Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (21 page)

“Even if we’re not technically supposed to have some of the items, maybe I can arrange a semi-permanent loan or come to some other official agreement. Rupert and I wouldn’t feel good about putting pieces on display if they’ve been stolen in one form or another and we didn’t do anything about it.”

“We have legats in Amman and Ankara.” Agent Simmons rocked his head from side to side, stretching his neck. “I’ll put in a request. But don’t hold your breath.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

After he returned to the dark wallows of the basement, I soaked and wrung out a dishcloth and started wiping down the food-crusted surfaces, remembering Rhonda’s dismal kitchen. There are happy messes, busy messes and plain old pathetic grime. Rhonda’s was the latter. The least I could do was tidy up after the FBI team that was protecting my beloved museum.

My phone rang, and I dug it out of my pocket.

“Guess what we found,” Sheriff Marge said.

“I don’t think you’d like any of my attempts,” I replied.

“Right. One maroon Ford Taurus, sans license plates.”

“Whoa.” I  blurted. “Where? Did you find the men too?”

“Nope.”

I groaned. “Was it wrecked? Did they wander off? Injured?” I spewed my stream of consciousness without waiting for her explanation. In my sorry state, imagining the men injured and incapacitated was far preferable to having them still freely roaming the countryside — and scoping out the museum.

Sheriff Marge sniffed loudly to stop my verbal deluge. “You probably don’t know Griffin Hughes. No reason you should, except he’s a lot like you. Hordes old junk.”

“Hey.” I couldn’t help the indignation that crept into my tone. “It’s my job. And it’s not junk. They’re valuable articles of artistic and historic—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sheriff Marge muttered. She might have been smiling, but it was hard to tell from her gruff voice. “Spare me the lecture.”

I flopped onto a folding chair and waited. I never should have interrupted her. Suspense was the penalty I’d pay. I tried to endure patiently.

“Griff runs the equivalent of an auto parts yard, but solely for his own amusement, not for profit. He collects but rarely sells even though he has acres of virtually worthless rusted out vehicles. There are a few gems parked out back that will probably be auctioned off once he dies.” Sheriff Marge paused to participate in a muted conversation in the background. I wondered what scene she was cleaning up now and tapped my fingers on my thigh.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” she continued, returning to the phone. “What matters is that Griff has an encyclopedic knowledge of what’s in his lot, which means he noticed straight off that he had an addition — an addition he never would have willingly obtained since he’s strictly loyal to GM products.”

“They stowed the Taurus in his junkyard?”

“Probably thought they were hiding it. Squeezed it between a Nova SS 350 coupe and a Pontiac Grand Safari station wagon that dwarfed the Taurus. But Griff’s a sharp old geezer. He also happens to live about two miles from Jack Roscoe’s place. Seems odd we have two semi-trucks stolen and one car abandoned on that same stretch of road.”

“Are you saying the Taurus men are now driving Jack’s semis?”

“Could be. Or they might be in a completely different vehicle. Griff says none of his are missing. They wouldn’t be, though, because most aren’t running. And he doesn’t leave the keys in the ignition the way Jack did.”

I took a deep breath. “So we’re assuming those two men are still here in Sockeye County, and we’re not sure what vehicle they’re driving, and we still don’t know what they look like other than Ginger’s brief descriptions which could have been just about any pair of males anywhere.”

“Exactly. And they might not be traveling together anymore either. Keep your eyes open. Remember, we’re not sure why they’re here, but I think we can scratch tourism off the list.”

CHAPTER 21

Pete and I left work early, but not too early — in every way trying to maintain the illusion that all was well and normal at the Imogene. Frankie offered to hound sit, much to Tuppence’s satisfaction since she views Frankie as a treat genie. Pete had wrestled us an appointment with Deuce Hollis, the Tinsleys’ lawyer. I guess Deuce was our lawyer too, since he was the only one with his shingle out in Platts Landing.

And by wrangling an appointment, I meant just that — Deuce is notoriously hard to pin down with regard to schedule and location because he vastly prefers fly fishing to producing paperwork filled with legalese. Since Deuce had actually confirmed an appointment, we made sure to appear promptly lest we lose our one chance.

Pete parked in front of Deuce’s office on Main Street. There were only a handful of other cars stationed in the parallel spots in the downtown business core. Apparently people had better things to do than go shopping on a dry, blisteringly hot Friday afternoon in Platts Landing. I already dreaded returning to the pickup after it had sat in the blazing sun for however long it would take us to sign the papers.

Pete pulled open the door situated between two smudged plate glass windows boasting Deuce’s name and occupation in peeling gold letters. The waiting area consisted of a pair of armchairs upholstered in crackled leatherette and a glass coffee table that proved a match for the front windows in its need for cleaning. A dead spider plant in a celadon ceramic pot was positioned in the perfect center of the table.

“C’mon back,” a voice called from the depths of the narrow space.

Pete and I shuffled down a dark hallway which terminated in an equally dingy private office. Law journals and case books bound in beautiful old leather lined the walls on sagging bookshelves, giving the small room a claustrophobic coziness. An ancient air conditioning unit clattered from its high perch, garish birthday streamers attached to the grill fluttering evidence it was working as hard as it could.

Behind the desk sat a small man, in perfect proportion to his surroundings. He half stood and extended his right hand which Pete and I both shook before he dropped back into his chair with a whoosh of the seat cushion.

“Glad you made it,” Deuce said.

“Me too,” Pete answered, shooting me an amused grin.

“This won’t take long.” Deuce stole a quick glance at his watch — as though happy hour had just started at the local stream and he was missing out on the best chance to hook up with a cute fish — and bent to rummage through the file drawer in his desk.

He had a gray frizzy Friar Tuck hairstyle — naturally occurring, I guessed, and I got a good look at the top of his shiny head. He straightened and thumped a hefty stack of paper on the desktop then daintily adjusted his spectacles by squinching his nose just so as he scanned the top sheet.

Deuce was the sort of man who would wear elbow patches on his jacket sleeves. But not today. The long sleeves of his dress shirt were pushed up around his well-developed biceps — probably from all that casting and reeling. He was a far cry from what I’d imagined based upon his unusual name. I’d expected a cigar-chomping poker player in suspenders with chest hair popping out above the collar of his grungy t-shirt.

But Deuce’s fussiness gave me confidence. Whatever documents he drew up would have all the details properly attended to, even if he didn’t know what a vacuum cleaner was for and had never pulled the trigger of a Windex spray bottle.

“Mmhmmm,” Deuce grunted. “That’s right. Refreshing my memory. I prepared this property transfer almost eight months ago. Everything’s in order.” He spun the pile of papers around to face us and handed over two pens.

“I hope you’re signing with your married name.” Deuce’s face pulled into a pucker as if he suddenly smelled something offensive. “I don’t want to have to retype these.”

I quickly nodded. “Meredith Sills, yes.”

Pete’s brows drew together. “Eight months ago?”

We’d been engaged for less than a month before the wedding.

“That’s right,” Deuce said. “The Tinsley twins have been planning this for some time.” Deuce’s pale blue eyes bounced between Pete and me. “We’ve just been waiting for the two of you to figure out what we already knew. Now, if you’ll sign and date here.” He poked a finger at the open lines at the bottom of the first page.

Pete’s left hand landed on my knee under the desk as we launched into the signatures. I cast a sideways glance at him. He was chewing his bottom lip — a sure sign that he was both concentrating and consternated. I ducked my head with a grin.

Being subjected to sure-footed nosiness was our just deservements, what we got for living in Sockeye County — where everybody knows everybody else’s business, in our case before we even knew it ourselves. We’d had such a huge cheering section and several coaching interventions as we’d klutzed our way through courtship, it had almost been a conspiracy. What would I ever do without these people?

Deuce whipped the pages over one after another, creating a little breeze, as Pete and I scribbled where he directed and tried to keep up with his explanations of what we were signing. My hand started to cramp.

“Good.” Deuce pulled the completed stack toward himself and tapped it into order. “I’ll file this at the courthouse on Monday. May I congratulate you on being property owners? Taxes are due April and October. You’ll receive a postcard reminder from the county treasurer.” He blinked at us from behind his glasses, and I noticed for the first time that they were surprisingly absent of smudges. Two bits of glass Deuce did know how to clean.

I was staring back at him, still trying to take it all in, when he glanced at his watch again. Oh, right — the waiting fish.

Pete nudged my elbow, and we beat a hasty retreat, murmuring out thank yous on the way out the door. We sat in the truck, letting the built-up heat escape out the windows and trying to recover from the weight of responsibility that had settled on us.

“Wow,” Pete said. “It’s for real, huh?”

I gave him a wobbly smile. “Now we have roots.”

Pete reached for me. “Are you prepared to kiss a newly minted landowner?”

“Always.” I leaned into him.

Okay, maybe I ended up on his lap, pressed against the steering wheel. And I suddenly got a whole lot warmer. If the windows had been closed, we would have steamed them up. It was a good thing there weren’t any unsuspecting pedestrians strolling downtown for the next several minutes — or if there were, I sure didn’t notice them.

“Maybe we should go home,” Pete murmured against my neck, “and thank Herb and Harriet again.” But he didn’t remove his arms from around my waist.

I opened my eyes and traced his jawline with a fingertip.

“Or do you want to keep making out like a couple of teenagers?” Pete chuckled — that deep rumble that drives me crazy.

“Mmmm. Yes to both,” I whispered.

We shared another long, wet kiss before we disentangled and I slid off his lap.

“Don’t go too far.” Pete’s hand shot out and kept me from scooting along the bench seat.

With a grin, I fastened the middle seatbelt while he put the truck in gear.

In the gaps between the buildings, I caught glimpses of
Mt. Hood across the Columbia — the first time I’d seen her clearly in several weeks. Some of the smoke haze had lifted, leaving the sky powder blue. The dormant volcano, her surface worn down to the last remaining dingy snow and bare glaciers, was sporting a large lenticular cloud cap like the kind of floppy sun hat a socialite would wear to the Kentucky Derby.

It seems as though the strong gorge winds can manufacture moisture out of nothing — in exactly the same way they can also suck the fluid out of all vegetation, turning grasses and trees into dry crisps. But I was holding out hope for rain and considered the cloud a good sign. We sure needed precipitation. The chilly temperature last night also boded well for a major shift in our weather. The river sparkled deep sapphire blue, the same color as Pete’s eyes.

I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow and smiled up at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. I’m just happy.”

The brakes squealed as Pete pulled up at the intersection with Highway 14. He leaned down to sneak another smooch while we waited for the cross traffic.

A dirty pickup with the bed full of fence posts and rolls of wire slowed, its left turn signal blinking. The driver offered a friendly wave and grin as he caught us kissing. It was Archie Lanphier, in an ordinary t-shirt and ball cap. It appeared he was using some well-deserved off-duty time to prepare another section of his growing hobby — a vineyard.

Vehicles are supposed to slow down on the stretch of Highway 14 that bisects Platts Landing since there are no stoplights to control traffic, but that doesn’t mean everyone obeys the posted speed limit. In fact, very few do.

A white semi-truck with a trailer was approaching, rapidly closing on Archie’s bumper. In typical farmer style, Archie was being careful not to tumble his cargo around in the pickup bed, making a wide, slow turn onto Main Street — the kind of turn where the driver actually swerves a little in the opposite direction, riding the outside of his lane, just to give himself extra clearance.