I blew my nose.
She slowly walked me toward the ambulance, and by the time we got there I was semi-presentable and coherent again.
Pete was sitting on the bumper, and an EMT was dabbing ointment on patches of raw skin on his arms. A few of Pete’s fingers were wrapped in gauze, and his face looked sunburned the way my legs had been after the explosion at George’s trailer. His bottom lip was split.
Harriet pushed me forward then dodged around the side of the ambulance.
“Meredith.” Pete grabbed my hand.
I held it in both of mine, not trusting myself to speak. I traced the edges of the gauze with my fingertip.
Pete nodded to the EMT and stood. He pulled me into his chest and held me tight. “It’s good to see you,” he murmured into my hair.
I ran my hands along his sides. “What happened?” My voice came out scratchy, muffled in his shirt. “How badly are you hurt? Where can I touch you?”
Pete chuckled. “You’re doing fine. I’m fine.”
I pulled away. “No, you’re not. Look at this.” I held up his hand, scowling, showing him the gauze as if he hadn’t known about it already.
Pete shrugged. “It could’ve been worse.”
“Pete. You ready to answer some questions?” Sheriff Marge had come up behind me. Her face glistened with perspiration, and her pant legs from the knee down were wet. Her gray eyes were hard, determined — but behind that, I think she was worried.
And that made me worried — even more than I already was.
She herded us toward the riverbank at the edge of the port, away from the hubbub. Pete and I sat on an old, splintery log — flotsam from a decade or two ago that had been dragged out of the way and which provided a good view of the firefighters’ clean-up operations.
There was room on the log for Sheriff Marge, but she stood to the side, tapping her foot and staring at the river. She looked as though she was thinking about what to say — or what to ask — first.
I could hardly see the Oregon shoreline with all the particulates in the air. Several wildfires — possibly set by lightning, but more likely by careless campers and cigarettes — burned tinder in the hills along both sides of the river. The Department of Natural Resources fire crews were stretched thin.
Sheriff Marge was stretched pretty thin too. She inhaled deeply and turned to us. “Talk me through it. What happened?”
Pete leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I have an engine dismantled — overhauling it. When I got back from visiting George, I went to the engine room to continue cleaning and relubricating parts. Then I started reassembling it. Down in the well, I found a chunk of pipe that wasn’t part of the engine.”
“And hadn’t been there before?” Sheriff Marge asked.
“Right. Nothing I recognized — I mean it wasn’t something we keep on the tug. But I did recognize what it was.”
“Why didn’t you—” Sheriff Marge removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You should have left it and called me. We could’ve gotten a disposal unit out here.”
“Not in time. There were only a few minutes left.”
I was struggling to breathe. “Wait,” I croaked. I clutched a wad of Pete’s shirt. “You diffused a pipe bomb?”
Pete gave a curt nod. “Mostly. Had to.”
I groaned.
Pete slid an arm around my waist. “I know about explosives from the Navy. I’m just a little rusty. Plus it was unconventionally constructed.”
“What bothers me,” Sheriff Marge said, “is why you got a pipe bomb.”
Pete exhaled. “I’ve been thinking about that. The night Meredith saw the speedboat — the one George mentioned, we were out in the Surely helping another tug get off that sandbar.” Pete gestured toward the far side of the river where he’d rendered assistance to the other captain.
I unclenched my jaw in surprise. “You mean that captain was in on it? And thinks you saw too much?”
“Or the speedboat occupants, or the deckhand who accepted their delivery.” Pete nodded. “Could be one or all. Not sure they are all working together, but they know I was there and must think there’s a chance I could have seen the transfer.” He glanced at me, his blue eyes glinting, the pupils pinpricks. “I just hope they don’t know you were there too.”
I swallowed and tried to remember how close the speedboat had come to the Surely’s side and if any faces in the boat had been turned my way as they passed. “It was dark.” I shook my head. “I don’t think they saw me.”
“Is there anything else I should know?” Irritation tinged Sheriff Marge’s voice.
“I don’t think so,” I whispered.
Pete shook his head.
“You staying on the tug tonight?” she asked.
“Yes,” Pete said.
“You armed?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Sheriff Marge pulled out her notebook, flipped pages and made a few notes. “We’re going to compare this bomb to the pieces found at George’s trailer, see if they show signs of the same maker.” She slipped the notebook back in her pocket, removed her hat and ran a hand through her short gray hair. “All the border counties, both Oregon and Washington, from here to Umatilla are scouring the Columbia and tributaries for the speedboat. But with so little description to go on—”
She replaced her Stratton hat and gazed at us solemnly. “I don’t have the resources to protect you. Be careful.” She turned to me. “Meredith, you’ll be at the courthouse tomorrow?”
I nodded. “When Otto calls.”
“Be careful,” she repeated, her lips pressed into a tight line. She heaved another deep sigh and strode toward the parking lot.
In that distance, which seemed so far away, firefighters joked and wound up their hoses. Car doors slammed. Conversations and greetings started and stopped.
Pete rose and held out his bandaged hand.
I took it gingerly, and he pulled me to my feet.
“I lost it,” I whispered. “I was so scared. I thought something awful — something—” I was going to cry again. I buried my face in his shirt.
He rubbed my arms. “You lost it over me?”
When I nodded, he tipped my chin up.
“That’s the best news I’ve ever had.” And he kissed me, soft and sweet and lingering.
I melted into him.
When I came up for air, Pete murmured, “Yes?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “You could have done that much sooner.”
“Nope.” Pete’s voice was firm. “You’re still dealing with an ex-fiancé.”
“He’s dead.”
“And you’re testifying at his killer’s trial. That has to be dredging stuff up for you.”
I slid my hands up around his neck and smiled into his eyes. “I’m stronger than that — I think — except when it comes to you.”
The crinkle corners were back. Pete grinned and skimmed his lips across my cheek, finding my mouth and staying for a long time.
CHAPTER 17
Pete walked me back to the parking lot. We stopped at the dock overlooking the Surely.
“How much damage?” I asked.
A charred section of the Surely’s stern railing and deck stood out in sharp contrast to her white paint and old but well cared for appearance.
“Not bad,” Pete answered. “Been meaning to replace the railing anyway. She’s showing some rust too, so it was time for more paint.”
“Sounds like you’ll be in port longer than you’d planned.”
“Mmhmm.” Pete slid an arm around my waist and pulled me against his side. “I’m not complaining.”
“I’m worried about you staying aboard tonight.”
“I can’t afford to lose the Surely. She’s my livelihood, not to mention my crew’s too. I don’t think there’ll be another attempt tonight. But—” He turned me around by the shoulders and scrutinized my face. “I don’t want you staying by yourself. They may figure out there was more than one
witness the other night. Can you crash at a friend’s place?”
“I’ll ask the Tinsleys.”
A smile flitted across Pete’s face. “Herb’s good with that rifle. Sets my mind at ease.”
Harriet was sitting in the passenger seat of my pickup with the door open, chatting with Archie who leaned against the truck’s bed. She agreed immediately when Pete asked her to put me up in one of the farmhouse’s spare bedrooms.
In fact, she said “Oh, goodie” and bounced on the seat, beaming as though we were planning a birthday party sleepover. I wasn’t sure how much sleep I was going to get. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, and it would be good to have someone to talk to. Harriet’s a gem.
Archie pushed off the side of the truck and nodded. “Pete. Need to go over the tug with you. See if anything’s missing or disturbed besides — well, you know.”
Pete gave me one last squeeze, and they ambled toward the gangplank.
“Well, honey,” Harriet said. “Let’s get you packed.”
“It’s just temporary,” I reminded her. “One small bag, max. Plus Tuppence’s stuff.” I turned the truck around and headed toward the highway.
“How’re things with Pete?” She leaned toward me, straining the seat belt, her bright blue eyes wide. Pete had been characteristically understated when he referred to Harriet as nosy. She’s not a gossip, though. She collects a ton of facts but tends to keep them to herself if they’re personal in nature.
I also think my wide smile gave me away. “Fine.”
“You know our offer still stands. Herb and I would love to spruce up our backyard for your wedding. Fall is a perfect time — warm but not too hot, flowers still blooming, not too windy. It’s a good time for people to come, too, before they get involved in school and work again. Your family—”
“Harriet!” I almost shouted to stop her. “It was a kiss, not a proposal.”
“I saw some talking between you, but I couldn’t tell what you were saying.” Harriet sighed, then patted my leg. “Well, don’t you worry, honey. All in good time.” She launched into a detailed description of the room she was going to set up for me, along with the assorted histories of the articles of furniture in the room.
You’d think that since I curated historical artifacts for a museum, I would find her discourse interesting, but my mind wandered.
Umm, back to the kiss — kisses. Wooo — I grew warm — probably flushed too — just thinking about being in Pete’s arms and knew that silly grin had replastered itself across my face.
I was suddenly grateful Pete was taking things slow. He was right that I needed more time than I’d thought to get through the betrayal by an ex-fiancé, then his murder, then regurgitating the entire emotional mess in front of half the county during the trial. Not to mention the vested interest everyone seemed to have in Pete’s and my budding relationship. Pressure? Good grief.
Harriet was still chattering, having moved on to her plan for canning peaches and pears, when I pulled into the driveway in front of my fifth-wheel. “Oh, look, you have guests,” she said.
Kind of hard to miss seeing the minivan parked on the gravel shoulder in front of my space. “I forgot. Sally made brownies,” I said.
Harriet popped out of the truck and greeted the Levines.
I didn’t have to say anything — Harriet filled them in on the events of the afternoon. I tried to offer a reassuring smile in response to Sally’s worried look.
But listening to Harriet’s recounting, I was smacked with a dose of sobering reality again. There was a lot to worry about, and the people gathered in my campsite didn’t know about the possibility of stolen chemical weapons in the hands of these unknown, but clearly ruthless, criminals.
I retrieved a spatula, forks and plates from the trailer, and we sat around the picnic table feasting on brownies. It seemed the best thing to do, given the circumstances.
“You know,” Pastor Mort said around a mouthful, “the Columbia’s been the scene of profiteering activity, including monopolies charging exorbitant rates, for generations. I wonder if someone doesn’t appreciate Pete’s competition. There are only a few independent tug operators on the river. The rest of the hauling and transportation is handled by a couple big companies.”
“But Pete does work they won’t even touch,” I said. “The smaller stuff and loads requiring special handling. And he stops at ports that can’t accommodate regular barges.”
“I think the smaller loads are becoming more valuable,” Mort said. “Take scrap metal for instance.”
I straightened but tried not to appear too eager. “What about scrap metal?” I studied Mort as he continued.
“There’s increasing demand in Asia — so much so that the U.S. is packaging scrap metal in sea containers in order to get it to destinations that don’t need or can’t handle the volume of a full freighter. Seems like the buying and collecting on this end would ramp up to match the demand on that end.”
“Do you mean a buyer could specify a certain quantity or type of scrap metal and have it delivered to a non-conventional, even a non-seaport destination?” I blurted.
“Sure.” Mort shrugged. “The sea containers can go anywhere rail and trucks go. You know Buddy Jones?”
I shook my head. Harriet grunted and waved her hand dismissively, which I took to mean Buddy wasn’t a particularly upstanding member of our community.
“Now,” Mort held up a finger, “Buddy’s working on turning his life around. At the moment, he’s collecting scrap metal and earning a living at it. It’s pretty astonishing how much money’s in scrap metal. He sells what he collects to a middleman who in turn sells it to Schnitzer Steel in Portland. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind finding a direct buyer — get a better price that way. He told me the big recycling yards in the Bay Area and Long Beach have Asian buyer representatives who live in their cars and go from site to site negotiating deals.”
I exhaled. In other words, it would be super easy to get a chemical weapon hidden in a shipment of scrap metal anywhere in the world, including remote terrorist breeding grounds as well as major metropolitan areas which tend to rim the world’s oceans. And they could probably have any number of buyers.
What would one or two or three projectiles cost? The deckhand I’d seen had made six — six! — trips up the ladder to deposit items in the barge. Mayhem and destruction at a bargain.
oOo
After Mort and Sally left, Harriet and I bundled my things together. I fought the urge to batten down the hatches, so to speak, in case anyone left a pipe bomb surprise for me. But I knew better, really. The thin sheet metal and fiberglass of my RV wouldn’t withstand a blast any more than George’s trailer had.
I helped Harriet fix dinner. She kept up a steady stream of chatter about record-setting hot summers in her girlhood, how they swam in a sheltered inlet not too far from the farmhouse, caught nightcrawlers for fishing, and how she and Herb built a tree fort in the oldest apple tree on the property — long gone now.
I think she was trying to distract me from my worry about Pete. But I would have needed conversation that required more of my participation for that. I mumbled “Mmhmm” and “Oh” enough to give the impression I was paying attention.
Pete and I hadn’t talked much about his Navy experience. He didn’t seem to like to dwell on it.
Clearly, he knew how to navigate, steer his tug, tear apart and rebuild an engine. He also seemed to know how to handle basic weapons — guns and knives — and slingshots. I grinned at the memory. I had assumed this was all typical guy stuff — the same way I know girl stuff like how to sew on buttons, whip up a casserole without a recipe, and that you shouldn’t wear two different plaids in the same outfit.
But Pete’s knowledge of explosives surprised me, particularly how to diffuse a pipe bomb in a hurry. I probably wouldn’t recognize a pipe bomb even if it fell out from underneath my truck.
That thought stopped me cold halfway to the table with a pitcher o
f ice water.
Herb had just entered the kitchen and was washing up at the sink. He didn’t seem surprised by my presence, and I wondered if Pete had called him.
“Is your barn secure?” I asked, setting the pitcher in the middle of Harriet’s embroidered table runner. “Do you think I could park my truck in it?”
Herb and Harriet use their barn like a garage. It also stores old farm equipment and supplies they need for running the campground. Usually the doors are wide open.
Herb turned, wiping his hands on a towel. “Good idea.”
“You have a few minutes before dinner,” Harriet piped up.
“Have to rearrange some stuff. Got your keys?” Herb said.
I pulled them out of my pocket and dropped them into his gnarled, outstretched hand. “Thank you.”
He nodded solemnly and went back out the door.
He returned twenty minutes later and set the keys on the counter beside me. “All set.”
We slid into chairs around the dining table. Herb said grace, and Harriet filled our plates.
“Thanks for taking me in,” I blurted. “I’m really sorry for possibly putting you at risk. We don’t know how much they know — with George and now Pete—” I ran out of words.
Herb spoke before Harriet could open her mouth. “We’re glad you’re here. This is where you belong.” He filled my water glass. “Harriet and I have discussed this, and we feel you’re the closest kin we have.”
I ducked my head to blink back tears.
After washing the dinner dishes, Harriet decided to count her empty canning jars in the basement — to see if she had enough to put up the coming harvest.
Herb appeared at my elbow. “Can we talk?” He glanced at the open door to the basement stairwell and brushed a hand over his wispy white hair. “Privately?”
“Of course.” I followed him down the hall to a small room set up as an office. I realized I could see over the top of his head. In the few years I’ve known the Tinsley twins, I think they’ve both shrunk. Still strong, wiry and spry — both of them — for being in their eighties, but also noticeably slowing down.
Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4) Page 12
