Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (17 page)

An annoying beeping penetrated the Imogene’s thick walls, then the bright yellow cab of a backhoe jounced past the kitchen window in reverse, Scott, stony-faced behind wraparound sunglasses, at the controls. He was jockeying the machine into place and didn’t seem to notice that he was about eye level with a motley conference in progress a few feet away on the other side of the window.

I shot to my feet. How could I have forgotten? The hole Quincy had fallen into was almost directly outside the kitchen. Sheriff Marge was probably having Scott set up so they could hoist the body out.

I darted to the window and yanked down the shade, plunging the room into gloomy grayness.

Pete tipped back in his chair and flipped on the switch for the overhead light.

All eyes in the kitchen rotated to me. It didn’t seem appropriate to tell them I was trying to spare them the grotesque sight of a dead man swinging by the window in a jury-rigged rope harness. My stomach wouldn’t stop churning. I pressed my hands hard against my middle.

Pete patted the seat of the chair I’d just vacated.

I eased back into it, carefully exhaling the breath I’d been holding. “Sorry. Privacy,” I muttered.

Pete rested his arm on the back of my chair and clamped my shoulder with a warm hand. He knew. Of course, he knew. I gripped his knee under the table.

I watched Agent Simmons’s eyebrows for signs of what he was thinking. They slowly descended from their arched position, settled into more natural curves as he filled the interval with another slurp of coffee. Those wiry hairs were almost like antennae. I wondered if he could sense deception with them.

“The weapons have serial numbers,” Pete said, breaking the awkward pause.

Agent Simmons nodded. “Guardado’s made a name for himself in the business. He guarantees quality, and for that he demands, and gets, higher prices. The serial numbers are left intact to prove origin and date of manufacture — to show that he hasn’t swapped used, cheap Romanian models that are known to jam and misfire for Bulgarian guns with milled receivers, for example. It’s a risky move on his part, but so far his distribution has been secure enough to allow for it.”

Agent Simmons’s face tightened into a small smile of satisfaction. “The pressure we’ve been applying finally took its toll. He made a mistake this time. We think he was stuck with a surplus from his last deal, didn’t have a good place to store the weapons and needed to unload them in a hurry to cover his tracks, so he dumped them in the shipment to you. Based on his phone calls, he may have been trying to find a buyer while the load was in transit, planning to steal his own guns back.”

“So now he knows the guns are in our basement,” Rupert said. “We’re sitting ducks.”

“It’s not hard to track a freight shipment.” Pete returned the airborne legs of his chair to the floor with a thud. “All the potential clients Guardado contacted could also know where the guns are. They might decide to help themselves to the weapons without the services of a middleman since they’re not under his control any more. Sounds like the guns are up for grabs — first come, first serve.”

“Exactly. We’d like to give it a few days and see who shows up.”

I gripped the edge of the table. “Guarded, right? Surveillance?”

Agent Simmons nodded. “We won’t actually leave all the guns here. It’s too bad you don’t have a loading dock. That part is going to be challenging. We’ll leave the crates, weighted and with just enough guns on top to make them interesting. We’ll use covert teams to keep round-the-clock watch. They’re already on the way here since we’re counting on you to say yes — and since we’re nowhere near a major airport. They’re flying into
Portland, then they’ll hit the road.” Agent Simmons checked his watch. “The first team should arrive around 7:00 tonight.”

A grin was slowly spreading across my face. I couldn’t think of a better way to protect the Near East Bronze Age collection than men in black. They’d be watching the whole museum as well as the dummied-up arms shipment.

“I know a way you can move the guns out without arousing too much suspicion,” I said, “but you’d have to bring one more person in on this deal. I’ll vouch for his trustworthiness, if that counts?”

Agent Simmons shrugged.

“You also need to talk to Sheriff Marge about a couple guys in a maroon Taurus,” I continued. “They were spotted in town yesterday.”

“Advance scouts. I wonder what rebel army is coming,” Frankie murmured.

CHAPTER 17

It was Sheriff Marge who ended up crashing our party with an impatient phone call.

“The Feds still hassling you?” she blurted when I answered.

“Collaborating,” I whispered as I ducked out of the kitchen.

“Huh. I need to talk to the lead agent.”

“We’ve battened down the hatches,” I said. “Meet me at the front doors, and I’ll let you in.”

But before I led Sheriff Marge back to the enclave in the kitchen, I grilled her for details about the investigation outside. I figured she wouldn’t want to spout the fragments of evidence they’d collected in front of the FBI until she and her deputies had had time to connect the dots and draw a few working hypotheses.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“
Quincy’s still dead, if that’s what you mean.”

I glared at her.

Sheriff Marge sighed and removed her Stratton hat which she tapped against the side of her leg. “We might be wrapping up the arson investigations, though. Quincy was on Bob’s suspect list. Found an almost empty bottle of charcoal lighter fluid under the body.”

“
Quincy was a volunteer firefighter.” I frowned.

“Bob’s pretty shook up about it. But with so much territory to cover, the fire department accepts just about anyone unless they have a medical condition that would prevent them from serving. The fire district does background checks before approving new volunteers, and
Quincy came up clean.”

Sheriff Marge squinted toward the glass front doors, watching Archie and Scott as they inspected the machinery parked in front of the museum, before continuing, “Being a firefighter gave
Quincy the proximity to appreciate his handiwork if he was the arsonist. Happens sometimes — if someone’s fascinated by fire, they can take one of two routes — dedicate themselves to putting out fires or to starting fires. Occasionally someone will do both. There’s also evidence that Quincy’s business picked up because the fires scared people into buying greater insurance coverage.”

“But charcoal lighter fluid wasn’t used at any of the other arsons, especially not in this quantity.”

Sheriff Marge nodded. “One of the pieces that doesn’t fit. Not sure what to make of that yet.”

“And you don’t think
Quincy just fell into the hole, accidentally?” I crossed my arms over my middle and leaned against the wall beside the glass-fronted cabinet holding the fire extinguisher we’re required to have available to public access. A lot of good that would do against a thorough dousing of lighter fluid. I was just glad Quincy hadn’t been inside the Imogene when he got match-happy.

“Couple things.” Sheriff Marge polished the badge on the front of her hat with a stubby finger. “Scott has safety logs. He and Will both noted that all the steel plates were in place over the holes before they left the site last night. Now, they could be lying and have fudged the records, but Scott has a good reputation. Dale and Owen are interviewing all the other workers separately, just to see if they have complaints about how safety measures were enforced or saw anything last night.” She jammed the hat back on her head. “
Quincy’s injuries seem too severe for just a fall of that distance. We’re gonna have to wait for the autopsy.”

“What kind of injuries?”

“He’s pretty messed up, as you saw. I’m interested in his bruises, which I can’t distinguish from the livor mortis. Glad that’s the medical examiner’s job — I don’t have the stomach for it.”

“Has anyone seen the maroon Taurus with
Florida plates today?” I asked.

Sheriff Marge scowled. “We’ve been here most of the day. Why?”

“I’m wondering if Quincy encountered the scouts who were tracing our arms shipment lurking around the museum in the dark. It would have been an unpleasant surprise for both parties.”

Sheriff Marge snorted.

“If there’s any good news in all of this, you’ll have backup soon — a lot more FBI agents are arriving tonight. And there’s coffee in the kitchen.”

“You make it?” Sheriff Marge asked.

“Is that important?” I cast a sidelong glance at her.

“Maybe I’m going to need to stay up all night anyway.”

oOo

While Agent Simmons and Sheriff Marge haggled over operational details, I placed a call to my favorite tavern owner. Mac MacDougal also happens to be the master craftsman who designs and builds specialized display cabinets for the Imogene’s collections.

“You tired of Pete yet?” Mac answered. “’Cause I’m ready whenever you are.”

It took me a moment to find my tongue. Of course, Mac was joking. “You’d break Val’s heart,” I replied.

“I know. She’s something, isn’t she? I need to talk to Pete about where to pick up a ring.”

Considering that the first time I met Val she’d almost clocked me with a can of chili, I’d agree she was a firecracker. I grinned. “Yes, you do. And hurry up about it. But in the meantime, I need your help.”

“Anything for you.”

“You should probably hear the details on this one before you commit. I have a basement full of FBI agents, and you’re sworn to secrecy.”

Mac roared, a full-bellied laugh. Then he stopped abruptly and held his breath for a long second. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“Bring your step van and a couple of those extra display cases you always having sitting around. We’re going to play a shell game.”

When I returned to the kitchen, it was empty. Abandoned Styrofoam cups littered the table, and the chairs sat at odd angles, wherever they’d been shoved out of the way. I couldn’t help doing a little straightening before rushing downstairs.

I found the manual labor being performed by two distinct groups.  The FBI didn’t want us to touch the guns. Kind of funny considering what we’d been doing before they arrived, but I figured it was better not to ruffle the federal feathers.

So the Imogene contingent was busy selecting broken display cases and old furniture that could be loaded into Mac’s step van. The key criteria for the items’ conscription was the fact that I never wanted to see the piece again and each needed to had a cavity or some other way to conceal weapons parts.

Pete pulled me aside. “Sheriff Marge told me to tell you she’ll be back. They decided that a homicide investigation outside might deter any gun runners from taking a look around the Imogene, so she’s wrapping up the scene as fast as she can.” Then he leaned near my ear. “She mentioned she thinks
Quincy was murdered, but she doesn’t want the others to know yet. Said they have enough to worry about as it is. But Babe—” His face was drawn, worried.

“I’ll fill you in later,” I murmured. “Isn’t that what pillow talk is for?”

Pete grunted and gave me a quick squeeze. “Not usually.”

Once he had a handle on the potential threats and a plan to implement, Agent Simmons turned out to be quite magnanimous, and we all worked in amicable, if hurried, silence. By the time Mac banged on the basement door, we had a long queue of boxy cases and cabinets loaded and ready to roll.

“Wheweee,” Mac blurted when I opened the door. “You need a few hot dogs to go with your charcoal? What happened?”

I pulled Mac inside and slammed the door.

“Just another arson,” I muttered. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about it yet.”

“Truth be told, your call woke me up.” Mac looked sheepish. “Had a late night last night.”

Mac always has late nights — or rather, late early mornings — since he runs a tavern. I patted his shoulder by way of apology.

Agent Simmons has mastered the art of dead-serious, intimidating, do-your-duty, patriotic persuasion. Mac alternately turned white at the gravity of the message, flushed pink with belligerence when his ability to keep a confidence was questioned, and ended the session with vigorous nodding, a flatly determined look on his scruffy face.

“I’m in,” Mac said. “My pole barn’s at your disposal. You understand I have to open the tavern tonight since we haven’t been closed one day since I bought the place ten years ago. You want to get tongues wagging about nothing, that’d be the way to do it. But I can get Jamie to fill in for me tending bar. If the guards stay out of sight, nobody will know the difference.”

Mac’s pole barn, located directly behind the tavern, served as both his home and his workshop. He slept in a cramped loft while his table saw, band saw, drill press, etc., received the best accommodations, widely spaced on the concrete slab floor to allow for maneuvering long boards. But they could be consolidated to make space for unexpected guests.