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

quilted cozies. I ’d left my embarrassing old blanket in the truck and let my casserole sit naked on the table.
    I have a rule not to eat my own food at potlucks. That would be like stuffing the ballot box. Plus, it ’s important to sample all the other goodness available. A couple times unpleasant surprises have marred my experience, but it’s still a risk I gladly take. I wedged a slice of pear pie with a crumble pecan topping next to scoops of beef stroganoff and rice pilaf.
    Sheriff Marge stopped to talk to a family of migrant workers, some of the last remaining since the apple harvest had wrapped up a week or so ago.
    I spied a single empty chair between the Levines and another church family with a whole passel of little kids. I knew I was being rude to Mac, but he has a tendency to over-interpret even a whiff of encouragement — or rather he has an ability to find encouragement in innocuous actions or words that completely baffles me.
    I leaned across the table toward Sally. “Have you ever thought about putting together a recipe book as a community fundraiser? I think it would be a bestseller in the museum gift shop.” Certainly better than those dusty refrigerator magnets.
    Sally ’s eyebrows arched. “A couple other people have mentioned the same thing, but I wouldn’t know where to start.”
    “ I could help get quotes on printing if you did the recipe collecting.”
    The mom of the young family on my other side raised her fork to hold her place in the conversation while she finished chewing. “I could do the page layouts and covers. I worked for an ad firm before I married Paul. I’m a little rusty, but I still have the software. I could work on it during nap times.”
    I recognized Paul as a grain inspector from the port. He was busy trying to spoon what looked like pureed beets into a chubby baby ’s clamped mouth.
    “ I could put an announcement in the church bulletin, an APB for recipes,” Sally said.
    “ APB?” Sheriff Marge’s antenna picked that up through thirty feet of mingled conversations, and she bustled over.
    Sally laughed. “For your caramel brownie bar recipe.” She filled in until Sheriff Marge nodded.
    “ Ahh.” Sheriff Marge stabbed a stout finger at the gooey golden mound on her plate. “Then Meredith will have to share her recipe for these cheesy potatoes.”
    “ Deal.”
    The Seahawks lost, as usual. The subdued crowd stacked folding chairs and wiped down tables. I collected my empty casserole dish. It was so clean it looked like Tuppence had had a go at it, except not as slimy. Perfect score.
    I joined the throng of adults assembling the remains of tableware and sleepy children and packing them into cars for the ride home.
    Pastor Mort ambled out with me. “We’d love to see you at church sometime.”
    He wasn ’t just saying that because he was supposed to. The Levines really mean it; they’re good people. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to church — a lifetime, a career and a fiancé ago. Church-going would probably do me some good, maybe make me less of the loner Greg and Pete had so helpfully pointed out lately.
    “ I’d like that, too.” I smiled at Pastor Mort. “And tell Sally to call me when she’s ready to brainstorm about the cookbook.”
     
    o0o
     
    On Monday, a free day all to myself, I layered jeans and a thermal long-sleeved t-shirt over silk long johns. I pulled on wool socks and hiking boots, found my fingerless mitts and flannel-lined canvas field coat.
    After loading a backpack with a few sandwiches and several bottles of water, I called to my ecstatic hound and flopped a blanket on the passenger side of the bench seat so she could curl up on it. It was way too cold to drive with the windows down, so Tuppence would have to make do with leaving nose smears on the glass.
    I drove east on Highway 14 to Lupine, the county seat and closest town substantial enough to have a hardware/household goods/craft supply/drug store. I took