Read Online Murdermobile (Portland Bookmobile Mysteries) by B.B. Cantwell - Free Book Online
Authors: B.B. Cantwell
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south
tower. Miserable as it appeared at night, Hester knew it actually looked worse
in the daylight.
The home was erected with grand
pretense but a minimum of expense some 60 years earlier by Captain Mathusalum
Mumfrey, a founding member of the Columbia River Pilots Association, the
stalwart seafarers who venture out in any weather, day or night, to guide ships
into the mouth of the mighty Columbia, an area of turbulent waters aptly dubbed
the “Graveyard of the Pacific.”
When old Mathusalum was alive,
Karen explained, he had rarely allowed visitors into the mansion. But a few
years earlier, marking the pilot group’s golden jubilee and his own 90th
birthday, the crusty old salt had sought to prove that he could still make the
leap from a wildly tossing pilot boat to a ladder dangling from a storm-wracked
freighter off Astoria.
“He was wrong,” Karen chirped.
As Hester slipped on the soggy,
decaying leaves littering the front walk, the last stanza of “America the
Beautiful” squawked in matronly tones from an upstairs window. Karen, steadying
her friend’s elbow, grimaced. “At least we missed that!”
Hester’s arched brow and grimly
puckered mouth went unseen under a luxuriant black beard and bushy false eyebrows.
Karen, who had starred in “Oklahoma!” and “Bye-Bye, Birdie” in community
college, hadn’t forgotten her skills with theatrical makeup. With an old makeup
kit and plenty of spirit gum, she had transformed Hester’s features as they’d
sat in Karen’s BMW a few minutes earlier.
“This stuff itches,” Hester
mumbled. She straightened the Fedora her grandfather had worn. Black trousers,
an old white shirt, a “Scenic Crater Lake” souvenir necktie and a red-checked
sport coat from Steve White’s closet made up the rest of Hester’s disguise. The
sleeves of the sport coat, size 40 “short,” gave up three inches before
Hester’s arms did.
“I look like a circus clown,”
Hester whined.
“Quit being a baby,” Karen shot
back.
Whatever the horrors of the
Mumfrey Mansion’s exterior, the interior touched on magnificent. Here, old
Captain Mumfrey hadn’t scrimped. Varnished wood gleamed as brightly as the
brass fixtures all around. A mosaic marble foyer depicting snowcapped Mount
Hood in tiles gave way to teak floors intricately inlaid with contrasting
holly. None of it went at all well with the garish rhododendron wallpaper.
The staircase from the foyer to
the first floor was broad and grand. The stairs to the second and third floors
were narrower and steeper. From there, the climb resembled the last 50 feet up
Mt. Everest, Hester thought as she puffed up the ladderlike steps.
“My God,” she wheezed. “Did they
ever actually have a ball up here? You’d never navigate this in heels!”
“Heavens no,” Karen panted. “You’d
die.”
Karen, her already full figure
accentuated with throw pillows crammed into a size 18 floral print from Value
Village, paused at the final landing. A blue-tinted wig completed her disguise.
Karen moaned and rubbed the heels
of her palms against her lower back.
“Serves you right for making us
do this!” Hester gasped, puffing her way to the top.
The pair tried to be
inconspicuous as they edged into the ballroom. They looked over the backs of
about 75 nodding heads, about an even mix of blue-rinse pin curls and blond beehives.
As they looked for seats, Hester turned and hissed to Karen, “Now we don’t want
to get stuck in the center ...” But Karen was already dragging her toward two
open seats near the middle of the last row of folding chairs. Hester was
thankful for the dim light cast by a single dusty chandelier high overhead.
At a podium up front, Marge
Kenyon spoke solemnly from beneath a black veil atop a black crepe caftan. They
were still in the “old business” portion of the meeting, Hester was relieved to
hear.
“We will quickly move to the
important and pressing business of the evening, the tragic and sad event
tower. Miserable as it appeared at night, Hester knew it actually looked worse
in the daylight.
The home was erected with grand
pretense but a minimum of expense some 60 years earlier by Captain Mathusalum
Mumfrey, a founding member of the Columbia River Pilots Association, the
stalwart seafarers who venture out in any weather, day or night, to guide ships
into the mouth of the mighty Columbia, an area of turbulent waters aptly dubbed
the “Graveyard of the Pacific.”
When old Mathusalum was alive,
Karen explained, he had rarely allowed visitors into the mansion. But a few
years earlier, marking the pilot group’s golden jubilee and his own 90th
birthday, the crusty old salt had sought to prove that he could still make the
leap from a wildly tossing pilot boat to a ladder dangling from a storm-wracked
freighter off Astoria.
“He was wrong,” Karen chirped.
As Hester slipped on the soggy,
decaying leaves littering the front walk, the last stanza of “America the
Beautiful” squawked in matronly tones from an upstairs window. Karen, steadying
her friend’s elbow, grimaced. “At least we missed that!”
Hester’s arched brow and grimly
puckered mouth went unseen under a luxuriant black beard and bushy false eyebrows.
Karen, who had starred in “Oklahoma!” and “Bye-Bye, Birdie” in community
college, hadn’t forgotten her skills with theatrical makeup. With an old makeup
kit and plenty of spirit gum, she had transformed Hester’s features as they’d
sat in Karen’s BMW a few minutes earlier.
“This stuff itches,” Hester
mumbled. She straightened the Fedora her grandfather had worn. Black trousers,
an old white shirt, a “Scenic Crater Lake” souvenir necktie and a red-checked
sport coat from Steve White’s closet made up the rest of Hester’s disguise. The
sleeves of the sport coat, size 40 “short,” gave up three inches before
Hester’s arms did.
“I look like a circus clown,”
Hester whined.
“Quit being a baby,” Karen shot
back.
Whatever the horrors of the
Mumfrey Mansion’s exterior, the interior touched on magnificent. Here, old
Captain Mumfrey hadn’t scrimped. Varnished wood gleamed as brightly as the
brass fixtures all around. A mosaic marble foyer depicting snowcapped Mount
Hood in tiles gave way to teak floors intricately inlaid with contrasting
holly. None of it went at all well with the garish rhododendron wallpaper.
The staircase from the foyer to
the first floor was broad and grand. The stairs to the second and third floors
were narrower and steeper. From there, the climb resembled the last 50 feet up
Mt. Everest, Hester thought as she puffed up the ladderlike steps.
“My God,” she wheezed. “Did they
ever actually have a ball up here? You’d never navigate this in heels!”
“Heavens no,” Karen panted. “You’d
die.”
Karen, her already full figure
accentuated with throw pillows crammed into a size 18 floral print from Value
Village, paused at the final landing. A blue-tinted wig completed her disguise.
Karen moaned and rubbed the heels
of her palms against her lower back.
“Serves you right for making us
do this!” Hester gasped, puffing her way to the top.
The pair tried to be
inconspicuous as they edged into the ballroom. They looked over the backs of
about 75 nodding heads, about an even mix of blue-rinse pin curls and blond beehives.
As they looked for seats, Hester turned and hissed to Karen, “Now we don’t want
to get stuck in the center ...” But Karen was already dragging her toward two
open seats near the middle of the last row of folding chairs. Hester was
thankful for the dim light cast by a single dusty chandelier high overhead.
At a podium up front, Marge
Kenyon spoke solemnly from beneath a black veil atop a black crepe caftan. They
were still in the “old business” portion of the meeting, Hester was relieved to
hear.
“We will quickly move to the
important and pressing business of the evening, the tragic and sad event
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