Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6)
Page 14
I leaned back, letting the dull roar of the jam-packed room flow over me. I was catching plenty of glimpses of khaki. I scowled and took a moment to count. Yep, all three Sockeye County deputies were in attendance and seemed to be mingling with a purpose. Highly unusual.
I wasn’t surprised that they were all on duty at the same time. Considering the events of the day, we certainly needed as much law enforcement presence as could be mustered. But I didn’t expect duty to include crowd-minding at the Sidetrack. Sheriff Marge was up to something.
No one seemed to be watching the football game on the big-screen televisions that hung from the corners of the ceiling. Everyone was busy swapping information, and judging from the snatches of dialog that drifted past, they were all talking about the same person.
Frankly, I would have been astounded if Quincy’s death wasn’t discussed. The room was full of his insurance customers, fellow volunteer firefighters and general busybodies. It would have been difficult to keep his suspected involvement in the arsons secret at this point. Due to the red flag warnings, most Sockeye County residents had taken to monitoring the emergency radio scanner in the past few weeks.
Conversation in our group petered out. Unlike everyone else, we had already exhausted the subject of speculation du jour. Not to mention, we were physically wiped out. Not sure any of us would be able to sleep, but we weren’t much company for each other, either. Just a bunch of lumps on chairs.
Rupert drained his glass and stood. “I’m getting old. Gonna call it a night.”
“Don’t have to be old to do that.” Henry rose too and offered his hand to Frankie.
The rest of us took the hint and cleared our tables, opening up our seats for those nearest who were still standing.
Scott leaned near my ear. “We’ll be back on the job early in the morning. Sheriff Marge has already released the scene. I’m going to be offering the guys overtime. I think everyone on my crew wants to get this project over with.”
I nodded. “I’m really sorry it turned out like this.”
“Me too.”
Deputy Archie Lanphier was tipped against the wood paneling next to the door, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his Stratton hat slanted forward on his head. He seemed to have taken on the task of wishing everyone a good night as they departed. Maybe he was watching for DUIs in the making, but I doubted it.
“Going home?” he asked Pete and me.
When Pete nodded, Archie said, “Good idea. I expect someone will be by later to see you. Got a few wrinkles in the plan.”
My stomach plummeted.
At my wide-eyed, maybe slightly panicked look, Archie frowned and shook his head. “Just go on home now.”
And I understood him to mean that I was especially not to go to the museum. “You’re sure?” I murmured.
“Yep,” Archie drawled and stretched out an arm to shake the hand of the man pressing behind me, “Good to see you, Bill. Drive safe now,” effectively dismissing Pete and me.
Covert ops aren’t particularly Archie’s specialty. I doubt there’s a subtle bone in his body, but he’d made his point — and renewed the entire weight of worry that had been slowly receding throughout the day. It had felt good to turn over some of my problems to the professionals, but now — something really was going on. Something more than before, as if that wasn’t enough already.
Even though Pete wrapped an arm around me on the drive back to the campground, I couldn’t repress the shivers that numbed my limbs.
CHAPTER 19
I made coffee. I figured the visitor Archie had hinted at would need it as much as I did. Even if she didn’t find my coffee particularly appetizing. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it as a caffeine delivery mechanism, but there was no accounting for taste.
Pete and I paced the length of the trailer, getting in each other’s way and generally fidgeting. Tuppence sheltered under the dining table and kept a wary eye on us.
It was a relief to finally hear the soft thud of a car door closing outside. Then a sharp rap at the door.
Sheriff Marge’s gray eyes were pale and bloodshot. The strain of the day — the past few weeks, a lifetime? — drew the wrinkles in her face into long vertical lines. Even her short gray hair lacked the energy to stand up in spiky tufts like it normally does. She pulled a dining chair out and dropped into it without a word.
Tuppence sidled up to her and laid her muzzle on Sheriff Marge’s thigh. Her whiskers quivered as she studied Sheriff Marge’s face with those sad brown eyes, but she didn’t venture a comment on the sheriff’s appearance either.
Sheriff Marge chuckled and stroked Tuppence’s head. “At least one of us is feeling better.”
I slid a steaming mug in front of Sheriff Marge and perched on a chair opposite her.
“We found Quincy’s car — torched.” Sheriff Marge puckered her lips and took a tentative slurp of coffee.
I frowned and quickly replayed my memories of arriving at the Imogene after Owen had called about the fire. There’d been cars and pickups parked haphazardly all over the place since the parking lot was full of heavy machinery, but Quincy’s old, gold Mercedes didn’t stand out in any scenes I pulled up.
“Where?” Pete asked.
“The wildlife refuge off Highway 14, just east of Lupine. It was in a gully out behind the restrooms. A passerby saw the smoke and called it in. These days, we’re getting calls about miniature dust devils and barbecues because people are so paranoid about fire. But this call was legitimate.”
“And Rhonda confirmed that Quincy drove to the Imogene fire in the Mercedes?” I asked.
“Yep. Their other vehicle’s on the fritz, so they’ve been sharing the Mercedes the past week or so, she said. He had an appointment with the Hayward family out past White Salmon last evening. They just had a baby, wanted to update their policy. Rhonda assumed he responded to the fire from their place. Never came home, obviously.”
“How’d his car get out to the refuge?” Pete asked.
“That’s what we’d like to know. Whoever did it wicked gas out of the tank to set the fire. We needed that car for evidence for the arsons. It’ll be a lot harder to determine if Quincy was hauling around flammable liquids in the trunk now. Gonna have to try Lily again — see if she can pick anything out with that nose of hers.” Sheriff Marge flung an arm over the back of her chair and cricked her neck from side to side. From the dreary look on her face, what she really needed was about a week in bed.
“No activity at the museum or Mac’s pole barn?” I asked.
Sheriff Marge shook her head. “Karl and Ginger DeVoss are back on the road with their next load — New Mexico already — and checked in with their dispatcher. No sign of a maroon Taurus, and Ginger’s had her eyes peeled. So if that vehicle was following them, it isn’t anymore.”
“What did the occupants buy at the hardware store?” Pete asked.
Sheriff Marge drained her mug before answering. Her caffeine intake indicated there was no prospect of her going off duty soon. “A couple blankets, a bunch of candy bars and soda, a cooler and block ice.”
“Not exactly healthy eating.” I jumped up and topped off all our mugs then plunked the sugar and milk in the center of the table for self-service. “Sounds like they arrived ill-prepared for whatever they’re here to do. If they’re really from Florida, they might be shocked by our lack of hotels. They’re not tenting here in the campground. I would have noticed.”
“Could be they’re sleeping in the car or in a field somewhere.” Sheriff Marge slowly swirled the coffee in the mug before bracing herself for another swallow.
“Or just passing through,” Pete murmured, “and long gone now.”
“The phantom Taurus,” I said.
Sheriff Marge glared at me. “I don’t like loose ends. I didn’t meet Ginger, and yet I’d go with her gut instinct over wishful thinking any day.”
I bit my lip. “Me too.”
“What about the steel plate t
hat was supposed to be covering the hole Quincy fell into?” Pete asked.
“Accounted for. Scott and Will’s safety records say it was put in place at 6:25 last night. We interviewed the backhoe driver and his two assistants who helped place the plate. They also swear it was secured over the hole. There’s a stash of unused plates in the bed of a small dump truck in the parking lot. They discovered there was one extra on the pile, but it’s not the kind of thing anyone would notice until they took inventory, which they did with Archie this afternoon. So there’s no way to know exactly when that extra plate appeared, but we can guess where it came from.”
“Which means whoever removed the plate knows how to drive the equipment,” Pete said.
“And possibly had help, although Scott says it’s easier to remove plates than to place them. Just have to hook up the chains and lift it off. Returning it to the dump truck wouldn’t be too hard, but better with someone to direct the plate on the way down.”
Sheriff Marge’s phone rang. She unclasped it from her belt and barked her name— her form of answering a call.
A slow male voice rumbled information into her ear.
She frowned and pulled out her omnipresent notebook. “When?” she grunted, clicking her pen open. She scrawled notes for a long minute. “Two of them?” she blurted. “Hoppers?” She scratched a few more words in her notebook then snapped it closed. “Get me the VIN numbers. Good grief. You have a big operation. I’ve told you before you need to keep better track of your equipment. Put that daughter of yours in charge of the scheduling. That way she could check out the keys and check them back in. You know she can hold her own with the drivers. Yeah, yeah.” Sheriff Marge hung up with a snort. “Jack Roscoe can’t seem to find two of his semi-trucks. And they both had trailers attached. New live bottom trailers he just bought.”
Pete whistled softly.
“You know him?” I asked.
Pete nodded. “Farmer. But he runs an even bigger grain hauling business. Not much grain gets to market from this section of the gorge without one of Jack’s trucks moving it. I know most of his drivers too since I see them at the ports when I pick up grain barges.”
“What’s a live bottom?”
“A trailer with a conveyor belt in the bottom and a hydraulic slide that pushes the contents out the back at a controlled rate. They’re more versatile than hoppers, and aren’t dependent on the unloading mechanism at a grain elevator.” Pete shook his head. “And they’re not cheap.”
“Guess I can’t afford to sit on my fanny any longer,” Sheriff Marge said.
“Coffee for the road?” I asked.
I knew how desperate her situation was when she nodded. I have no idea how many people live in Sockeye County, but Sheriff Marge functions as a surrogate mother for all of them. Based on her tone with Jack and her comments about his daughter, I’d say Pete and I weren’t the only ones to receive her affection in the form of gruff instructions and overwhelmingly generous gifts. I squeezed her arm briefly while handing over the Thermos. She gave me a wry, squinty-eyed look and tromped down the steps into the darkness.
oOo
In the morning, I decided a consolation visit to Rhonda was in order. I’d been the first person she’d thought of when Quincy hadn’t returned home, and that had me worried. I wouldn’t have considered Rhonda a friend, but then maybe she didn’t have very many people she could count on. And I do know what’s happening at the museum — well, at least I like to think I do — so it had been reasonable for her to contact me since she knew Quincy had responded to the fire at the Imogene. I also thought perhaps I should apologize for the unceremonious way I’d handed the phone over to Sheriff Marge when Rhonda had asked the hard question.
I rose early and boiled macaroni with all the windows in the trailer wide open, hoping the steam would escape and not swelter us to death. I couldn’t show up at Rhonda’s empty-handed, and there’s something ubiquitously acceptable about pasta. Throw in a few globs of mayonnaise, shredded carrots, onions and mustard and call it good. She could add some chicken or shrimp or tuna and not have to cook dinner.
Besides, if an uninvited guest appears bearing a covered dish, Sockeye County’s unspoken etiquette guidelines require the homeowner to invite the visitor inside. I was counting on Rhonda to succumb to social norms.
Pete and I both felt listless and rangy. We were in the irritated, thin-skinned condition that occurs when you’ve barely slept because your mind spent the interminable night hours bouncing from one problem to the next.
I knew I had to appear at the Imogene and pretend to work even though the basement was off-limits. The only tasks Pete had remaining to do for the Surely were the kind that had already been put off forever and could survive being put off even longer — a testament to the vigor with which he’d tackled her maintenance and repairs during the few days before and since our wedding.
In other words, we didn’t have anything more appealing to do than drive over to the Nugent residence together and then go hang out with our friends at the museum. Which means Tuppence rode with us.
The Nugents lived in the newest residential development on the north side of Lupine. While technically correct, that description risks giving the wrong impression since the houses, all twenty or so with weedy unsold lots intermingled, were at least twenty-five years old. Most of the basic, ranch-style abodes were showing their age with patched roofs and peeling paint. A few had do-it-yourself modifications or second stories added on like bloated tumors, constructed for interior functionality without concern for exterior appearance. The developer must have thought the original trees would get in the way, so he’d had them all cleared out, leaving a sun-baked scar in the topography which no new trees had dared to interrupt. A dreary patch of manmade marvel in the midst of the gorgeous scenery straddling the Columbia River.
I hadn’t been in a terrific mood to start with, and I grew downright depressed as Pete slowly piloted the pickup along the curved streets with delusional names like Fern Vale Lane and Misty Bottoms Road where sidewalks started and stopped — long gaps without purpose — checking the house numbers.
The Nugent house was set off by itself, lonely in an otherwise empty cul-de-sac. The garage door was open, and two vehicles sat in the driveway — a beat-up brown pickup and a blue Ford Escort with its hood propped open. A dirty rag was draped over the fender, and tools lay scattered on the stained concrete near the left front tire.
Pete pulled up in front of the house, and we disembarked. The house — even the whole neighborhood — was eerily quiet. Tuppence snorted, her nose deep in dandelion dander at the edge of the yard.
I would have thought Rhonda was away, maybe planning Quincy’s service at the funeral home, except the front door was wide open behind the latched screen door. Most houses in Sockeye County don’t have air conditioning and instead rely on the old-fashioned technology of cross breezes through as many open doors and windows as possible. Screens are an absolute necessity unless you enjoy scratching a myriad of mosquito bites.
I was standing on the sidewalk trying to decide which would be more considerate — hollering yoohoo at the forlorn house, hoping the remaining occupant was inside, or climbing back into the pickup and taking my macaroni salad to share for lunch at the Imogene — when the screen door banged open and Blaine stepped out, a can of Coors in his hand.
Blaine, the childhood friend of Will and Rhonda, the lazy worker who’d called in sick yesterday and thus missed seeing firsthand the dead body of his friend’s husband. No construction orange shirt for Blaine today. In fact, no shirt at all, and dirty jeans that rode his hips a little south of the wide elastic of his boxer shorts. He could have posed on the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine, except for the expression on his face. No one would enjoy looking at that — I know I wasn’t.
His features constricted in a snarly scowl as he strode across the crabgrass to the driveway. “Rhonda’s inside,” he grunted and stuck his head under the Escort’s hood.
Tuppence followed me across the yard to the screen door. I went ahead and opened it and popped my head inside. “Rhonda?” I called. “It’s me, Meredith. Okay if I come in?”
I was in the living room by the time I finished speaking anyway, surveying a study in beige — tan wall-to-wall carpet, buff-colored couch, cream walls, wood coffee table and side tables painted a distressed white in the shabby-chic style, and a couple recliners upholstered in taupe chenille. All very proper; all very boring.
“Rhonda?” I tried again, louder.
She emerged from a narrow opening which I assumed was a hallway, clad in jeans and a baggy t-shirt, barefoot, with a giant hairball clutched to her chest. It took both Tuppence and me a long minute to realize the hairball was alive and that it was a cat. I’d been wrong in assuming Rhonda would favor the shih tzu dog breed. I guessed the mop in her arms was a Persian. Still, I’d been right about the hair affinity.
The cat took one look at Tuppence and let out a keening yowl which ended in a vicious hiss, its gold eyes narrowed to slits. It kneaded a loose fold of Rhonda’s t-shirt with its claws. Tuppence pressed against the back of my legs, and I felt like running for cover too.
Seemingly unfazed by her cat’s inhospitable nature, Rhonda turned and shuffled into the kitchen.
I took that as my cue to follow her.
She gestured vaguely toward the refrigerator and dropped into a dining chair in front of the sliding glass doors that led out to the patio. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to help myself to a chilled beverage or deposit the macaroni salad inside the fridge or both.
Since the drink on hand appeared to belong to Blaine — a half case of Coors that had been ripped open with only two cans remaining — I opted to slide the salad onto the wire rack beside it and go thirsty. Other than a squeeze bottle of ketchup with thick dried globs stuck around the rim of the cap, a Kikkoman soy sauce bottle, an orange a little worse for wear and the beer, the fridge was empty.