“Couple things.” Sheriff Marge polished the badge on the front of her hat with a stubby finger. “Scott has safety logs. He and Will both noted that all the steel plates were in place over the holes before they left the site last night. Now, they could be lying and have fudged the records, but Scott has a good reputation. Dale and Owen are interviewing all the other workers separately, just to see if they have complaints about how safety measures were enforced or saw anything last night.” She jammed the hat back on her head. “Quincy’s injuries seem too severe for just a fall of that distance. We’re gonna have to wait for the autopsy.”
“What kind of injuries?”
“He’s pretty messed up, as you saw. I’m interested in his bruises, which I can’t distinguish from the livor mortis. Glad that’s the medical examiner’s job — I don’t have the stomach for it.”
“Has anyone seen the maroon Taurus with Florida plates today?” I asked.
Sheriff Marge scowled. “We’ve been here most of the day. Why?”
“I’m wondering if Quincy encountered the scouts who were tracing our arms shipment lurking around the museum in the dark. It would have been an unpleasant surprise for both parties.”
Sheriff Marge snorted.
“If there’s any good news in all of this, you’ll have backup soon — a lot more FBI agents are arriving tonight. And there’s coffee in the kitchen.”
“You make it?” Sheriff Marge asked.
“Is that important?” I cast a sidelong glance at her.
“Maybe I’m going to need to stay up all night anyway.”
oOo
While Agent Simmons and Sheriff Marge haggled over operational details, I placed a call to my favorite tavern owner. Mac MacDougal also happens to be the master craftsman who designs and builds specialized display cabinets for the Imogene’s collections.
“You tired of Pete yet?” Mac answered. “’Cause I’m ready whenever you are.”
It took me a moment to find my tongue. Of course, Mac was joking. “You’d break Val’s heart,” I replied.
“I know. She’s something, isn’t she? I need to talk to Pete about where to pick up a ring.”
Considering that the first time I met Val she’d almost clocked me with a can of chili, I’d agree she was a firecracker. I grinned. “Yes, you do. And hurry up about it. But in the meantime, I need your help.”
“Anything for you.”
“You should probably hear the details on this one before you commit. I have a basement full of FBI agents, and you’re sworn to secrecy.”
Mac roared, a full-bellied laugh. Then he stopped abruptly and held his breath for a long second. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Bring your step van and a couple of those extra display cases you always having sitting around. We’re going to play a shell game.”
When I returned to the kitchen, it was empty. Abandoned Styrofoam cups littered the table, and the chairs sat at odd angles, wherever they’d been shoved out of the way. I couldn’t help doing a little straightening before rushing downstairs.
I found the manual labor being performed by two distinct groups. The FBI didn’t want us to touch the guns. Kind of funny considering what we’d been doing before they arrived, but I figured it was better not to ruffle the federal feathers.
So the Imogene contingent was busy selecting broken display cases and old furniture that could be loaded into Mac’s step van. The key criteria for the items’ conscription was the fact that I never wanted to see the piece again and each needed to had a cavity or some other way to conceal weapons parts.
Pete pulled me aside. “Sheriff Marge told me to tell you she’ll be back. They decided that a homicide investigation outside might deter any gun runners from taking a look around the Imogene, so she’s wrapping up the scene as fast as she can.” Then he leaned near my ear. “She mentioned she thinks Quincy was murdered, but she doesn’t want the others to know yet. Said they have enough to worry about as it is. But Babe—” His face was drawn, worried.
“I’ll fill you in later,” I murmured. “Isn’t that what pillow talk is for?”
Pete grunted and gave me a quick squeeze. “Not usually.”
Once he had a handle on the potential threats and a plan to implement, Agent Simmons turned out to be quite magnanimous, and we all worked in amicable, if hurried, silence. By the time Mac banged on the basement door, we had a long queue of boxy cases and cabinets loaded and ready to roll.
“Wheweee,” Mac blurted when I opened the door. “You need a few hot dogs to go with your charcoal? What happened?”
I pulled Mac inside and slammed the door.
“Just another arson,” I muttered. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about it yet.”
“Truth be told, your call woke me up.” Mac looked sheepish. “Had a late night last night.”
Mac always has late nights — or rather, late early mornings — since he runs a tavern. I patted his shoulder by way of apology.
Agent Simmons has mastered the art of dead-serious, intimidating, do-your-duty, patriotic persuasion. Mac alternately turned white at the gravity of the message, flushed pink with belligerence when his ability to keep a confidence was questioned, and ended the session with vigorous nodding, a flatly determined look on his scruffy face.
“I’m in,” Mac said. “My pole barn’s at your disposal. You understand I have to open the tavern tonight since we haven’t been closed one day since I bought the place ten years ago. You want to get tongues wagging about nothing, that’d be the way to do it. But I can get Jamie to fill in for me tending bar. If the guards stay out of sight, nobody will know the difference.”
Mac’s pole barn, located directly behind the tavern, served as both his home and his workshop. He slept in a cramped loft while his table saw, band saw, drill press, etc., received the best accommodations, widely spaced on the concrete slab floor to allow for maneuvering long boards. But they could be consolidated to make space for unexpected guests.
“When does the tavern open?” Agent Simmons asked.
“Happy hour starts at 4:00. Won’t get a crowd until after 6:00. But we’ll have a full house tonight since there’s a NFL preseason game. Folks have gone all summer without football, and they’re mighty hungry for some action.” Mac’s pale blue eyes strayed over the stacks of gun parts that we hadn’t hidden in furniture yet. “We’d better get moving.”
From the outside, Mac’s step van backed up to the ramp to the basement door appeared as though the Imogene was receiving one of our regular deliveries of display cases, and that I was sending out other items for repair. This kind of transfer happened at least monthly — nothing out of the ordinary, just business as usual at the museum.
The fact that Mac would have to make several trips would be abnormal, so we’d just have to hope no one was paying attention to how many times he came and went. Having the Imogene’s grounds bustling with hardworking sheriff’s deputies was particularly helpful at this juncture. No criminals were likely to be lurking around, observing.
On the outbound leg, a few incognito FBI agents rode shotgun with Mac — one in the passenger seat and two in the rear cargo area with the disguised weapons. They would stay at the pole barn and secure it while he returned for another load. An entire team of agents would be camping out at his place tonight until they could arrange adequate transport for the weapons cache.
I felt as though I’d packed and moved half a dozen households by the time we finished. Under Agent Simmons’s direction, we reaffixed lids to empty cases and left them strewn in haphazard piles in the documenting area. Closest to the door, a couple cases with loose lids held gun parts and ammo — easily available to a thief who cared to do a little spot-checking. I locked the basement door, but didn’t bolt it. Agent Simmons wanted access to the museum to be easy, but not too easy — to take a little time, but not too long — enough for the surveillance teams to verify
an intruder’s intent and respond.
“There’s no need for additional destruction of property,” he said as he gazed across the charred area between the twisted remnants of the two dumpsters. “You all have a good night. We’ll see you in the morning.” He held out his hand, and I dropped the Imogene’s keys into his palm.
I felt naked without the keys. What was I going to do with myself for a whole evening? I don’t normally work in the museum at night, but knowing that I couldn’t — or that if I tried, I’d be knocked flat on the ground and handcuffed by a SWAT team before questions were asked — left a big blank space in my brain.
“I’m not keen to sit at home and worry. Besides, I think Mac deserves our business,” Rupert said. “I’m buying. See you at the Sidetrack in an hour?” He turned to Frankie with a wink. “Bring your young man. It’s about time you made this official.”
Frankie flushed and fumbled with her bracelet while we all grinned at her.
“You’re on,” Greg pulled off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his shirt. “But I’m warning you — once I sit, I won’t be able to move a muscle, except to lift a glass to my lips.”
CHAPTER 18
Tuppence was wildly ecstatic when we returned to the trailer. Poor, neglected, lonesome dog. I chased her around the campsite while Pete took his turn cleaning up in the fifth-wheel’s built-for-less-than-one-full-sized-adult bathroom.
Then Pete jogged over to check on the Tinsleys while I made myself presentable. Tuppence crowded around my calves as I swiped on mascara, her woeful brown eyes melting my heart and making me feel immensely guilty.
“What am I going to do with you?” I tousled her ears. “Maybe Harriet can babysit you tonight.”
Tuppence licked her chops.
“Yeah, I know. She gives you far too many treats. Just remember your sensitive stomach, okay? Go easy on the goodies.”
Comfortably cool for the first time in weeks and my hair still a little damp from the shower, I locked the trailer and strode across the lawn toward the Tinsleys’ farmhouse, a happy hound on my heels.
Herb, Harriet and Pete stood in a bunch near Harriet’s vegetable patch. Pete’s laugh carried on the breeze, bringing a smile to my lips. Herb’s wispy hair stirred, the white strands flashing brilliant as though lit on fire by the setting sun. Harriet held the corners of her ruffled apron, creating a hammock for a pile of ripe tomatoes. As Tuppence ran ahead and joined them, the scene was framed forever in my memory. These people I love so dearly. I blinked back tears.
Pete scooped an arm around my waist and pulled me into the conversation. “Harriet’s putting up preserves for us. Would you rather the extra tomatoes go into salsa or barbecue sauce?” he murmured into my ear.
“Both,” I replied, smiling into Harriet’s bright blue eyes. “But only if you promise to come help us eat them.”
“We’re picking out a few pieces of furniture to take with us to our new apartment,” Herb said. “But we’re going to leave most here — won’t have the space. We don’t want you to feel obligated, though. Please get rid of whatever you don’t want.”
I glanced up at Pete. I’d moved enough furniture today to not want to see another piece for the next decade.
“We’ll worry about that later,” Pete said. “We’re so grateful for your generosity. We can’t even start to quantify—” His voice choked as he waved his hand, trying — and failing — to grasp the wealth of their gift to us.
Harriet bounced on her toes. “You two go on now. Enjoy your night out.” She whistled for Tuppence, and my dog trotted after her, tail swishing in lopsided cadence.
We drove to the Sidetrack Tavern with the pickup’s windows closed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been content without air conditioning of either the natural or manufactured variety.
I stuck my nose into the little hollow above Pete’s collarbone and inhaled. “You smell good.”
Pete chuckled. “As opposed to the past twenty-four hours, when I didn’t?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t know how you do it. The Barbasol I understand, but how do you smell like licorice? And especially the dusty wheat. You haven’t been on the Surely for a couple days.”
“I had no idea I was so fragrant.” Pete grinned down at me. “I hope it’s acceptable.”
“Most definitely.”
As Mac had predicted, the Sidetrack’s parking lot was nearly full when we arrived. Pete drove to an open area at the far reaches of the gravel lot where we had a good view of Mac’s pole barn.
Lights out, doors sealed — the building appeared unoccupied and boring, just like the hundreds of other pole barns in Sockeye County which are mostly used for storing off-season farm equipment and miscellaneous junk. Nothing about the barn’s exterior indicated the tense vigilance buzzing inside. The building’s blankly inactive aura seemed more ominous than the mad rush we’d engaged in earlier at the Imogene.
Rupert and Greg had commandeered a pushed-together group of round tables. They sat, one at each end, staking their claim with drinks in hand. Pete and I squeezed around Rupert and pulled up chairs in the middle.
“I love this town.” Greg propped his elbows on the wobbly table and leaned close for a semi-confidential revelation. “I’ve been here ten minutes, and I already know the high school football team’s prospects for this year, who’s going to be elected to the state legislature in November and that Ralph Moses, the pharmacist, has his eye on my former landlady, Betty Jenkins.” A wide grin creased his face. “It feels like home.”
“Because you’ve been well and soundly adopted. There’s no escaping now.” I lifted my tall iced tea and toasted him. “I forgot I was supposed to lend my considerable persuasive talents to the Ralph and Betty issue. Is she here?” I scanned the room, but there were so many bodies that it was hard to pick out individuals.
“Not sure. I got the information from Dale.” Greg pointed to Deputy Dale Larson who was holding up one end of the bar, deep in conversation with a rancher dressed in a leather vest and dirty jeans with his work gloves tucked in the back pocket. There is no need to dress up for a night on the town in Platts Landing.
The door was constantly swinging, a steady stream of patrons entering. I spotted a familiar flashy lime green jacket merge into the milling crowd and waved. Frankie fairly sparkled. She and Henry waded through the now standing-room-only arrivals.
“Whew,” Frankie said as she plopped into the chair next to Greg.
Henry shook hands all around and slid in next to her. “I’m really sorry about your troubles at the museum today. Seems nobody’s immune these days, but havin’ this little lady so close to danger is a heap of worry for me.” He squeezed Frankie around the shoulders and planted a smackeroo kiss on her cheek.
“Oh, phoo.” Frankie gave him a little shove and turned bright red.
I ducked my head to hide a grin. Henry would do a just fine. I’d known that before, of course, but it was wonderful to see him be so public about his affection for Frankie. Plus he needed to ward off a whole host of other potential suitors. Frankie had been attracting a lot of attention from the lonely farmer set since she arrived in Platts Landing. The Sidetrack was an excellent location to make their relationship obvious. I shared a wink with Rupert for his brilliant idea to invite Henry.
The noise level rose to the point that we had to wedge together, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, or else resort to shouting at each other in order to be heard. A tall man in a construction orange t-shirt loomed in my peripheral vision.
“Okay if I join you?” Scott swiped a recently vacated chair from an adjacent table.
We all nodded and scrunched over to create the necessary clearance.
“Not sure I’m up for this,” Scott said in a low voice, “but most of my crew is here. Felt like I should be here with them. The guys are needing to blow off some steam after today. They didn’t even really know Quincy — well, except for Will and Blaine — but finding a body will mess with a
nybody’s mind for a while.”
“Blaine?” I asked.
“You probably saw him around,” Scott said. “Big, burly guy. Kind of lazy. But he grew up with Will and Rhonda and has some construction work experience. Will wanted to help him out, gave him a gopher, clean-up job. Blaine called in sick today, so he wasn’t there when—” Scott sighed deeply and rotated his longneck bottle, leaving a swirl of condensation rings on the tabletop. “Good thing, considering.”
I glanced up and caught Frankie giving me a pointed look, one perfectly sculpted brow raised in a suspicious arch. I nodded back. Her acknowledgment confirmed my guess — the man in the yellow hard hat who’d been ambling around the museum with a pressure washer he never seemed to use must have been Blaine. Maybe he was just naturally nosy, more interested in observing and gabbing than actually working. I knew plenty of people like that, had even fired a few back when I held a corporate job.
I bit my lip. Blaine couldn’t have known what was inside the museum, could he? It would have taken Guardado or his client a lot of planning to place a temp on Scott’s crew in advance of the arrival of the arms shipment. But if Blaine was so hard-up that he accepted a job he didn’t want from a childhood friend, then he might have been open to the offer of easy money on the side to act as a lookout. Maybe he’d bumped into the maroon Taurus men in the past few days. The idea gave me the willies.
“Meredith’s been pestering me,” Rupert announced.
I jumped at the sudden change in subject as well as at my name. I stared at Rupert.
“And she has me convinced that we need a loading dock at the Imogene. She said you could add it to our current project.”
Scott eagerly latched on to this more pleasant topic. Rupert followed along as Scott drew imaginary lines on the table, explaining how the new access method could be laid out. I didn’t think my words had as much to do with persuading Rupert as the actual loading and unloading of an illegal arms shipment through the narrow basement door had. We were all going to be sore for a week.
Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Page 13
