Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6)

by Jerusha Jones

  I let the door swing closed by itself and scanned the kitchen counters. No bread bags, cracker packages or cereal boxes in sight. No coffee-making paraphernalia or tea kettle on the stovetop. While uncluttered, the surfaces had a grimy, rarely cleaned look to them. The room smelled stale, as though the last time Rhonda had cooked, she’d burned something, but it wasn’t an offensive odor — at least not yet. Left unattended, the house seemed as though it would disintegrate quickly. I had a feeling everything about Rhonda’s life had suffered neglect, even before her husband was killed.

  And it wasn’t going to get any better with the way she was moping. I sat down at the table opposite her, but she kept her face turned toward the glass doors and the backyard beyond. She stroked the cat absentmindedly.

  The hairball, on the other hand, didn’t miss a thing, its glinty eyes unblinking. It pulled its thin lips back in a silent, warning snarl that nearly matched Blaine’s. Rhonda had her guardians, that was certain. But they weren’t offering her the kind of help she truly needed.

  “You want to talk about it?” I asked.

  “What is there to say?” Rhonda replied in a flat voice. “Quincy was setting fires so people would think he was hot stuff when he helped put them out. Then he did something stupid and got himself killed. Did he ever think how that would affect me? People didn’t like us before. Now—” She shifted in her seat and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m going to have to leave, live somewhere else.”

  I blinked a few times, trying to get a handle on my thoughts. “You knew about the arsons?” I finally blurted.

  Rhonda snorted. “Yeah, I put it together. I was trying to figure out what to do about it, you know? I mean, who do you tell that your husband’s starting fires for thrills and profit?” She cast her blank gaze back toward the glass doors. “Turned out I didn’t have to do anything. For once in his life, Quincy took care of his own problem.”

  I ran the tip of my tongue over my chapped lips. How do you offer condolences to a bitter woman? I supposed now was not the time to mention that Sheriff Marge thought Quincy’s death might be murder.

  Rhonda was quite pretty. Her face could have been cherubic if it was animated. Maybe she would have a chance to start over somewhere else, lead a more content life. I didn’t hold out a lot of hope for a major attitude adjustment on her part, but I preferred to think it was a possibility. I tried to imagine what it would be like to lose a husband, but the idea was too raw, too horrible to even consider. So planning on the other side of that tragedy would be practically impossible.

  “Do you have other family, besides Will?” I asked.

  “None to speak of.” Rhonda shrugged.

  “Do you have an idea of where you would go?”

  Rhonda pivoted, her eyes brightening. “Costa Rica, maybe Belize.” Apparently she wasn’t as completely immobilized by grief as I had assumed.

  “When’s the funeral?” I asked.

  Rhonda frowned and angled her body away from me again. “I don’t see why they have to do an autopsy. Not until after that.”

  Her long, glossy hair hung like curtains down the sides of face, shielding her. I wanted to reach out and squeeze her shoulder or even pull her in for a hug, but the glaring cat still had its ears slicked back against its skull. I had no doubt it would make mincemeat of whatever limb I extended its direction.

  “Pete and I would like to attend the funeral,” I murmured. “Please call me if you need anything.”

  Rhonda gave one nod of her head which ran a shiver down the length of her hair.

  Tuppence followed so closely she tripped on my heels as I retreated to the relative cheerfulness and warmth of the front yard. Blaine’s legs stuck out from under the Escort, accompanied by irregular clanking noises. Pete was sitting in the pickup, arm resting on the edge of the open window.

  I waited until the bleak subdivision was behind us before speaking. “I thought you were going to talk with Blaine.”

  “So did I,” Pete grunted. “Be he let me know my help wasn’t welcome.”

  “But you—” I turned to stare at Pete. “You’re the best mechanic. Why would he turn down help from you?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Pete cast me a little sideways grin, but his forearm muscles tensed as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. “But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that car.”

  “Maybe there will be when Blaine’s finished with it.”

  Pete chuckled. “Do you know I love you?”

  “Yeah.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The atmosphere at the Imogene couldn’t have been more different from that at the Nugents’ house. It felt like the last day of the sixth-grade school year — a bunch of kids rambling around with infinitesimal attention spans, eager to get on with the next big thing but also viewing the unknown future with trepidation, wanting to tease our friends and pledge to adventurous activities during the summer but unable to commit to anything of substance because, whatever the grand plans were, there was the missing proviso of our parents’ approval. Awkward, unpredictable, and on the verge of something great, or at least something different — we just didn’t know what.

  The FBI hadn’t absconded with Rupert’s keys, so we let ourselves in as noisily as possible. We certainly wouldn’t want to be mistaken for terrorist gunrunners.

  After a couple tense minutes and uncomfortable snickers amidst our small group as we bunched together in the ballroom, realization dawned that we weren’t going to be thrown to the floor and handcuffed and that the men in black had probably known all along that we were entering the building.

  Since we were closed to visitors during the foundation repairs and the construction crew was now past the jackhammer and resulting dust avalanche stage, I figured it was a good time to spruce up the Imogene’s interior as well. I’d come up with tasks for everyone.

  But that might have been part of the problem, because my to-do list didn’t fool anyone. The chores were make-work, busyness, fiddle-faddle, and entirely irrelevant to the worries churning in the backs of all our minds. Consequently, I endured some good-natured grumbling, but by noon the exhibit halls on the main floor looked nicer than they had in many years.

  I did venture far enough down the basement stairs — three squeaky steps — to draw the attention of the guard stationed in the shadows and request an audience with Agent Simmons.

  He appeared a few minutes later and grasped my elbow, propelling me into the kitchen on the main floor. “I hope you don’t mind. We’ve been making ourselves at home.”

  I glanced around at the food wrappers, coffee cups, crumbs and crumpled napkins littering the counters, table, and in several cases, the floor. A faint, but distinctly strawberry, Pop-Tart odor hung in the air.

  “We’ll clean up — later.” Agent Simmons wiped his hand over his mouth and chin, making a gritty sandpaper sound as he scratched his beard growth.

  If he’d slept — and I wasn’t sure of that — then he’d slept in his clothes. His suit jacket and tie were missing, his sleeves rolled up past the elbow, his trousers wrinkled in a way that no steaming would remove.

  “These are actually pretty cushy accommodations for a stakeout.” Agent Simmons rolled his shoulders and shook out his arms.

  “Quiet last night?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Pretty soon. Patience isn’t usually one of the virtues of the criminal set. In a phone conversation yesterday, Guardado confirmed to someone, in a rough type of code, the shipment’s destination—” Agent Simmons spread his hands, “—here. Appears he did homework about you the same as you did about him.”

  “Not much,” I muttered.

  Agent Simmons gave me a stern look. “But enough. The person he was talking to was complaining about making a deposit on goods that were not delivered — threatening retribution, actually. It sounded like Guardado gave the potential buyer the go-ahead to collect the shipment himself as a way to deflect the heat. It’s what we were waiting for. We�
��ll get a bead on these guys.”

  “Just don’t hurt my museum.”

  Agent Simmons’ right eyelid twitched. “Don’t worry.”

  “There’s an irreplaceable collection down there.” I jabbed a finger at the floor, and hence the basement below, for emphasis. “Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. Given Guardado’s illicit tendencies, we all — you, me, Rupert, Greg — suspect at least some of those artifacts were obtained through back channels. I don’t like that. Who can I talk to who’s a resident expert on Near East Bronze Age finds? Does the FBI have any contacts in museums over there?”

  “What modern-day countries are you talking about?” Agent Simmons asked.

  “Jordan, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Turkey.”

  Agent Simmons scowled. “That region’s a mess and will be for the foreseeable future, you know that, right? There’s no guarantee some of those governments will last much longer or be able to protect their cultural assets even if they do. Sockeye County’s far more peaceful and safe.” He pitched one of his furry eyebrows at me with a twitch of a smile. “In spite of the operation we’re running out of your basement.”

  “Even if we’re not technically supposed to have some of the items, maybe I can arrange a semi-permanent loan or come to some other official agreement. Rupert and I wouldn’t feel good about putting pieces on display if they’ve been stolen in one form or another and we didn’t do anything about it.”

  “We have legats in Amman and Ankara.” Agent Simmons rocked his head from side to side, stretching his neck. “I’ll put in a request. But don’t hold your breath.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  After he returned to the dark wallows of the basement, I soaked and wrung out a dishcloth and started wiping down the food-crusted surfaces, remembering Rhonda’s dismal kitchen. There are happy messes, busy messes and plain old pathetic grime. Rhonda’s was the latter. The least I could do was tidy up after the FBI team that was protecting my beloved museum.

  My phone rang, and I dug it out of my pocket.

  “Guess what we found,” Sheriff Marge said.

  “I don’t think you’d like any of my attempts,” I replied.

  “Right. One maroon Ford Taurus, sans license plates.”

  “Whoa.” I blurted. “Where? Did you find the men too?”

  “Nope.”

  I groaned. “Was it wrecked? Did they wander off? Injured?” I spewed my stream of consciousness without waiting for her explanation. In my sorry state, imagining the men injured and incapacitated was far preferable to having them still freely roaming the countryside — and scoping out the museum.

  Sheriff Marge sniffed loudly to stop my verbal deluge. “You probably don’t know Griffin Hughes. No reason you should, except he’s a lot like you. Hordes old junk.”

  “Hey.” I couldn’t help the indignation that crept into my tone. “It’s my job. And it’s not junk. They’re valuable articles of artistic and historic—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sheriff Marge muttered. She might have been smiling, but it was hard to tell from her gruff voice. “Spare me the lecture.”

  I flopped onto a folding chair and waited. I never should have interrupted her. Suspense was the penalty I’d pay. I tried to endure patiently.

  “Griff runs the equivalent of an auto parts yard, but solely for his own amusement, not for profit. He collects but rarely sells even though he has acres of virtually worthless rusted out vehicles. There are a few gems parked out back that will probably be auctioned off once he dies.” Sheriff Marge paused to participate in a muted conversation in the background. I wondered what scene she was cleaning up now and tapped my fingers on my thigh.

  “But that’s neither here nor there,” she continued, returning to the phone. “What matters is that Griff has an encyclopedic knowledge of what’s in his lot, which means he noticed straight off that he had an addition — an addition he never would have willingly obtained since he’s strictly loyal to GM products.”

  “They stowed the Taurus in his junkyard?”

  “Probably thought they were hiding it. Squeezed it between a Nova SS 350 coupe and a Pontiac Grand Safari station wagon that dwarfed the Taurus. But Griff’s a sharp old geezer. He also happens to live about two miles from Jack Roscoe’s place. Seems odd we have two semi-trucks stolen and one car abandoned on that same stretch of road.”

  “Are you saying the Taurus men are now driving Jack’s semis?”

  “Could be. Or they might be in a completely different vehicle. Griff says none of his are missing. They wouldn’t be, though, because most aren’t running. And he doesn’t leave the keys in the ignition the way Jack did.”

  I took a deep breath. “So we’re assuming those two men are still here in Sockeye County, and we’re not sure what vehicle they’re driving, and we still don’t know what they look like other than Ginger’s brief descriptions which could have been just about any pair of males anywhere.”

  “Exactly. And they might not be traveling together anymore either. Keep your eyes open. Remember, we’re not sure why they’re here, but I think we can scratch tourism off the list.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Pete and I left work early, but not too early — in every way trying to maintain the illusion that all was well and normal at the Imogene. Frankie offered to hound sit, much to Tuppence’s satisfaction since she views Frankie as a treat genie. Pete had wrestled us an appointment with Deuce Hollis, the Tinsleys’ lawyer. I guess Deuce was our lawyer too, since he was the only one with his shingle out in Platts Landing.

  And by wrangling an appointment, I meant just that — Deuce is notoriously hard to pin down with regard to schedule and location because he vastly prefers fly fishing to producing paperwork filled with legalese. Since Deuce had actually confirmed an appointment, we made sure to appear promptly lest we lose our one chance.

  Pete parked in front of Deuce’s office on Main Street. There were only a handful of other cars stationed in the parallel spots in the downtown business core. Apparently people had better things to do than go shopping on a dry, blisteringly hot Friday afternoon in Platts Landing. I already dreaded returning to the pickup after it had sat in the blazing sun for however long it would take us to sign the papers.

  Pete pulled open the door situated between two smudged plate glass windows boasting Deuce’s name and occupation in peeling gold letters. The waiting area consisted of a pair of armchairs upholstered in crackled leatherette and a glass coffee table that proved a match for the front windows in its need for cleaning. A dead spider plant in a celadon ceramic pot was positioned in the perfect center of the table.

  “C’mon back,” a voice called from the depths of the narrow space.

  Pete and I shuffled down a dark hallway which terminated in an equally dingy private office. Law journals and case books bound in beautiful old leather lined the walls on sagging bookshelves, giving the small room a claustrophobic coziness. An ancient air conditioning unit clattered from its high perch, garish birthday streamers attached to the grill fluttering evidence it was working as hard as it could.

  Behind the desk sat a small man, in perfect proportion to his surroundings. He half stood and extended his right hand which Pete and I both shook before he dropped back into his chair with a whoosh of the seat cushion.

  “Glad you made it,” Deuce said.

  “Me too,” Pete answered, shooting me an amused grin.

  “This won’t take long.” Deuce stole a quick glance at his watch — as though happy hour had just started at the local stream and he was missing out on the best chance to hook up with a cute fish — and bent to rummage through the file drawer in his desk.

  He had a gray frizzy Friar Tuck hairstyle — naturally occurring, I guessed, and I got a good look at the top of his shiny head. He straightened and thumped a hefty stack of paper on the desktop then daintily adjusted his spectacles by squinching his nose just so as he scanned the top sheet.

  Deuce was the sort of man who would wear elbow patc
hes on his jacket sleeves. But not today. The long sleeves of his dress shirt were pushed up around his well-developed biceps — probably from all that casting and reeling. He was a far cry from what I’d imagined based upon his unusual name. I’d expected a cigar-chomping poker player in suspenders with chest hair popping out above the collar of his grungy t-shirt.

  But Deuce’s fussiness gave me confidence. Whatever documents he drew up would have all the details properly attended to, even if he didn’t know what a vacuum cleaner was for and had never pulled the trigger of a Windex spray bottle.

  “Mmhmmm,” Deuce grunted. “That’s right. Refreshing my memory. I prepared this property transfer almost eight months ago. Everything’s in order.” He spun the pile of papers around to face us and handed over two pens.

  “I hope you’re signing with your married name.” Deuce’s face pulled into a pucker as if he suddenly smelled something offensive. “I don’t want to have to retype these.”

  I quickly nodded. “Meredith Sills, yes.”

  Pete’s brows drew together. “Eight months ago?”

  We’d been engaged for less than a month before the wedding.

  “That’s right,” Deuce said. “The Tinsley twins have been planning this for some time.” Deuce’s pale blue eyes bounced between Pete and me. “We’ve just been waiting for the two of you to figure out what we already knew. Now, if you’ll sign and date here.” He poked a finger at the open lines at the bottom of the first page.

  Pete’s left hand landed on my knee under the desk as we launched into the signatures. I cast a sideways glance at him. He was chewing his bottom lip — a sure sign that he was both concentrating and consternated. I ducked my head with a grin.

  Being subjected to sure-footed nosiness was our just deservements, what we got for living in Sockeye County — where everybody knows everybody else’s business, in our case before we even knew it ourselves. We’d had such a huge cheering section and several coaching interventions as we’d klutzed our way through courtship, it had almost been a conspiracy. What would I ever do without these people?