Free Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) by Jerusha Jones

shook her head. “He probably only has to fill that Prius up once a month.”
    “ Oh, right.” I looked around the store absently, trying to remember why I’d stopped.
    “ You need dog food?” Gloria asked.
    “ What? Oh, no. People food.”
    “ The heat and serve stuff is in the freezer at the back.”
    That grated on me. Did I look like I couldn ’t cook?
    Maybe Gloria was right. Not tonight.
    I found individually wrapped bean and cheese burritos and bought two. Enough heavy carbs and fat to send me straight into a comatose slumber. Something to temporarily stifle the dull throb of worry.
    Back in the RV, I nuked the burritos and checked my e-mail, hoping for a note from Greg. “Hey, I decided to go exploring. Here are some great photos I took of _______.”
    Nope. Greg didn ’t do that sort of thing. Come to think of it, he almost never e-mailed me. He was a texting man. I was grasping at anything, nothing, and no longer thinking straight.
    The phone rang.
    “I checked on the Mason boy,” Sheriff Marge said. “Got an invitation from a college scout on Friday night to visit U-dub, so he and his dad drove up to Seattle on Saturday and stayed the weekend.”
    “ He was here on Saturday, arguing with Lindsay.”
    “ Yeah, in the morning. They left right after. His mom’s upset. She likes Lindsay. No remorse from the boy.”
    “ Any other leads?”
    “ The TV tips are starting to come in, and we’re sorting through them. Everything from a sighting at a gas station in Yreka to an alien vaporization right before the witness’s eyes.”
    “ Anything valid? Yreka’s not too far.”
    “ It’s 250 miles past Corvallis. We’re focusing on our corridor, and state troopers are already out checking on a few tips. I’ll keep you updated. Get some sleep.”
    The first bite of burrito turned to gummy paste in my mouth, reminding me of the flour and water concoction Mom made when I was little and wanted to glue stuff. Edible, non-toxic and relatively easy to clean up. All it really needed to do was outlast my four-year-old attention span.
    Which the burrito succeeded at as well — my appetite vanished. I dropped the burrito on the floor for Tuppence who nosed it but didn’t sample.
    I slid into bed, fully clothed and cradling the phone, just in case.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 8
     
     
    I awoke to the patter of rain, big fat blops that collected on tree branches overhead then splatted on the fiberglass roof. My eyelids were glued shut with the crusty eye gunk that happens when I don ’t sleep normal hours like a normal person. I rubbed them open and peered at the clock — 5:37 in red numbers. I exchanged yesterday’s clothes for a comfortable old sweat suit. Maybe if I exercised I could get rid of the fitful nervous energy that made my limbs twitch.
    Tuppence stood at the threshold for a minute watching the rain, then opted to stay inside and continue her beauty sleep. So much for faithful companionship. 
    I started off at a slow trot, counting strides between pools of light cast by the lamp posts spaced every third campsite. The drizzle quickly coated my face and neck with a sheen that wasn’t yet sweat, but exertion kept my skin from feeling clammy. When was the last time I had gone for a run?
    Hikes are good; running is bad. I remembered this after about a quarter mile when my side cramped and my sinuses ached from inhaling cold air. I walked back to the RV, shivering as I cooled down. Pathetic.
    A steaming shower revived me. Plus coffee.
    I decided to direct my energy toward making the chamber pot exhibit shine as a tribute to Greg and drove to the museum. Lindsay found me in the display bedroom a few hours later, dust-streaked and disheveled but making progress.
    “Any news?” Lindsay didn’t look like she had slept much either.
    “ No. Except you don’t have to worry about Mark. He was at the University of Washington after you fought Saturday and all day