having the freedom to adjust my schedule accordingly, that having a dependent in the form of my mother was wearing my patience thin, and I was frustrated by my lack of productivity.
I snuck up to the library/taxidermy exhibit and called Dale. I wished I ’d been able to pop in and visit Sheriff Marge since her discharge from the hospital, and I was anxious for word on her health as well as her frame of mind.
“ She’s in the office for the first time today,” Dale said in a hoarse whisper. “Hang on.”
I heard a door slam and heavy, thudding footsteps and knew Dale had just exited the modular building that served as the sheriff ’s department command center and was now out in the weed-infested parking lot, probably leaning on his cruiser.
“ I don’t know how we’re
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