Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (10 page)

“Well, now, Harriet,” Herb murmured. “They’ll need their privacy.”

“Privacy?” Harriet looked surprised. “But there’s so much to do.”

oOo

That night, Pete and I sprawled in bed in the dark, lying still as the oscillating fan swished nominally cooler air over us. I stared up at the ceiling I couldn’t see, my mind racing over and over the events of the day, especially Herb and Harriet’s amazing generosity. No matter how tired I was, I would not be falling asleep anytime soon.

Pete’s breathing was even and deep, but he shifted uneasily. “Babe,” he murmured, “we don’t deserve this. How do we deserve this?”

“We don’t. We can’t,” I whispered back. “When Mom was giving me my pep talk before the wedding, she mentioned extending grace to each other. We were just given a huge dose of grace.”

Pete was silent for a long minute. Then, “You needed a pep talk before the wedding?”

“Because I don’t deserve
you
,” I whispered.

Pete pulled me tightly to his chest and held me there, his heart thumping steadily against mine. And that was all the answer I needed. More grace.

oOo

I rolled over, checked the clock and grinned at the unprecedentedly late hour. Tuppence’s whine had reached the urgent pitch that indicated her desire to go outside had moved from want to necessity. I snagged my robe off the floor and tiptoed to the door.

“You’re worse than a kid,” I whispered to her, but she just whapped her tail against my bare legs and scrambled down the steps. I was glad to see her constitution had returned to normalcy. Then she headed out on her morning inspection of the campsite.

Our campsite — our whole campground — and a real house to live in. Pete’s and mine. I hugged my arms across my chest, tipped my head against the doorframe and inhaled the smoky, almost smothering, air, and enjoyed the view I have come to consider essential to my survival.

Sunlight winked off the river’s deep blue ripples. The water seemed to be the only thing moving, and even it was sluggish. The maple leaves drooped, stagnant and limp, creating solid blobs of shade instead of the dappled patterns that usually flickered across the lawn.

In the winter, I sometimes get sick of the rain. But if we were to have a freak shower right now, I’d dance in it barefoot and let it soak me through. We needed it so badly.

I latched the screen door — it was the same degree of stifling both inside and out — and crept back to bed. I lifted the sheet and scooted in beside Pete.

He wrapped me in a hug, and his kisses found my neck. “Are we sleeping in?” he murmured.

“Mmmmm.” I returned the kisses. “Greg can’t get here until after noon, and I don’t want to shortchange him. I promised the entire thrill — including acres of cardboard boxes needing to be flattened and mountains of packing paper and bubble wrap. It’s a glamorous job, which means I don’t start until he joins me.”

“So I get you all to myself for half a day?” Pete pushed up on his elbows and smiled down at me. Those sapphire blue eyes with their crinkle corners turn me all loopy. Every single time. There’s no cure. “Let’s go for a ride.”

I am not the kind of girl who turns down an offer like that.

oOo

Pete loves the back roads — the ones that aren’t gravel, anyway. The curvier the better, and we wound our way deep into Sockeye County, back into the hills, into thicker forest where in wetter days streams and creeks rush along the bottom of ravines and crash down cliff faces. The waterways were down to trickles now, seeping under moss covered logs and around boulders, but they still fed an abundance of foliage.

How is it that a color can change the temperature? But green always does that for me. I luxuriated in the cooler air in spite of my helmet and leather jacket.

We flew over a hill and down the other side where the landscape gave way to brown fields of stubble that had the texture of velvet nap — some lighter, some darker, some golden-brown, some khaki tan with hints of dusty green — depending on the crop and method of harvest. At the base of the hill, several buildings, small in the distance and hazy air, stood next to a huge black burn scar.

As we drew closer, I realized one of the buildings wasn’t small — in fact it had giant doors, one of which had been pushed open on its roller track. A hanger. And I knew where we were.

Pete pulled into the long dirt driveway, and we slowly bounced around the potholes. Deep gouges from heavy truck tires had churned up the dead grass on either side of the road, effectively widening it — the fire trucks from yesterday. The mud had already dried into ruts.

Frankie’s little white pickup and another vehicle I didn’t recognize — a gold-toned Mercedes too old to be hip but too young to be vintage, the kind with a trunk bigger than a whirlpool bathtub and a backseat roomy enough for a trio of NBA centers, complete with a volunteer firefighter sticker on the bumper  — were parked near the open hangar door.

The Harley’s rumble announced our arrival. Frankie and Henry appeared in the doorway before we had a chance to remove our helmets.

“Mornin’.” Henry stuck out his hand to shake with Pete.

“Close call,” Pete replied, nodding toward the several acres of scorched earth beside Henry’s hangar.

“Yeah.” Henry ran a hand over his silver crew cut and glanced at me. “Fires popping up everywhere. All calm at the Imogene?”

I smiled. “Thanks to you.”

“Seems that was just a warm-up for me.” Henry shook his head. “Come in and have some coffee.”

Frankie beamed, hooked her arm through mine and led me inside. While most of the space was occupied with helicopter skeletons and motors  in various stages of assembly and repair, Henry had a cozy sitting area in one corner of the otherwise utilitarian space. A few mismatched upholstered chairs and rag rug were clustered around a currently unlit wood stove.  Nearby, a microwave sat on a counter and a mini refrigerator hummed underneath it. A coffee maker burbled next to the sink.

A padded rocking chair with a 1960s modern vibe was occupied by Quincy Nugent. He had papers spread all over the low coffee table in front of him and was tapping the end of a pen against a manila folder. A tight frown pulled down the corners of his washed-out blue eyes. He was wearing the entire uniform again, from pointy-toed boots to bolo tie.

“Refill, Quincy?” Frankie chirped.

Quincy
glanced up, and his face split into a syrupy smile when he saw me. “You bet. Best coffee I’ve ever had.”

Frankie snorted softly, then whispered to me, “Just Folgers. But he can think what he likes.
Quincy is reviewing Henry’s policy, updating it for additional fire protection.” She bustled over to the makeshift kitchen and pulled mugs from a cupboard covered with a checked gingham curtain.

Pete dropped into a recliner that was patched together with duct tape, and I perched on the matching footstool next to him.

“Any idea about the cause?” Pete asked.

“Kids.”
Quincy let the disgust flow in his voice.

“Well, now,” Henry said, giving Frankie a squeeze and a wink as she handed him a brimming mug, “maybe not the best decision of their young lives, but it was just boys bein’ boys.”

“Boys?” I asked, remembering the delinquents Sheriff Marge had mentioned she was keeping an eye on.

“Neighbor kids and their cousins — twelve- to fourteen-year-olds. They must’ve finally got that old Volvo runnin’. Can’t drive it on the streets yet, of course. But since they’re farm kids they can tear around the fields. Took it skidding.”

Pete ducked his head and chuckled — that deep, manly, inside joke type of chuckle. 

I scowled. “What’s skidding?”

“Best done on a fresh cut field with a layer of straw. Slicker’n snot.” Henry laughed. “Heckuva lotta fun.”

“I take it both of you have done this?” I squinted from Pete to Henry and back. What did I miss by growing up in a city? Or by being a girl?

“It’s kind of like doing doughnuts — you know those circles of tire rubber you see in the high school parking lot? — except you do it in a wheat field after it’s been cut. And you do it in a beater car because you’ll probably end up in a ditch—” Pete shrugged, “if you think that far ahead. The back end flies out—” He moved his hands to demonstrate the pleasurable spinning effect.

The mere idea made my stomach queasy.

“Or if you accelerate like mad and crank it into a slide,” Henry added, “you can go for a hundred yards, more, on a good patch.” He glanced into his mug with a gurgled, throat-clearing noise that sounded suspiciously like the male form of a giggle.

Pete was still chuckling too. Apparently, some rowdy memories were being unearthed in those two skulls.

Frankie and I shared a frown. She’s a former city girl like me, and I think we were both thinking the same thing — boys are crazy, and maybe it was better we hadn’t met our boys until they’d turned into men.

“What does this have to do with the fire?” she asked.

“Hot exhaust system and parched stubble. Not a good combination, especially with the weather lately. It only takes a spark or two,” Henry replied.

“Which is where your friendly insurance agent comes in.”
Quincy gathered the papers and tapped them into a pile. “Got you covered in the case of negligent neighbors.” He waved a check pinched between his first and second fingers in a sort of salute. “I’ll deposit this right away, and you can rest easy.” He turned to me. “Same problem can arise with construction equipment in these dry conditions. I noticed you’re having some repair work done at the Imogene. What’s the museum’s fire coverage limit?”

“More than sufficient,” I gritted out, not entirely sure of the truth of my statement, but there was no way I was giving
Quincy free information. He seemed quite capable of gathering that on his own.

His persistent nosiness raised my hackles. Of course, as a volunteer firefighter, he had to appear at the scene of fires, and as an insurance agent, he had to take care of his clients, and plenty of times those two probably overlapped. It’s not like
Sockeye County residents had a wide selection of insurance agents to choose from. Maybe Quincy was just a natural salesman. Maybe being a fireman helped him drum up more business. Schmoozers have never been my favorite people.

As if he could read my thoughts,
Quincy said, “You just let me know if you need anything. No appointment necessary. I do policy assessments all the time — gratis.” He stood and brushed invisible dust off his scrawny thighs.

I was waiting for him to smack his backside, because that was the more likely spot for dust to be, but he disappointed me. He hefted his briefcase — pristine and far too shiny to be real leather — and clomped toward the door. “Y’all take care now.”

His absence left an uncomfortable silent void behind as the four of us sat there, fiddling with our mugs and studying the faded colors in the rag rug. I had a lot of things I wanted to say — about Quincy — but none of them were nice. Why did that man get under my skin?

Pete ran the back of his finger along my arm, and I shivered. Not because I was cold — far from it— but because he gives me the tingles and he knows it. He grinned at me — those blue eyes again — and I had more pleasant things to think about.

“So, Henry,” Pete said, “you’re convinced the fire was an accident? No sign of accelerants?”

Henry shook his head. “Bob even borrowed an arson dog and handler from Portland Fire & Rescue. They’ve been going over the scenes from the rash of fires we’ve had lately. The dog, Lily — a sweet black lab — did alert at several of the other locations, but not here. While preventable, this fire wasn’t intentional.” He stretched and pressed his fists into his lower back. “Naw, this was definitely the neighbor boys. They’ve already been over this morning — their dad brought them — and they were right scared by what might have been. Won’t happen again. They’re good kids. In fact, I might be helping out with a Volvo muffler here in the next few weeks.” Henry chuckled. “Aw, man, where has the time gone? I was just like them not too long ago.”

Frankie patted his arm, then turned to me. “Speaking of time, when do the opening ceremonies start?”

“Just after lunch.”

“I’ll be there.” She rubbed her hands together with a dimpled smile. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

CHAPTER 11

Pete and I stopped at the traile
r for a quick early lunch, then he headed to the port for an afternoon of touch-up painting and maintenance on the
Surely
— the kind of tasks that can’t be done when she’s underway. Pete had a now-or-never time window for those kinds of repairs since harvest tow jobs would soon keep him working beyond overtime for the next few months.