Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6)

by Jerusha Jones

  “Can I think on it?” I asked, my brain scrambling for excuses. “I’d need an amendment to the bid, to make sure we can afford it. And I’d need to talk over the idea with Rupert.” A panicky feeling crept up the back of my neck — too many things to do, too many decisions to make, too many people paying too much attention to what was going on at the Imogene.

  A burly man in a yellow hard hat strolled by, pushing a pressure washer. Water dribbled out of the trailing hose, leaving a glistening wet streak on the pavement. His arms were bronzed and muscles bulged under his snug, construction-orange t-shirt. He cast furtive glances our direction as he passed. Was he trying to overhear what his bosses were talking about? Or was he scoping out the Imogene’s defenses, planning how to break inside?

  I pinched my forearm to break my suspicion. I had to stop thinking that every person I encountered had sinister plans or inside knowledge. Stop attributing devious intentions to innocent bystanders. I was turning into a distrustful wreck.

  Frankly, a real loading dock would be absolutely fantastic. I dreaded every time we received a shipment that wouldn’t fit through the standard, person-sized door. We’d performed duplicates of yesterday’s breakdown and shuttling process more times than I cared to count. On the other hand, given the nature of the shipment sitting just inside the basement door right now, I didn’t want to make it easier to get the items out than it had been to get them in. I wanted the time to process the artifacts properly and safely ensconce them in display cases.

  I bit my lip. “When would you need to know by?”

  Will frowned. “I’d want to extend our reservation for a concrete boom pump by Friday afternoon. They’re scarce, especially this time of year, and that would be the one thing that could hold us up.”

  I nodded — two days. Greg and I would have to fly. “I really appreciate your thinking of it. I’ll get back to you.”

  oOo

  I rushed to set up an assembly line of sorts in the basement workspace. Tuppence gave up trying to track back and forth at my heels and settled in for a snooze on the ottoman Rupert had conscripted the other day. I don’t normally let her lounge on furniture, but I figured today was a special exception for a recuperating hound.

  Frankie arrived with a plate of brownies. “I’m sure we’ll need a pick-me-up mid-afternoon,” she said, dropping her purse in a corner with a thud. She eyed Tuppence then stood on her tiptoes and carefully set the plate high on a stack of crates. “Thanks for stopping by Henry’s this morning. He really enjoys your company and trading war stories with Pete. Those boys—” she shook her head, sending the hair helmet bobbing.

  “But I think we might be bored without them,” I replied.

  Frankie dimpled, and a happy glint lit her brown eyes. “Henry wants to take me flying.”

  “Best way to see the gorge.” I grinned at her. “When he’s finished giving you the scenic tour, tell him I want a ride too.”

  “Maybe we could double date.” Frankie clasped her hands together and pressed them against her chest.

  “Date? What? Who’s dating?” A tall, lanky man stood just inside the basement door, blinking to adjust to the relative dimness.

  “Greg!” Frankie squealed. She bustled over to smother him with a hug.

  He had to bend practically in half to wrap his arms around her. “Did I hear you say something about dating?”

  Frankie blushed. “Well, it’s not official.”

  “I don’t care about that. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Henry Parker.”

  “The Henry Parker? Greg blurted. “The man who spent so many hours searching for me after I pulled that falling-into-a-cavern-without-telling-anyone-where-I-was-going stunt?”

  I chuckled. “The one and the same.”

  “Then I approve.” Greg gave Frankie another squeeze.

  I edged in for my share of the hugging. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Are you kidding? Besides Lindsay and I were so bummed about missing your wedding that we decided this was worth my taking a week off from my job.” Greg waggled his fingers in the air. “I’m ready. Can’t wait to see what you have in these crates.”

  “First these.” I handed him a pair of leather gloves and a crowbar. “Then we’ll switch to cotton gloves.” I hefted a claw hammer and balanced its weight in my palm. “But before we dig in, you need to know that this shipment might be under scrutiny by the FBI—”

  Frankie gasped and pressed her fingertips to her lips.

  “Not for sure.” I patted her arm. “I think it’s more likely that Mr. Guardado, our donor, has applied creative accounting methods in his correspondence with the IRS or something along those lines. Rupert reported that Guardado was in a hurry to leave the country. So I expect the FBI’s interest is more in the man himself than in his former collection of dusty artifacts. They’re interviewing Karl and Ginger—” I turned to Greg, “—the delivery drivers who spent a few hours on Guardado’s estate while the trailer was being loaded — this afternoon. Karl was concerned enough to call and tell me.”

  A wide smile spread across Greg’s face. “The FBI has your phone number too, so if they were really worried, they would have called you themselves.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded. “The shipment’s destination wasn’t a secret.” I bit my lip and held back the information about the possible tail Ginger had spotted. No need to worry my helpers unnecessarily.

  “What do you think, Frankie?” Greg winked at her. “Dead bodies?” He jabbed the crowbar under the lid of the closest crate.

  “Don’t you even hint—” Frankie shuddered and poked him in the side. “I don’t need that kind of excitement.”

  “Just be careful,” I hollered over the squealing protest of wood and nails being pulled asunder.

  It was a completely unnecessary warning, but I couldn’t help myself — it was as much for my benefit as for Greg’s. My fingers were tingling with anticipation, and the chills I usually get right before diving into the unknown of a brand new collection coursed down my spine. Far and away the very best part of my job.

  My enthusiasm dimmed somewhat when it became apparent — quickly — that there were inner cartons inside the inner cartons. Kind of like that practical joke where a gift is wrapped inside a box, then that box in enclosed inside another box, ad nauseam.

  “Phew.” Greg stopped to wipe sweat from his brow with his forearm. “Museum curating can’t be classified as a cushy job.”

  “Now you know how I keep my girlish figure,” I replied, dragging packing material toward the door. Frankie gave me and the pile of cardboard, bubble wrap and wadded paper a helpful shove up the ramp. We were both huffing by the time we reached the top.

  “I’ll call Waste Connections, see if they’ll pick up the dumpsters early this month,” Frankie wheezed.

  The recycling dumpster was already overflowing, and she started a third tidy stack of flattened cardboard beside it while I practiced my javelin skills by pitching non-recyclables over the side of the thirty-yard main dumpster. Just two girls having a good time. My shirt stuck to my back, and I’m sure I looked as though I was about to collapse at a marathon finish line.

  The construction worker from earlier — the guy in the yellow hard hat with bulging muscles — strolled by with the pressure washer again. That’s one way to appear busy — do laps around the building in the company of a piece of equipment. He gawked long enough that I was tempted to ask him to hose us off, but that probably wouldn’t go over really well with Pete — or Henry for that matter.

  I snorted at the idea. The guy irritated me. But everyone I didn’t know well seemed to be irritating me lately. I chalked it up to the heat and stress. Besides, isn’t that what construction workers do — gawk? I scowled at his back as he rounded the corner.

  “Do you know him?” Frankie’s brow furrowed as she shaded her eyes.

  “Nope. Maybe he thinks we’re cute.”

  “Then I feel sorry for him.”

  I g
iggled. Frankie didn’t look any better than I felt — damp spots darkened her blouse under her arms, and her normally pristine hair was definitely lopsided, although the hair spray was holding up remarkably.

  “I think I just lost ten pounds,” Frankie huffed. “Ready for brownies?”

  “Always.”

  Rupert, his scenting ability showing signs of being able to rival Tuppence’s, joined us for our mid-afternoon snack. He greeted Greg with enthusiasm and regaled us with tales of his most recent treasure-hunting excursion to Brussels. I hope I have his energy and zest for life when I’m his age.

  Three brownies later, he disappeared upstairs again to participate in a conference call about a tour for a Great Plains Native American collection that might, just might, include a few private museums like the Imogene on the roster. If anyone could convince them to schedule such a rare sighting in our remote location, it was Rupert. In fact, Frankie and I would plan another fundraiser around the event if he bagged it.

  We returned to the enormous project at hand. I was already dreading how my muscles would feel tomorrow, but I was enjoying the company of two very good friends. I’d forgotten how Greg brought lightheartedness to the work. He’d filled out physically in the six months or so since I’d seen him — now that he wasn’t a starving grad student — and he seemed more mature, more professional, but he was still my favorite smart aleck.

  A weird kind of rapid monotony permeated my actions. Unpacking is unpacking, regardless of the contents. I pushed hard — the sooner we could get the shipment down to essentials and identify exactly what we had, the sooner I could make the appropriate arrangements for security and display.

  Even moving the artifacts deeper into the museum and away from the basement door would increase my peace of mind. Probably not a rational feeling, but I’d take what comfort I could get. Plus, Karl and Ginger’s report of a possible chaser car nagged around the fringes of my thoughts.

  We were slowly accumulating neat rows of polished wood boxes on the transit carts — boxes assembled with almost more screws than wood — ranging from teacup size to footlocker size. Guardado had spared no expense in the travel arrangements for his artifacts. I examined every piece of packing material before it went out the door to the dumpsters to make sure we weren’t throwing away anything valuable with the trash.

  Maybe I was trying to draw out the anticipation a bit longer. Maybe I was just being practical, but I had a burning desire to clear every non-vital item out of the documenting station before examining the first relic. I do like to be neat and organized, although you wouldn’t know it from the condition of my office.

  The truth was I was terrified of making a mistake with such a valuable collection and wanted to reduce all possibilities of doing so that were under my control. It’s too easy to miss something important, especially from a shipment this large, when working in a cramped, cluttered space.

  “So this is what all the fuss has been about.” Sheriff Marge sidled around a pile of cardboard half blocking the basement door and eased into the standing-room only area near the transit carts.

  “Doesn’t look like much yet.” I propped my hands on my hips and scowled at the lineup of boxes. “Or anything at all, really.”

  “It will soon, if I know you. But I mainly stopped by to see this fellow.” Sheriff Marge slapped Greg on the back. “Saw your Prius in the parking lot and was glad you just couldn’t resist.” Her steel gray eyes had a slight twinkle in them. “You know we’re all conniving to get you and Lindsay to move back here once you’ve settled the minor issues of schooling and marriage.”

  Greg flushed pinker than the hue he’d taken on from the exertion — he still had a few nerdy, schoolboy mannerisms — and shoved his glasses up on his nose. They slipped right back down again since he had as much of a sweaty sheen as the rest of us. “Yeah, well, first things first,” he muttered.

  “I don’t know what it is with you young people,” Sheriff Marge quirked an eyebrow at me, “—and not so young people.” Frankie was the next recipient of the no-nonsense glare. Sheriff Marge sniffed. “And your reluctance to settle down.”

  I bit back a grin as Frankie colored into the magenta range and pursed her lips. Apparently someone else — someone in khaki — had also noticed Henry Parker’s pointed attentions lately.

  “The sooner the better, I say. I like a nice, peaceful, quiet county. Married folks tend to stay home and not get into trouble,” Sheriff Marge finished.

  I laughed. “Are you kidding? Your favorite thing is a good car chase.”

  “These days I’m just driving around looking for smoke.” Sheriff Marge grunted. “We’re lucky if we go twenty-four hours without a flare-up somewhere. Good news is the wildfire upriver is about 65% contained. If the winds don’t pick up, we should be looking at just hot spot monitoring by next weekend. That’d be a relief. Those are DNR crews, getting paid. But Bob and his volunteers are exhausted too. Don’t know how they’re keeping up with their day jobs with the fire epidemic we’ve been facing.”

  Greg nodded. “I’m staying out on the farm with Lindsay’s parents. They were telling me some of the fires are suspicious.”

  Sheriff Marge heaved a sigh. “Lily, the arson dog, confirmed it. ‘Course, the lab will have to verify, but yeah. Guess it’s too late to keep the word from traveling now.”

  “On a more cheerful note,” I said, “the FBI is sniffing around this shipment.” I waved my hand to encompass the mess surrounding us.

  Sheriff Marge’s eyes narrowed behind her reading glasses. I’d managed to distract her. What does a worrier like best, but more things to worry about? I filled her in on the part of Karl and Ginger’s conversation I’d already shared with Greg and Frankie. It didn’t sound any better the second time around. The more eyes keeping watch, the better I’d feel.

  “Huh. All about scraps of pottery?” she muttered.

  “Really old pottery,” Greg amended. “Plus statuary, functional items like vases and bowls, some tools, if the list is correct.”

  “You mean you haven’t actually seen any of the pieces yet?” She glared at me, then gave a short nod. “All right. I get it. By the book. But let’s have a peek before you wrap up for the night.”

  A wide grin spread across Greg’s face, and he pointed at one of the smaller boxes. “This one.” At my arched brow question, he continued, “It thunked a bit when I unpacked it, and it’s heavy for its size. I’d like to check for damage.”

  Frankie adjusted one of our long-armed lamps for better illumination, and we clustered around Greg as he began the arduous task of removing all the screws. We must have looked like a batch of medical interns observing a delicate surgical procedure.

  Sheriff Marge’s phone rang, and she backed out of the circle. It turned out her conversation was much more interesting than watching Greg crank the screwdriver.

  “Now, Beryl,” Sheriff Marge said. “Yeah — uh-huh. Now, Beryl—”

  The caller’s excited voice carried enough that I could tell she was talking non-stop.

  “Calm down, now. Uh-huh.” Sheriff Marge’s voice became gruff, and she blurted over the incessant voice, “Why were you in the woods? Beryl, we’ve talked about this. He has every right — well, it’s his property — were you wearing shoes?”

  Frankie wrinkled her nose and shared an amused glance with me. Even Greg paused for a second and adjusted his glasses. I could tell by the way his jaw flexed that he was holding back on a ripe comment.

  “How do you know it was gasoline?” Sheriff Marge continued. “Lots of good reasons to have gasoline on a farm. In what way did you threaten you?” She picked at some packing tape stuck to the side of a crate, her back stiff with irritation. “Yep. You want me to call your daughter? Well then you have to stay home. You have plenty of your own property. You can tromp through that all you want.”

  The voice prattled on for several minutes.

  Finally, Sheriff Marge interrupted. “All right. I’ll come out. But
you’d better be on your front porch because I’m not gonna search for you, Beryl. Then you can give me your statement.”

  When Sheriff Marge turned around, the three of us ducked over the box, pretending we’d been so intent upon the loosening screws that we hadn’t heard a peep.

  “I gotta go,” Sheriff Marge sighed. “Beryl Triplett’s having a meltdown.” She glanced at her watch. “’Bout time, I guess. Think it’s been a couple months since the last one.”

  Frankie tipped her head, a worry dent appearing between her brows. “Beryl Triplett? Isn’t she a neighbor of Henry’s?”

  “Yep. But she likes Henry all right. The neighbor on the other side, however, has a problem with a ninety-year-old nude woman marching through his vegetable patch. Beryl likes to experience nature in her natural state, wanders around without much on, including her glasses, and invariably ends up on that particular neighbor’s property. This time he caught her while he happened to have a gas can in his hand — been mowing his lawn, I expect. Anyway, she’s convinced he’s going to burn down her house in revenge. These arson rumors have everyone on edge, including old Beryl.”

  I couldn’t help it — I giggled.

  Sheriff Marge scowled. “You know what I said about liking things nice and quite and peaceful?” She shook her head. “I need a vacation.”

  I frowned, but held my tongue. It was the first time since I’ve known Sheriff Marge that she expressed less than satisfaction with her job. She had to be tired, not just from her long hours and stressful responsibilities, but from the duration of being the county’s main law enforcer for the past seventeen years. She never got a break, even when she wasn’t officially on duty. We — all of us — did exactly what Beryl had just done, called Sheriff Marge with our problems, whether personal or criminal or indeterminate.

  Sheriff Marge elbowed into our tight group. “Well? Let’s see it. Wouldn’t hurt Beryl to cool her heels for a few more minutes.”