Read Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Online
Authors: Jerusha Jones
Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6)
BURN
an
Imogene Museum mystery — book #6
Jerusha Jones
After weeks under a Red Flag Warning and several flare-ups, the residents of
Sockeye County, Washington are on edge. When a fire threatens the Imogene Museum, curator Meredith Morehouse realizes the frequency and increasing size of the conflagrations aren’t as random as lightning strikes.
Are the fires targeted? Are they vindictive revenge or a risky cover-up for something even worse?
Meredith already has her hands full with a brand new endowment for shoring up the Imogene’s crumbling foundation plus the imminent arrival of the most valuable collection Rupert Hagg, the museum director, has scored to date. And Meredith’s hunky beau, Pete Sills, wants another kind of date — a non-negotiable wedding date.
Can Meredith and Pete and cast-encumbered Sheriff Marge Stettler nail down the arsonist before their tinder-dry community goes up in flames?
Copyright © 2014 by Jerusha Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Cover design by Elizabeth Berry MacKenney. www.berrygraphics.com
Sneak Peek
— Mayfield Mystery #1 Bait & Switch
Prickles crept inside my collar and along the backs of my legs. There’s nothing like hallucinating that a convoy of army ants was on the march, and I was their parade ground. I gripped the steering wheel tighter to prevent a futile attempt at scratching. This dry heat was getting old, and raising welts. It turned even the softest fabric against my crackling skin into torture.
I slammed my truck into park and hopped out, tugging my water bottle laden tote bag across the bench seat after me. It was definitely a basement day, in spite of the construction crew’s jackhammers. The
Imogene Museum doesn’t have air conditioning, but she does have thick walls, and her subterranean chamber was the coolest spot available. As the museum’s curator, I have a never-ending checklist of unpacking, documenting, photographing and organizing to do down there.
I was also in the process of spending a hefty chunk of the Imogene’s recent endowment in the form of gold dust on foundation repairs for the old mansion. The parking lot was strewn with a mishmash of rusty and dented chipping, digging, smoothing and mixing machines. Some of them looked like medieval torture devices with gears and spikes, claws and tractor treads. They say any restoration project gets even messier before it gets better, and I wholeheartedly agree.
I only had an hour or so until the men who ran the machines would show up and turn the rest of the workday into something that sounded and felt like carpet bombing. The exhibits inside were covered with new layers of plaster dust every day as the building shook with the repair work. However, the old (circa 1902) girl was withstanding the inadvertent seismic testing remarkably well.
I sniffed. The past few weeks the air in Platts Landing has smelled faintly of smoke. A couple large wildfires raged upriver. Hundreds of Department of Natural Resources and contracted firefighters had set up camp on the high school football field and at the county fairgrounds. They were working to exhaustion in twelve-hour shifts but not making much progress in containing the fires that ripped through acres of steep canyons fueled by stiff winds and dead timber.
The past two nights, there’d been an orange glow to the northeast. Some said the fires were merging. No question they were moving closer.
I spun around, checking the barely green — thanks to the sprinkler system — grass in the county park. Something was wrong.
It took me a second to place the source of my unease — the silence. No bird calls.
There’s usually a busy chatter among the treetops when I arrive in the morning. Instead, I heard a quiet phoooom — a sucking sound, an inhale that didn’t end. Then snap crackles, like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
I dropped my bag and ran.
The sight around the corner of the Imogene halted me in my tracks, and I winced from the surge of heat. I dropped to my knees at the water spigot and fumbled with hooking up the hose.
I cranked on the faucet and lunged forward, unlooping rubber coils as water gushed out of the nozzle.
The flames encompassing the barkdust pile shot into the sky — two, three times my height. Vicious and fast. I aimed at their base and wiped sweat from my eyes.
“I’ve got it, Meredith.” A pair of strong, calloused hands wrapped between mine and took over grappling with the hose. “Call the fire department.” His gray-green eyes were near to level with mine. They squinted to capable slits against the intensity of the flames, the pupils pinpricks. Dark lashes. Already sweat dripped down his weathered cheeks. I’d never seen him before.
I nodded, turned and ran — back to my truck and the bag that held my phone.
The volunteer fire department responded fast enough to finish dousing the flames with their high-powered hoses.
“Thanks, Henry.” The captain slapped my unknown liberator on the back. “Stuff’s combusting at the drop of a hat around here.” He pursed his lips and scuffed his boot through some of the scattered barkdust. “Spread the heaps out and keep it wet the rest of the day.”
He turned and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You all right, Meredith?”
I sighed and nodded.
“Janet and I are looking forward to the wedding. Be a good idea if you were still in one piece for that.” He winked and trod through the puddles back to the bright red tanker truck.
Yeah, my wedding. My stomach flip-flopped a few times. It’s been doing that ever since Pete proposed. I guess I’ll get used to it. Or maybe not. I’m crazy about that man. I grinned.
Speaking of men, Henry had grabbed a rake from the tangle of tools in the rotting gazebo and was distributing the remaining bark dust over a wide radius with quick, springy motions.
He must have felt me watching him because he glanced my direction. “This place used to have an amazing kitchen garden. Grew just about everything you could think of to eat. Were you going to start it up again?” His thick, crew-cut silver hair stood up like a bristle brush and glinted in the sunlight. A few grease streaks on his jeans gave me the first inkling of who he might be.
“I’d hoped to have the raised beds rebuilt before first frost and compost them over winter.” I picked up the hose and started spraying the blanket of newly exposed barkdust. “I wasn’t counting on such a long dry spell. Maybe I’ll change the plan to pea gravel paths between the beds.”
Henry chuckled. “I’ve missed officially meeting you several times over the past year. But Frankie talks about you constantly. If I didn’t know better, I’d be jealous.” He stepped near and stuck out his right hand. “Henry Parker.”
“Frankie?” I scowled briefly, struggling with the connection, but I owed this man much more than a handshake. He’s a retired Army helicopter mechanic and had flown his own personal whirlybird on several search missions for people very important to me. I grasped his extended hand. “Thank you. For everything.” I hoped he knew what I meant.
“I was driving down the access road when I saw you take off running. Figured there was a reason,” he replied.
“Oh my goodness,” a high feminine voice piped behind me. “I saw the puddles in the parking lot and the smell—” Frankie picked her way across the uneven ground in her sensible, tasseled loafers. “Oh my goodness,” she said again when she saw the mucky mess. Then she flushed bright pink. “Henry.”
“Hello, darlin’.” Henry’s wide grin made his ears stick out a little farther beyond his short hair. “Brought your blender back.”
My mouth fell open. I retreated a few steps and played the water over scraggly bushes in the museum’s landscaped border, pretending I was invisible. But I kept a keen watch out of the corner of my eye.
“Well — well. That’s awfully nice of you.” Frankie tittered and pinched one of her dangly earrings. “And so fast.”
“Couldn’t have you going without salad dressing. Besides, the part was in stock.” Henry tipped the rake against the museum’s stone exterior and slid a hand under Frankie’s elbow. “It’s in my truck.” He ushered her around the corner.
Salad dressing? And Frankie hadn’t uttered one word to me. How had they met each other, and I didn’t even know about it? Clearly, I had some prying to do.
oOo
After Henry’s truck sped off along the access road — handing over a repaired blender took an extremely long time — and the museum’s garden-to-be was properly flooded, I snuck around the corner and into the gift shop.
Frankie was flicking a feather duster over the glass shelves displaying hand blown paperweights and beaded Klickitat pouches.
“So?” I let the silence get long and uncomfortable. It’s not that I expect to be filled in on all my friends’ important details, like a new love interest. Well, actually, I do. I take Frankie’s wellbeing personally — especially since I blew up her last relationship. Technically, Deputy Owen Hobart was responsible for the pyrotechnics with a lobbed flashbang, but that’s another story.
Frankie pursed her lips. “I didn’t want to jinx it by even hinting there might be a possibility—” She sighed deeply. “Henry’s nice, don’t you think?”
“Nice?” I spluttered. “He’s on my forever indebted list. And Sheriff Marge relies on him for air searches and patrols. That’s more than enough of a recommendation for me. I just didn’t know — uh, are you feeding the man?”
A tiny smile pushed dimples into Frankie’s cheeks. “He’s romantic.”
I guess fixing a blender qualifies as romantic. In fact, I’m sure it does. “And?”
“Patient.” Frankie’s helmet hair bobbed emphatically. “I like that trait — patient.”
“You mean after Zane?”
“And my ex. And — well, just about every other man I’ve known. He’s happy just doing everyday things with me — the dishes even. Amazing.”
I gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “If you go flying with him, make sure the machine you’re in is licensed, okay? I’ve heard he’s working on some experimental stuff.”
“Oh, no.” Frankie’s warm brown eyes turned serious as she stepped back to look in my face. “He’s meticulous about safety. You should see his shop. You could eat off the floor in there, and he puts every tool back as soon as he’s finished with it. They’re all labeled, so I can help him.” She bounced on her toes with enthusiasm. “When he says he needs a certain wrench, I can find it.”
I glanced around the perfectly organized gift shop and grinned at the idea of a man’s obsessive tidiness melting a woman’s heart. “Sounds like I need to get to know Henry better. But mum’s the word around town — I promise — until you’re ready.”
Frankie’s dimples flashed again. “I’ll set something up.”
A brown blur skidded to a screeching halt outside the museum’s double glass front doors. Frankie gasped and slapped a hand over her chest. “One of these days he’s going to come right through. I’ve had enough of these theatrics. Doesn’t that boy know he’s taking his life in his hands?”
She marched out to the sidewalk and lectured our middle-aged, balding UPS driver with her beringed index finger tapping against his chest. He nodded soberly and handed her the electronic clipboard to sign. I chuckled. They go through the motions every time.
