Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6)

by Jerusha Jones

  “Amazing,” Rupert muttered, his eyes glittering. “Absolutely amazing. My opinion of Mr. Guardado just improved.”

  I leaned on the end of a cart, my body ready to collapse. “Looks like the guns and ammo were an afterthought, at the end of his packing. Only a few of the crates were co-mingled.”

  “Maybe he had other plans for disposing of the weapons, and they fell through at the last minute,” Pete said. “They’re not the kind of thing to leave behind unprotected if he was fleeing the country.”

  “How much do you think they’re worth?” Greg asked.

  Rupert pulled out a huge handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck. “The weapons aren’t in my area of expertise, but the collection is off the charts. I’d be afraid to put an estimate on it. Lloyd’s of London will do that for us.”

  “Speaking of which,” I pushed to standing, “I don’t want the artifacts just sitting here for the FBI to ogle when they show up. How about the laundry room?”

  “Good idea, my dear. As far out of sight as possible.” Rupert adopted the position of traffic cop, and we rolled carts down the long center aisle of the basement to the far end where an industrial laundry room jutted off at a right angle. Greg and Pete shoved the big tables originally meant for folding piles of laundry to the side. We parked the carts bumper to bumper and went back for more.

  My phone rang, and I stepped out of line.

  “What’s with the swarms of people and police tape?” a male voice asked. “You didn’t make a media announcement, did you?”

  “Agent Simmons,” I tried to make my voice sweet and innocent. If he knew there was police tape, then he was already here. So much for advance notice. “I’ll meet you at the front doors and explain.”

  I squeezed Frankie’s arm as she walked by and gave her the signal to hurry.

  As I tore up the basement stairs, I dialed Sheriff Marge. “FBI’s here,” I panted.

  “Yep. Just spotted them. I don’t want them messing with my murder investigation. Keep them busy.”

  I stumbled to a halt in the ballroom next to a display case filled with miniature cannons. A red-haired man who was wearing a dark suit on this impossibly hot day had his hands cupped against the greenish glass of the front door, trying to see inside. I ducked behind the display case, hoping I hadn’t caught his notice. My fingers which had been cramped around the phone were suddenly slippery with sweat.

  “Murder?” I croaked.

  “Pretty sure.” Sheriff Marge said gruffly. “I’ll come see you later. We’ll be taking statements for the next few hours.” She hung up.

  I stared at the phone for a minute, my chest heaving. Then I squeezed my eyes shut. Compartmentalize — I had to separate the horrible things or I wouldn’t be able to function.

  I gulped several deep breaths and straightened. In this case, I think both Pete and my mother would agree — it was time to be charming.

  CHAPTER 16

  The problem is, I don’t do charming particularly well. Especially not when I’m dealing with an officious and slightly put out bureaucrat.

  I’d have felt better if the FBI team had come in their SWAT gear. Although, to their credit, only two of them were actually in suits. The rest were in what is best described as business casual.

  Agent Simmons visibly relaxed once I explained that since Sockeye County doesn’t even have a weekly newspaper let alone a television station, there was no way I could possibly have held a press conference. I took my time greeting each of his compatriots and collecting their business cards. I dismissed the flurry of activity outside as the response to an unfortunate construction accident.

  I neglected to inform them about the arson, knowing that as soon as the FBI agents saw the charred rubble behind the building — which they would, undoubtedly, and soon enough — they’d come unglued. I needed them calm and unhurried as long as possible.

  So I launched into a detailed explanation of the repairs being done on the Imogene’s foundation, which was to our benefit for the time being because it kept visitors out of the way. We wouldn’t want innocent tourists stumbling upon an illegal arms shipment, would we? I smiled.

  Agent Simmons pursed his lips in a way that drew down his entire face and flattened his furry eyebrows into a single line, and I knew I’d pushed his patience to the limit. I led them slowly across the oak parquet floor of the ballroom and down the creaky stairs to the basement.

  My crew — staff and volunteers both — were doing an amazing job of appearing nonchalant. They’d switched off all the overhead lights, leaving only the spotlights we use for document photos which they had aimed dramatically at the stacks of gun parts. While the weapons were certainly the highlight of this show, the focused lighting actually served to hide what wasn’t in the light, namely everything else tucked away in the basement. I shook my head in silent admiration of their theatrical approach to the problem.

  Rupert and Greg were hunkered in a corner with the laptop, quietly bickering about the exact parameters of the early, intermediate and late subdivisions of the Bronze Age. No one agrees about these things, so they could discuss the matter forever without resolution and seemed prepared to do so.

  Pete and Frankie were taking a detailed inventory under the lights. Frankie had a clipboard propped on her hip, a pen in her hand and a look of frowning concentration on her face. Pete was counting, cotton gloves protecting the weapons from his fingerprints, and calling out tallies by gun part, which Frankie dutifully recorded in long columns.

  The FBI was going to have to do that same thing — count the items into evidence. Might as well save them the trouble. In many ways, law enforcement isn’t that much different from museum curating — determining and protecting provenance is of utmost importance. I ducked my head to hide my grin.

  I think the size of the weapons stash shocked the FBI team. They stood there, jaws slack, eyes roaming, taking in the scene. With a few quiet commands, Agent Simmons set his team to work. They all donned gloves. Two of the agents took over for Pete and Frankie.

  Agent Simmons leaned near and murmured, “I need to talk with you, preferably privately, but all these people—” he gestured vaguely around the room, “I presume they realize—?”

  “We document artifacts for a living. Nothing excites us more than a good historical goose chase,” I replied. “Yes, we all know exactly what’s in those crates. So do Sheriff Marge Stettler and her deputies. But I think we’ve kept a lid on it beyond that — so far.”

  Poor guy. I had a feeling Agent Simmons would be unable to wrap his official, form-filling-out mind around the rapidity and reach of Sockeye County’s vibrant rumor network. At least he realized it could be his worst enemy.

  Agent Simmons sighed. “Got a place we can talk? All of us?”

  We trooped upstairs to the museum’s big kitchen, and I started a large pot of industrial-strength coffee. The agents in the basement would be counting for a long time — they’d surely need refills.

  We settled around the lunch table, perched on metal folding chairs. The chairs were not designed for comfort, but I hardly noticed, it felt so good to finally sit down. Pete scooted close, and I leaned against his shoulder.

  Agent Simmons assumed position at the head of the table, took a noisy slurp of the coffee, grimaced, then scanned our faces. His hair was grayer than last time I’d seen him, his body slumped. No doubt, the kind of message I’d left for him never came at a convenient time, and I wasn’t the only one leaving those messages. A career responding to other people’s crises could make a man tired — a deep, ingrained weariness that became part of his psyche. He had a gold band on his left ring finger. I wondered how often he got to see his wife.

  “Well, all in all,” Agent Simmons began, “thanks for handling this the way you did. It’s not every day an arms shipment shows up at a museum. Your discretion may enable us catch the intended recipient. I’ll answer any questions I can. In exchange, we need your continued silence in the community,” he waved h
is hand, encompassing the rest of Sockeye County and beyond, “and your help to run a sting operation.”

  Frankie gasped. She started twirling the bracelet on her wrist.

  I reached over and laid a hand on hers, giving her a little squeeze. “How about a timeline?” I asked. “Where the weapons came from, where they were going. The players — so we know what we’re getting into?”

  “Fair enough.” Agent Simmons shifted forward on his seat and propped his elbows on the table, tenting his hands over his Styrofoam cup. “Silas Guardado, your benefactor, is the middleman. I assume you also received a collection of Near East artifacts?”

  I glanced at Rupert who gave reluctant nod, his cheeks blotchy red as though he’d just pinched them.

  A faint smile drifted across Agent Simmons’s face. “The New York office listened to your negotiations with Guardado with interest. They’ve had his phone tapped for some time. Sounds like a magnificent collection, and better in your hands than his, I’ll wager.”

  “Thank you,” Rupert muttered.

  “I also noticed there weren’t any old bits of pottery lying about in the basement.” Agent Simmons peered at us from under his bushy brows. “I’m content to tell my superiors that the collection is being analyzed by experts. On site, of course. I assume that the less often the items are moved, the better for their condition. They’re fragile, yes?”

  “Absolutely.” I grinned at him. I was starting to like Agent Simmons. He was willing to understand what really mattered, at least in my world.

  “Back to Guardado,” Rupert grunted, scowling. The fact that he’d been deceived by a donor, a fellow art-lover, was really irritating him.

  “Collecting the way he does allows him to travel all over the world, especially to parts of the world the US government often issues travel warnings about, if you get my meaning,” Agent Simmons said. “Terrorist groups are not above pillaging their region’s historical and cultural artifacts in order to fund their activities. Men like Guardado make their efforts profitable. Then he saw an opportunity and decided to get into the trade himself — the other trade.”

  “He was leaving the country,” Rupert said, opening and closing his hands into big fists.

  “And we let him. He doesn’t care who his customers are as long as they can pay. Consequently, he’s wanted by the intelligence services of several countries. We agreed he’s more valuable to us if he’s free to conduct business. Someone tipped him off here in the US, which is worrying. So now he’s under the watchful eye of the Austrian BVT — their equivalent to a combo of the FBI and CIA, responsible for counterterrorism and investigating organized crime. They have a team of undercover agents enjoying treatments right alongside Guardado at that wacky spa. In the meantime, we’re tracking who he’s haggling with while in his bathrobe on the edge of the Alps.”

  An annoying beeping penetrated the Imogene’s thick walls, then the bright yellow cab of a backhoe jounced past the kitchen window in reverse, Scott, stony-faced behind wraparound sunglasses, at the controls. He was jockeying the machine into place and didn’t seem to notice that he was about eye level with a motley conference in progress a few feet away on the other side of the window.

  I shot to my feet. How could I have forgotten? The hole Quincy had fallen into was almost directly outside the kitchen. Sheriff Marge was probably having Scott set up so they could hoist the body out.

  I darted to the window and yanked down the shade, plunging the room into gloomy grayness.

  Pete tipped back in his chair and flipped on the switch for the overhead light.

  All eyes in the kitchen rotated to me. It didn’t seem appropriate to tell them I was trying to spare them the grotesque sight of a dead man swinging by the window in a jury-rigged rope harness. My stomach wouldn’t stop churning. I pressed my hands hard against my middle.

  Pete patted the seat of the chair I’d just vacated.

  I eased back into it, carefully exhaling the breath I’d been holding. “Sorry. Privacy,” I muttered.

  Pete rested his arm on the back of my chair and clamped my shoulder with a warm hand. He knew. Of course, he knew. I gripped his knee under the table.

  I watched Agent Simmons’s eyebrows for signs of what he was thinking. They slowly descended from their arched position, settled into more natural curves as he filled the interval with another slurp of coffee. Those wiry hairs were almost like antennae. I wondered if he could sense deception with them.

  “The weapons have serial numbers,” Pete said, breaking the awkward pause.

  Agent Simmons nodded. “Guardado’s made a name for himself in the business. He guarantees quality, and for that he demands, and gets, higher prices. The serial numbers are left intact to prove origin and date of manufacture — to show that he hasn’t swapped used, cheap Romanian models that are known to jam and misfire for Bulgarian guns with milled receivers, for example. It’s a risky move on his part, but so far his distribution has been secure enough to allow for it.”

  Agent Simmons’s face tightened into a small smile of satisfaction. “The pressure we’ve been applying finally took its toll. He made a mistake this time. We think he was stuck with a surplus from his last deal, didn’t have a good place to store the weapons and needed to unload them in a hurry to cover his tracks, so he dumped them in the shipment to you. Based on his phone calls, he may have been trying to find a buyer while the load was in transit, planning to steal his own guns back.”

  “So now he knows the guns are in our basement,” Rupert said. “We’re sitting ducks.”

  “It’s not hard to track a freight shipment.” Pete returned the airborne legs of his chair to the floor with a thud. “All the potential clients Guardado contacted could also know where the guns are. They might decide to help themselves to the weapons without the services of a middleman since they’re not under his control any more. Sounds like the guns are up for grabs — first come, first serve.”

  “Exactly. We’d like to give it a few days and see who shows up.”

  I gripped the edge of the table. “Guarded, right? Surveillance?”

  Agent Simmons nodded. “We won’t actually leave all the guns here. It’s too bad you don’t have a loading dock. That part is going to be challenging. We’ll leave the crates, weighted and with just enough guns on top to make them interesting. We’ll use covert teams to keep round-the-clock watch. They’re already on the way here since we’re counting on you to say yes — and since we’re nowhere near a major airport. They’re flying into Portland, then they’ll hit the road.” Agent Simmons checked his watch. “The first team should arrive around 7:00 tonight.”

  A grin was slowly spreading across my face. I couldn’t think of a better way to protect the Near East Bronze Age collection than men in black. They’d be watching the whole museum as well as the dummied-up arms shipment.

  “I know a way you can move the guns out without arousing too much suspicion,” I said, “but you’d have to bring one more person in on this deal. I’ll vouch for his trustworthiness, if that counts?”

  Agent Simmons shrugged.

  “You also need to talk to Sheriff Marge about a couple guys in a maroon Taurus,” I continued. “They were spotted in town yesterday.”

  “Advance scouts. I wonder what rebel army is coming,” Frankie murmured.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was Sheriff Marge who ended up crashing our party with an impatient phone call.

  “The Feds still hassling you?” she blurted when I answered.

  “Collaborating,” I whispered as I ducked out of the kitchen.

  “Huh. I need to talk to the lead agent.”

  “We’ve battened down the hatches,” I said. “Meet me at the front doors, and I’ll let you in.”

  But before I led Sheriff Marge back to the enclave in the kitchen, I grilled her for details about the investigation outside. I figured she wouldn’t want to spout the fragments of evidence they’d collected in front of the FBI until she and her deputies had
had time to connect the dots and draw a few working hypotheses.

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  “Quincy’s still dead, if that’s what you mean.”

  I glared at her.

  Sheriff Marge sighed and removed her Stratton hat which she tapped against the side of her leg. “We might be wrapping up the arson investigations, though. Quincy was on Bob’s suspect list. Found an almost empty bottle of charcoal lighter fluid under the body.”

  “Quincy was a volunteer firefighter.” I frowned.

  “Bob’s pretty shook up about it. But with so much territory to cover, the fire department accepts just about anyone unless they have a medical condition that would prevent them from serving. The fire district does background checks before approving new volunteers, and Quincy came up clean.”

  Sheriff Marge squinted toward the glass front doors, watching Archie and Scott as they inspected the machinery parked in front of the museum, before continuing, “Being a firefighter gave Quincy the proximity to appreciate his handiwork if he was the arsonist. Happens sometimes — if someone’s fascinated by fire, they can take one of two routes — dedicate themselves to putting out fires or to starting fires. Occasionally someone will do both. There’s also evidence that Quincy’s business picked up because the fires scared people into buying greater insurance coverage.”

  “But charcoal lighter fluid wasn’t used at any of the other arsons, especially not in this quantity.”

  Sheriff Marge nodded. “One of the pieces that doesn’t fit. Not sure what to make of that yet.”

  “And you don’t think Quincy just fell into the hole, accidentally?” I crossed my arms over my middle and leaned against the wall beside the glass-fronted cabinet holding the fire extinguisher we’re required to have available to public access. A lot of good that would do against a thorough dousing of lighter fluid. I was just glad Quincy hadn’t been inside the Imogene when he got match-happy.