Doubled Up (Imogene Museum Mystery #2) Read Free

shoes.
    “ Oh. I know.” I trotted to the cab and scanned the floorboards for a bundle of papers. I found what I was looking for in the pocket of the driver’s door — a clipboard of wet forms with smeared ink, Terry’s delivery schedule and bills of lading. I flipped through the stack, careful not to tear the limp pages.
    “ He had two deliveries on board — one for us and one for a gallery in Portland. Both picked up in Seattle yesterday. The booking was handled by the same freight forwarding company that arranged their shipment in a sealed container, so they must have come over on the same freighter. Port of departure was Liverpool. Our shipment is listed as ‘stone statuary.’ The shipment for the Portland gallery is listed as ‘carved wood artifacts.’
    “ What’s the name of that gallery, Meredith?” Dale asked from deep inside the trailer. He was bent over, aiming a pencil flashlight into the shadows.
    I picked out the faded letters. “The Rittenour Gallery, on Naito Parkway.”
    “ Then I think I got something,” Dale said. He squatted and lifted a crate the size of an apple box and brought it to the open doorway. “This crate’s addressed to Rittenour. It fell between a couple of the big crates that are addressed to the Imogene. Your crates appear intact, and there are five of them. Does that match the paperwork?”
    “ Yes. Five statues,” Rupert said. “Toad, Rat, Mole, Otter, Badger.”
    I shuffled quickly. “Yeah. Five listed on the bill of lading, too.”
    “ So somebody followed this truck, conked the driver on the head and stole the crates addressed to the Rittenour Gallery,” Sheriff Marge said.
    “ Except they missed one.” Dale tapped the wood box.
    “ There were fourteen crates for the Rittenour,” I said.
    “ Uh-huh." Sheriff Marge stood with arms akimbo. “Rupert, would you mind checking on Terry, see if Nick is finished with him yet? Set him up with some coffee. I’ll be in soon to take his statement.”
    Rupert nodded and disappeared around the side of the trailer.
    Sheriff Marge pulled a folded clear plastic tarp out of Dale’s kit bag and opened it on the ground. “Since it’s stopped raining, Dale, set the crate down here.”
    Dale jumped from the trailer, slid the crate off and eased it to the tarp. “Thing weighs a ton for its size.”
    We stared at it. Sheriff Marge cleared her throat.
    I glanced at Sheriff Marge and found her ogling me with raised eyebrows. “What?”
    “ I think that, as the curator of a similar institution, you might be overcome with professional curiosity,” Sheriff Marge said. “Especially since I don’t have a search warrant on me.”
    Dale bent his head and scratched his neck then strode to his squad car and returned with a crowbar. The bottomless trunk of a deputy sheriff. He handed me the crowbar. “Happy birthday.”
    “ It’s not — oh. Thank you.”
    Sheriff Marge turned and gazed out over the river, where the clouds had lifted a little, revealing a couple of winterized sailboats bobbing at the end of the marina docks. She whistled the same three notes over and over.
    I shared an amused look with Dale then stuck the flat end of the crowbar under the corner of the crate’s lid. It came off with a sharp cracking sound. Compressed raffia-like packing material sprang up and some tumbled out.
    Sheriff Marge and Dale crowded in to watch but let me do the unpacking. I removed a few clumps of the brown grassy stuff then jumped back. “Yah!” I shrieked.
    Sheriff Marge high-stepped out of the way as half a dozen huge brown beetles scrambled over the lip of the crate, plopped onto the tarp and darted under the trailer.
    I realized I still had packing material in my hand and flung it to the ground. “What were those?”
    “ Haven’t you ever seen cockroaches?” Sheriff Marge asked, breathing hard.
    “ Gross. Shouldn’t they have died? In the crate?”
    “ Cockroaches can go a month without food,” Dale said. “In fact, they