Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6)

by Jerusha Jones

  “I have no idea,” I said, “and it’s wonderful.”

  Frankie passed the phone to Rupert, then to Greg, who had both just arrived at the Imogene for a long day of work, then came on the line again. In a round-robin style conversation, they filled me in on the machinations in the basement.

  The FBI had removed all the weapons, both from the Imogene and Mac’s pole barn. They were certain the two men who’d stolen Jack Roscoe’s semi worked for a Mexican drug cartel which was looking to expand its influence across North America. Most likely, they planned to import its execution-style intimidation and terror as well. The guns probably would have stayed in the United States, but in the very wrong hands, if they’d been successful in loading them into the semi-trailer.

  Greg was going to document the Near East artifacts for me. But after that, we would have to wait to know how to proceed until I heard from someone authorized to speak for the ministry of culture of either Jordan or Turkey.

  Rupert reported that Scott and Will had started digging the loading dock ramp, and that he had another acquisition trip planned — to Italy this time.

  “I wonder if Barbara would like to go to Italy,” I murmured.

  “Barbara?” Rupert sounded hesitant.

  “Her last name’s not Segreti for nothing,” I replied. “You should ask her. Maybe she’d enjoy a vacation. You could show her around. I don’t think she gets away very often, if ever. Autumn, after school starts, would be a good time for her to close the Golden Shears for a couple weeks.”

  Rupert was silent, but I could tell he was pondering the idea. He’d need some time to cogitate, and pressuring him was never effective, so I rang off. Just a little niggle here and there. I held out hope.

  Tuppence stood to sniff the air — presumably because such a task on such a glorious day required her full attention — then she ambled around to my other side and assumed a mirror image of her previous position. I stroked her silky ears.

  The next phone call was going to take some concentration. I ran over my mental list of questions and dialed.

  Sheriff Marge chortled when she answered. “Just can’t leave things alone, can you?”

  “Look who’s talking,” I muttered.

  “Happens to be my job,” she replied. Her voice registered the satisfaction I was accustomed to, though, and a renewed vigor.

  I grinned. “How are Rhonda and Blaine?”

  “Eager to blame each other. I guess at some point they were carrying on an illicit affair. The love’s not flowing so much right now.”

  “Why’d they kill Quincy?”

  “Money. Seems Rhonda thought a warmer climate and sandy beaches would make her happier with her life.” Papers shuffled in the background, and Sheriff Marge wheezed as she leaned over to reach something. I’d caught her at her desk — a rare occasion. Then a loud bang as though she’d just pounded a stapler. She was probably filling out forms in triplicate. “She and Blaine hatched the plan to use an arson gone bad as a way to cover up Quincy’s murder and collect his life insurance,” she huffed.

  “It’s possible to collect on a policy if the insured was involved in criminal activity?” I asked, incredulous.

  Tuppence staggered to her feet, stretched into a gigantic, tongue-curling yawn and finished with a full-body shake. She swiped a line of raindrops off the underside of the railing with her nose.

  “Generally, yes, if the policy’s more than two years old. The insurance companies don’t want to look bad by not paying out. Crazy, huh? Maybe I should get myself some life insurance.” Sheriff Marge chuckled.

  “You’re in a high-risk occupation.” I pointed out the obvious. “So what made Lily go nuts over Blaine’s boots and the trunk of their car?”

  Tuppence and I both jerked to attention as a dark hump sliced through the water a few yards from us, then flippers. Tuppence growled at the intruder.

  “Blaine admitted he fiddled with the Escort’s engine to fake an alibi the night of the murder, but they used that car to transport a couple cases of lighter fluid and catch up with Quincy at the Imogene. Rhonda planted the idea with Quincy that he use the Imogene as his big finale arson of the season, so that’s how they knew where to stage the accident.” Sheriff Marge’s tone shifted to admiration. “Gotta love Lily. I bought her the biggest rawhide treat I could find even though she won’t shut up when she rides in my SUV.”

  The California sea lion popped its head out of the water, inquisitive, whiskers on high alert, a gnawed hunk of salmon held against its chest. Tuppence let out a volley of barks to prevent the sleek monster from getting any ideas about beaching itself on the Surely’s nice deck.

  “You tell him, old girl,” I muttered. The sea lions were notorious pests, lolling in the river and gorging themselves on salmon. Occasionally one was smart enough and lithe enough to squeak through the fish ladder at Bonneville Dam. Conniving predators — just like some people.

  “I don’t understand how Quincy’s Mercedes ended up at the wildlife refuge,” I said.

  “That’s the best part. Those two goons the FBI was after — well, they were also at the Imogene the night of the arson. In interviews, they inadvertently implicated Blaine and Rhonda by placing the blue Escort at the scene, but the Merc was the one with the keys in the ignition, so that’s the car they stole. Must have left just before the fire blazed up. They knew the Taurus had been made, so they were desperate for different transportation. When they found out later they’d stolen a dead man’s car, well, they panicked — dumped it and torched it. Went back to using the Taurus until they drove off with two of Jack Roscoe’s semis. We found the other one, undamaged, parked out behind an abandoned dairy barn, probably taken as a decoy.”

  I bit my lip. “I hope Jack had insurance on his new semis, considering Pete and Archie contributed to the jackknifing of one of them.”

  “He’s covered,” Sheriff Marge grunted. “But that’s the thing I don’t understand. We all — the deputies and I — have had driving training, defensive maneuvers, controlled spins, what have you, but we didn’t practice with semis. Too rare of an occurrence to train for. And Archie’s been uncharacteristically taciturn about the incident. What happened exactly?”

  “You ever been skidding?” I asked.

  “Skidding?” Sheriff Marge repeated.

  “On purpose, for fun, in wheat fields. Ask your sons — I bet they have. It was news to me too. Seems to be a male rite of passage.”

  “Huh. Does Pete have something he needs to confess?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, tell him if he ever wants to give up driving that tug, he can have a job as one of my deputies.”

  “I might veto that,” I replied. “I like my husband in one piece.”

  “Thought you would. Now go spoil that man.” Sheriff Marge hung up.

  The sea lion submerged, leaving behind a few short-lived bubbles on the surface. Tuppence paced along the edge of the deck, peering into the water, on patrol should it decide to return.

  Bacon, caramelized onions, the tang of sourdough toast — yummy smells were drifting out of the galley’s open hatch. I jumped to my feet and found Pete stirring a brownish mash in a skillet — his food always tastes amazing, but it won’t win points for presentation — with a dishtowel flipped over his shoulder. A jar of Harriet’s home-canned salsa sat open on the counter beside him — a condiment for the eggs.

  I turned my phone off — not just silenced the ringtone, but all-the-way off — and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then I wrapped my arms around his waist.

  “Everyone accounted for?” he asked.

  “And thriving,” I murmured before kissing him.

  SNEAK PEEK — MAYFIELD MYSTERY SERIES

  BAIT & SWITCH

  A Mayfield Mystery — book #1

  Jerusha Jones

  When Nora Sheldon’s husband is kidnapped while they’re on their honeymoon, all her hopes and plans tumble into a nightmare. Then the FBI comes knocking. Tur
ns out Nora doesn’t know her husband as well as she thought she did, and the feds are equally anxious about Skip’s fate.

  Is Skip Sheldon a con man or some kind of Robin Hood or simply misunderstood? And if he really loved her, why did he drag her into this mess?

  She’d interrogate and then throttle him herself (and save his kidnappers the trouble) if she could — but she’s not so sure he’s still alive to bear the brunt of her worry.

  Nora and her stalwart executive assistant, Clarice, seek refuge on one of Skip’s properties — an abandoned poor farm on the edge of the Dark Divide in Washington State — to wait for a ransom call and entertain obnoxious FBI agents.

  Can Nora wriggle through the maze of Skip’s accounts and questionable acquaintances before she falls under suspicion herself? And for what crimes, exactly? She wishes she knew.

  CHAPTER 1

  His giant blue-gray eye bulged in the peephole, the red squiggly veins in his sclera pulsing. I held my breath, then nearly jumped out of my skin as the door beneath my fingertips thumped with another volley of determined knocking.

  “Mrs. Sheldon. We know you’re in there.” He spoke in a low voice, as though his mouth was pressed against the crack between the door and the frame.

  I squinted through the peephole again, this time to see a badge — an ID card? — waved across the distorted scope of my view.

  “FBI. If you don’t open up soon, we’re going to collect a bunch of spectators out here on the lawn. Not something you want, I’m thinking.”

  I didn’t care what he thought I wanted. I exhaled and spun so my back pressed against the door. What I really wanted was my husband of fourteen hours to return.

  Skip had promised, “I won’t be long, honey.” He’d kissed me on the forehead while sliding his arms back into his linen suit jacket sleeves. Then he’d gone out, and I was left standing in the middle of one of El Escondite’s luxury bungalows surrounded by our luggage and staring at a closed door.

  The same door rattled again, and I leaped away from it. “One minute — a few minutes. Please?” My voice shook, and I tried again, louder. “It’s late. I need to dress. Five minutes?”

  “Five minutes,” Mr. Badge echoed into the crack. “Hurry up.”

  I fled for the bedroom and the piles of clothing I’d just started unpacking. I’d figured the silky negligee and skimpy robe I had on were all I was going to need tonight. I dug through my suitcase and found a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, the appropriate underwear.

  My hands shook as my mind raced through scenarios. Skip had been injured — fallen off an embankment into the sea, hit by a car in a crosswalk, held at gunpoint — that one made my heart stop. Skip had the net worth to make kidnapping appealing. But he was strong — he wouldn’t go without a fight. A knife fight with banditos? What else could it be?

  But why was the FBI at my door? They didn’t follow ambulances around, informing the family, especially not in Cozumel, Mexico.

  I hopped on one foot, trying to pull a sling-back espadrille onto the other. I’d bought these shoes for our honeymoon, thinking they’d be good for long walks through El Mercado and the side street shops while holding hands with Skip. I closed my eyes and gulped a deep breath. Maybe the nice man outside would explain everything — a simple misunderstanding, a knock on the wrong door in the wee hours of the morning.

  But he knew my name — my new name.

  A quick check through the peephole showed two cheap suits standing under the bright porch light, poking their phone screens. Just like the television shows — the FBI always comes in pairs. I squared my shoulders and opened the door.

  The lead guy’s head popped up. He wrapped a warm hand around my elbow. “The car’s at the curb.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Special Agent Mick Jordan. And Patrick Moreno, my partner.” He gestured toward the man who took up position on my other side.

  “Are you here about Skip? Is he okay? You’d at least tell me that, wouldn’t you?” At the hard look on both men’s faces, I bit my lip and whispered, “Please?”

  “It’s best if we save the questions for when we get to the office,” Agent Jordan said.

  They propelled me through the sticky night, cutting across the curves of the resort’s meandering lighted path to an idling dark sedan. Agent Jordan followed me into the backseat while Agent Moreno folded his bulky body into the front passenger seat.

  The unintroduced driver gunned the car into the sparse traffic. He had a pale strip of skin between his haircut and shirt collar. Yet another non-local.

  I twisted my purse strap between my fingers, rubbing it hard the way my housecleaner, Rosemary, parses her rosary beads. I’m not Catholic, but having something to hold onto right now seemed an absolute necessity.

  Five minutes later we pulled up in front of a bougainvillea-covered wall in what was clearly a residential neighborhood.

  “Office?” My voice quivered.

  “For now.” Agent Jordan let me exit the car unassisted then pushed open the silent wrought iron gate.

  The house was typical — whitewashed adobe walls and barred windows with a heavy wood door. We stepped into a tiled foyer and around the corner into a sparsely furnished sitting room. And by sparsely, I mean a few metal folding chairs and a card table crammed with electronic equipment and laptops. A couple empty duffel bags lay crumpled in a corner. Not exactly hospitable, and certainly not the usual government agency office.

  A very large, very white barefoot man wearing a Madras plaid shirt stretched taut across his beer belly and khaki cargo shorts slouched in one of the chairs — the only one of the four men who even came close to fitting in with the local tourist population. He glanced up for a fraction of a second, one bushy gray eyebrow raised. “Still got nothin’,” he grunted. His right hand flicked a computer mouse, and his eyes returned to scanning the screens.

  “In here, Mrs. Sheldon.” Agent Jordan led me through a galley kitchen that looked and smelled the way I imagine a frat house would — partially empty take-out cartons, tipped soda cans, scrunched plastic bags, even a bunch of brown-spotted bananas swarming with fruit flies. I never got near those places in college for precisely this reason. I pressed a hand to my nose and almost tripped on the back of Agent Jordan’s heels in my haste.

  The dining room looked more normal, and unused, with heavy carved wood chairs lined up around refectory-style table. Agent Jordan pulled out a chair and pointed me into it.

  He peeled off his suit jacket and slung it over the back of another chair. “Something to drink?”

  I shook my head. I pressed my knees together and clenched my purse on my lap, trying to suppress my trembling. I had a horrible, irrational thought that the less DNA I deposited, the better. I didn’t know the first thing about how FBI agents work, but this crew seemed shady and poised to clear out in a hurry.

  Agent Jordan returned with a steaming Styrofoam cup and dropped into his chair with a heavy sigh. “Your husband’s gone.”

  I scowled. He had to drag me out of my comfortable bungalow to tell me something we both already knew?

  “You wanna tell me where?” He loosened his tie and ran a hand through his stiff hair.

  “What do you mean? Is he hurt? Have you checked the hospitals?” I pitched forward on the edge of my chair. “Why are you interested in my husband’s health?”

  “Believe me, lady, I’m not. He’s in a high-risk occupation. It’d just be nice to have a body as proof — that’s all.”

  NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Imogene Museum mystery series is a tribute to the Columbia River Gorge and the hearty people who live in gorge towns on both sides of the Oregon/Washington border. It’s an extraordinary piece of God’s real estate, and I savor driving, sightseeing, picnicking and camping its entire length. Hitching a ride on a tug run from Umatilla to Astoria is on my bucket list.

  If you’re familiar with the area, you may realize that I’ve taken liberties with distances in some cases.
Mostly I squished locations (albeit fictional) closer together to move the story along and also to showcase the amazing geologic and topographic features of the gorge. In real life for many gorge residents, the roundtrip to a Costco or a bona fide sit-down restaurant might well take a full day. This kind of travel time is not helpful when you’re chasing a fleeing murderer. But if you’re not Sheriff Marge and have time to enjoy the scenery, the gorge is spectacular, and I encourage you to come experience it for yourself.

  However, please don’t expect to actually meet any of the characters in this book. All are purely fictional, and if you think they might represent anyone you know, you’re mistaken. Really. I couldn’t get away with that.

  oOo

  Profound thanks to the following people who gave their time and expertise to assist in the writing of this book:

  Sergeant Fred Neiman, Sr. and all the instructors of the Clark County Sheriff’s Citizens’ Academy. The highlights had to be firing the Thompson submachine gun and stepping into the medical examiner’s walk-in cooler. Oh, and the K-9 demonstration and the officer survival/lethal force decision making test. And the drug task force presentation with identification color spectrum pictures and the — you get the idea.

  Beth Anne Steele of the FBI Public Affairs Office, Portland Division, for letting me attend the Community Relations Executive Seminar Training program even though my only (non) qualification is that I make stuff up for a living. And to the special agents and support staff who shared their expertise and stories.

  I claim all errors, whether accidental or intentional, solely as my own.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I live in the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. After too many years as a VP of inventory and analysis, I find writing mysteries much more stimulating than squinting at spreadsheets. When not typing, doodling or staring out the window, I’m usually planning my next local tourist adventure, listening to NASCAR races and Mariners, Seahawks and Trailblazers games on the radio, or sneaking dessert for breakfast.