Read Rock Bottom (Imogene Museum Mystery #1) for Free Online

and pelting rain that shudder my poor little trailer down to its jacks. I love those nights, provided I can sit in front of the fireplace and drink Earl Grey tea. Tuppence doesn’t share my enthusiasm for eventful weather.
    The timer in my pocket buzzed, and I reluctantly returned to the trailer. Bubbling cheesiness greeted me, prompting my stomach to growl. I took the casserole out of the oven and hurried to shower and dress.
    With the hot dish nestled in an old, clean blanket, I drove to Mac’s Sidetrack Tavern. The parking lot was filling up with the late-riser and after-church crowd.
    I had been a bit shocked when I learned Mac hosted community potlucks at his tavern. But it all made sense when Pastor Mort explained the tavern was the only place in miles that had reliable NFL and college football coverage. Television reception is a tricky thing in the gorge. Mac wisely assessed that it ’s vital to his business, so he has satellite dishes from all the carriers stationed on his roof, antennas jabbed in every direction. He guarantees every single broadcast football game can be seen on one of his big screens.
    Mac cordons off the stand-up bar at the far end of the tavern on Sundays to open up the rest of the large room for families. He doesn ’t have a license to serve food beyond peanuts, pretzels and tortilla chips smothered in nacho cheese sauce from a #10 can, so everyone brings a hot dish to share and buys soft drinks, coffee or lemonade to thank Mac for his hospitality. I’m not sure the arrangement is strictly legal, but liquor license inspectors are rare in these parts and don’t work on Sundays anyway.
    I pulled in beside the Levine family minivan. Pastor Mort was helping his wife, Sally, unload a crockpot and cooler. Sally waved.
    “Hey, Meredith,” Pastor Mort said, sweating slightly. He’s pudgy, and I know why. Sally’s a great cook. “How’ve you been?”
    “ Good. Busy.”
    “ I heard you got a shipment at the museum. When can we see the new exhibit?” Sally asked.
    “ Thursday.”
    “ Wonderful! I’ll be there with my class.” Sally teaches kindergarten, an energetic jumble of five-year-olds.
    I grinned. “I think you’ll find it very educational.”
    I set my casserole on the designated table and found an empty seat next to Sheriff Marge in front of the Seattle Seahawks game.
    Sheriff Marge was in uniform, but she’s always in uniform. With only three deputies besides herself to cover Sockeye County, she’s never really off-duty.
    I can ’t tell if the bullet-proof vest functions like a corset, lacing the sheriff’s torso into that thick, tubular shape, or if it just adds several inches of armored padding around what’s already there. Everything about Sheriff Marge is utilitarian.
    “ How’s preserving the peace going?”
    Sheriff Marge shifted her no-nonsense bulk my direction. “Found a marijuana grow just off County Road 68. Booby trap mangled the leg of the deer hunter who stepped on it.” She shook her head. “Makes me sick the grow workers got away. They would have been low-level, but maybe they could have led us to the ringleaders. This problem is getting worse in a hurry. It’s so destructive — for people, plants, animals — everything.”
    She leaned back and sighed. “Other than that, a couple punks shoplifted a pack of cigarettes from Junction General. And a handful of DUIs including one guy who knew he was too drunk to drive his truck but figured riding a quad on Highway 14 would be okay.” She shrugged. “Status quo.”
    “ I don’t know how you do it.”
    “ I watched Big John do it all those years. He always talked about investigations, asked what I thought about people and situations. I figured a couple decades of that was enough education to go on. Pays off, you know, knowing people.”
    I wondered what it would be like to always refer to my husband with an adjective in front of his name. Steely Dan, Pistol Pete, Fat Albert. Maybe you got used to it.