Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (15 page)

Pete frowned, his brows drawn together in a tight line. “Some artifacts.” He bent over the row of boxes and quickly pulled off all the batting. Identical contents.

Greg hurried over, and we hovered as Pete removed a piece here and a piece there and started assembling something that more closely matched my notion of an assault rifle.

“Milled,” Pete muttered, “with a side mount optic scope.” He ran his hands over the surface of each part before he clicked it into place. “Screwdriver?” He glanced up, and Greg scrambled to find the one he’d used yesterday.

Pete was clearly preoccupied. He jiggled a long spring-wrapped pin into place. He snapped more parts together with metallic thunks then twisted a couple screws to secure the stock. He hefted the rifle up to his shoulder as though testing the balance. “Probably Bulgarian.” He ran his right index finger over a little lever on the side of the barrel, then lowered the rifle and double-checked what he’d been fingering. “Full automatic. Definitely not legal for private use in this country.” He squinted closer and tipped the gun in the light. “Made last year. At least the serial number hasn’t been filed off.”

Pete leaned the rifle against a stack of crates, resting it on the butt end. It looked menacing, just propped there. I shivered.

“There are several hundred rifles here if these boxes are all the same, and we haven’t touched the larger boxes yet.” Pete spoke quietly. “Ammo’s heavy, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s dispersed through the rest of the shipment.”

“Ammo?” I croaked.

“Guns aren’t worth much without bullets.” Pete placed his hands on my shoulders, his face grave. “Do you still have the phone number of that FBI agent who came before? We need to call him — and Sheriff Marge.”

I nodded dumbly and stumbled for the stairs. I had the agent’s card somewhere in my office. George Simmons — a graying redhead with Andy Rooney eyebrows. He’d responded to an undeclared gold import that I’d received by accident — a financial crime. But he should know who to talk to about an arms smuggler and his potential terrorist customer.

CHAPTER 15

A crazy frenzy seized us. Pete, Greg and I unpacked like m
ad and decided to skip checking items off the list since most of what we were uncovering now wasn’t on the list anyway. A few trinkets had been nestled in among the gun parts, and I tucked them carefully into holding trays on a designated transit cart. When the dust settled, I hoped Greg and I would have a chance to review and identify them.

The closest FBI field office was hours away, and I’d only been able to leave a voice message for Agent Simmons. Sheriff Marge, on the other hand, was probably setting a land speed record on her way to the museum. She’d muttered enough before hanging up that I expected she was also bringing a deputy cavalcade.

I had an urgent desire to separate the artifacts from the weapons. I was guessing the FBI would confiscate anything associated with the shipment, but I wanted to be able to make a case for the Imogene’s keeping the items of historic and artistic value. I dreaded the thought of them being locked away in some unheated warehouse for decades while the case languished in the judicial system.

A thunderous knock sounded on the basement door. “You guys keep unpacking,” I hissed. “I’ll try to convince her to help us protect the artifacts.”

I pulled the door open, then quickly narrowed the gap — because the person on the other side wasn’t Sheriff Marge. How much had he seen? I wedged my body into the opening and plastered a fake smile on my face.

Scott was white — sickly white under his deep suntan — and he looked a little unsteady. He leaned an arm against the doorframe for support.

I frowned. “You okay?” I rapidly scanned my memory for how to treat sunstroke. I used to lifeguard during the summers when I was in college, but that was a long time ago.

“Your bad day just got worse,” Scott said.

I stopped breathing. Had he seen the rifles? I blinked a couple times, then realized he must be talking about the fire. Of course, arson was enough to ruin anyone’s day. I stood there with my mouth open.

“You need to see this.” Scott swallowed, his Adam’s apple fluttering, then he licked his lips. “We have to stop working.”

I stepped out into the bright sunlight and pulled the door closed behind me. “Okay.” I nodded encouragingly, hoping to prod Scott into action. He was still using the doorframe as a crutch. “Show me.”

“I guess you’ve seen this before. I heard about that—” Scott lifted his hard hat and swiped a hand over his scalp.

“Scott!” I almost stamped my foot. “What is it?”

Scott turned and started moving, his long legs eating the distance so that I had to trot to keep up.

I could tell where we were headed before we got there by the tight crowd of men in hard hats, orange t-shirts or orange reflective vests, dirty jeans and steel-toed boots — the construction worker’s uniform — gathered next to the Imogene’s north wall. They parted for us, and Scott stopped abruptly next to a deep, narrow hole — one of the many dug at regular intervals all around the building for the new support pillars that would relieve the original foundation of most of the Imogene’s considerable weight.

One of the workers was shining a flashlight down the hole. I peeked over the edge.

There at the bottom, twisted awkwardly in the protruding rebar framework was a body. He’d gone in head first, and I couldn’t see his face, but I’d recognize those pointy-toed boots anywhere. It was also obvious there was no need for a rescue attempt. Rebar can be sharp, and Quincy was a bloody mess. Old blood — dark brown and clotted, no hope evidenced in the form of a brighter, fresher red.

I swayed and clawed at Scott’s arm. Several hands grabbed me and pulled me back from the edge.

No doubt, I had acquired Scott’s pallor, and I was suddenly panting. “Did you called Sheriff Marge?” I wheezed.

Scott nodded. “Tried. Her line’s busy.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Focus. Focus. I inhaled. “She’ll be here soon.”

Scott didn’t ask me how I knew that. I think if I’d suggested that Sheriff Marge just has a sixth sense about tragedy, he probably would have accepted that as fact. As I scanned the faces in the group of men, it was clear we were all rattled.

I picked out Will Bremer — the deceased’s brother-in-law — and man responsible for framing the pillars in advance of the concrete pour. He looked about to collapse. He’d recognized the pointy-toed boots too.

A convoy of sheriff’s department vehicles — all four of them — streamed into the parking lot, light bars flashing, but no sirens. They fanned out and slammed to stops at the nearest end of the pavement, doors swung open and khaki forms came running across the lawn.

Deputy Archie Lanphier reached us first, due to his longer legs. “No need for a crowd,” he huffed. At our blank looks, he scowled. “What’s going on?”

Scott pointed toward the hole, and Archie strode forward, stiff and stern, in dour official business mode. But the sight at the bottom made him lurch back, as though he’d been electrocuted. He whirled around, his eyes finding mine. “Meredith?”

I could only shake my head.

“Okay, now.” Archie was at my side, hand around my elbow, leading me away, out of earshot. With his other hand, he was signaling Sheriff Marge who hadn’t yet reached the hole.

She was stumping along as fast as she could in the cast and veered toward us.

“Got another problem,” Archie said.

“Well, I didn’t figure we had an arms shipment in a hole,” Sheriff Marge snapped. “What’s wrong?”

“Quincy Nugent,” I whispered. “That’s who’s in the hole.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other deputies — Dale Larson and Owen Hobart — establishing a perimeter, moving the men away. Dale had a firm grip on Will’s arm, was separating him from the others, giving him space. Will still appeared shell-shocked.

“Ambulance?” Sheriff Marge barked, but she kept her voice down.

Archie shook his head. “Coroner.”

Sheriff Marge’s face dropped, her gray eyes narrowed. Then she exhaled — a huge gust — and turned to me. “This takes precedence over your other problem. You called the FBI?”

I nodded. “I’m sure they’ll respond as soon as they can.”

“Let’s hope so,” Sheriff Marge muttered. “What was
Quincy doing on the Imogene property?”

“He’s a volunteer firefighter. I don’t remember seeing him last night, but that doesn’t mean anything. I was a little frazzled.”

Archie whipped out a notebook and started scribbling in it. “I’ll ask Bob. He’ll know who turned out last night and what duties he assigned. But there would have been no reason for Quincy to come this far along the back of the building since the fire was at the other end.”

“And Scott had steel plates laid over each of the holes when they weren’t working in them. I know he did, because I checked regularly. Safety measures were an important part of the contract.” I bit my lip and watched the sunlight glint off the mica in the Imogene’s stone walls. The twinkles were incongruous with the flurry of morbid activity happening at her base. “We couldn’t risk having curious visitors getting in the way, so there were layers of barriers — the signage, restricted access and the plates.”

Archie tapped his pen against his chin. “No sign of a steel plate near the hole Quincy’s in.”

“They’re heavy. They have to be set in place by a machine — backhoe or something,” I added. “No way a plate could be accidentally bumped out of the way by a single man.”

“I’ll interview Scott, see if anything looks out of the ordinary with his equipment.” Archie made another note. “Or if they forgot a plate yesterday.”

My stomach dropped at the idea of Scott being blamed for negligence.

My phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket and answered.

“Meredith? This is Rhonda — Rhonda Nugent. I got your number from Tuppence’s records here at Doc Corn’s office. I hope you don’t mind.”

My lungs felts as though they were in a vice grip. I couldn’t squeeze out an answer for Rhonda.

She rushed on, though, oblivious. “I know there was a fire at the museum last night, and I was just wondering — well, he hasn’t come home, at least not yet, and he’s not answering his phone. Was the fire that bad? And — and — have you seen him?”

I still couldn’t speak. How could I tell this woman that I had seen her husband, and that he wouldn’t be coming home? Even though she and Quincy were in a rough patch in their marriage, there was nothing that could prepare her for this kind of shock. I knew how crushing it would be for me if anything happened to Pete.

“Meredith?” Rhonda squeaked.

I held out the phone to Sheriff Marge and silently mouthed Rhonda’s name.

Sheriff Marge turned ashen and ground her teeth, but she took the phone from me. She walked off a few paces and reluctantly raised the phone to her ear. The following conversation occurred in subdued tones, at least on Sheriff Marge’s part. Even from several feet away, I could hear Rhonda begin to wail.

“Oh, boy,” Archie breathed. “I hate this.” He stuffed the notebook back in his pocket. “One of the reasons I can’t bring myself to get married.”  He squared his shoulders, his face set in grim determination, and returned to the hole.

Sheriff Marge nudged the phone back into my hand with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you,” I murmured. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Would have rather done that in person.” Sheriff Marge pulled her glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose.

When she returned her glasses, she also returned to law enforcement mode. Her voice was weary but authoritative. “The problem you called about — it’s in the basement?”

I nodded.

“Go back there and stay. I want all the people who were inside the museum when Quincy was found to stay there, and all the people who were outside the building to stay out here until we get things sorted. Give me a call when you hear from the FBI.”

I wanted so badly to hug her, mainly because I needed to be held. But Sheriff Marge is a lonely, isolated figure when it comes to dealing with crisis. If I touched her, I felt her tough shell might crack, and she needed all the strength she could muster, even if it was just a reassuring facade for those under her care.

I trudged across the lawn, back to the black-sooted rear parking lot and charred dumpsters. The condemned oak tree appeared stark against the smoke-smudged sky, a skeleton left as a warning.

Sadness pinched me, wrapping its tentacles around my thoughts. I’d loved that tree. I should have been feeling wretched about
Quincy, but the tree struck sympathy in me that Quincy didn’t. Sure, he was a pest, but he didn’t deserve to die this way — in a confluence of horrible things — arson, arms trafficking, fatal negligence.

oOo

I called Frankie and Rupert to the basement. I walked into Pete’s arms and, from that place of warm safety, explained about the contents of the crates. Then I filled everyone in about the contents of one of the pillar holes outside. By the time I finished, the ring of faces around me was deathly white, and Pete’s arms were tighter. We stood in silence for several minutes while two very different catastrophes fought for attention in our minds.