Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (5 page)

CHAPTER 5

“What is that?” Pete gasped through the t-shirt fabric he’d pulled up over his nose and mouth.

I shrugged, keeping my finger and thumb pinched on my nose and mouth clamped shut. I poked my head through the opening.

Dim gloom. The thing that was missing was Tuppence greeting us at the door. The odor was almost, but not quite, the scent of death. Not to be too graphic about it, but there simply hadn’t been enough time for a carcass to reach this degree of ripeness, even if my dog had met her demise while we were gone.

A wheezy groan sounded from the far end of the living room. I crawled farther up the steps until my shoulders were inside. That’s when I saw the clues.

Mae Brock’s glass pan lay on the floor, empty. It had been licked completely clean. The tin foil cover had been discarded against the leg of a dining chair. About a foot from the empty dish was the first re-deposit of the pork sausage and stuffing casserole in the form of doggy barf.

I stepped gingerly around the glops of vomit that created a trail across first the hardwood floor in the kitchen and then the carpet in the living room — connect the dots — to the most pitiful looking hound in the world. She’d made it to her big pillow bed, but from her bloated belly and stiff legs, I guessed more of Mae’s casserole was threatening to erupt from Tuppence’s other end.

Tuppence rolled her eyes at me, the whites prominent, and shuddered a whimper.

“Oh, man,” Pete muttered over my shoulder, his words muffled by the shirt fabric still covering the lower half of his face. He placed his hands on my hips and moved me out of the way. “I’ll probably end up squeezing her a bit when I pick her up. You might not want to be in here for that.”

I retreated, snagging my purse and truck keys on the way out. I tied the trailer door open, potential thieves the least of my worries. In fact, I was pretty sure the odor inside would be a completely effective deterrent to anyone with either curious or criminal intent.

I climbed into my pickup, propped the passenger door open and started the engine. A few minutes later, Pete gently placed Tuppence in the pickup’s bed. He’d used her pillow as a type of litter, just scooped up the whole seventy-pound-plus miserable package. She was wedged into the cushion, kind of like a hot dog in a bun. Her tail hung limply out one end and I could barely see her nose out the other end.

Pete’s eyes were watering when he slid onto the bench seat and pulled his door closed. He immediately cranked down his window and cleared his throat a couple times.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I pulled out of our campsite. “This isn’t exactly romantic.”

He managed a wry smile. “If I recall correctly, I’m the one who left the casserole on the table. Seems I had other things on my mind at the time.”

I flashed a grin at him. “I just might have encouraged those other things, so I guess I’m complicit. Poor dog,” I murmured. “She’s never done that before. Probably bored or anxious.”

Pete laid a hand on my knee. “It’s never a dull moment with you, Babe.”

I groaned and turned east on Highway 14 toward Lupine, squinting against the sun glaring through the dirty windshield. I pressed the accelerator hard, bringing the speedometer needle up to ten miles over the speed limit. I didn’t want my dog to explode before we reached the vet clinic.

Under normal circumstances, Tuppence would have been ecstatic about being allowed to ride in the pickup bed, stretching her nose over the side, inhaling an entire universe of scents — the epitome of hound delights. It’s a pleasure I usually deny her, knowing it’s not safe, instead letting her ride shotgun inside the cab.

I kept an eye on her in the rearview mirror. She never budged, which meant her agony was extreme.

I pulled into Dr. Cornelius Maynard’s parking lot. The veterinary clinic occupied two-thirds of what would be called a strip mall in the city. In Lupine, it was on the edge of the downtown business core and served as a completely respectable professional office building.  The Nugent Insurance Agency and the one-chair office of Dr. Whitney, an octogenarian dentist with palsy, filled the rest of the building.

Everyone calls the vet Doc Corn — more efficient than his full name, I suppose. I don’t question these things; I just accept them and try to blend in.

I held open the swinging glass door as Pete sidled through sideways with Tuppence and her bed in his arms.

The waiting area was packed with suffering small animals and their caregivers. It appeared the dry heat and air pollution were taking a particular toll on those with thick fur coats. I didn’t need a medical degree to recognize heat rashes, skin conditions, missing clumps of hair and general mange. At least Tuppence had a short coat, and she’d grown accustomed to napping in the kiddie pool I’d filled with cool water for her.

The receptionist glanced up and waved me over. “Oh my gosh. I heard about the Tinsleys’ barn fire. Quincy got home just before I came in to work.” She must have noticed the look of confusion on my face, because she continued, “Quincy Nugent, from next door — the insurance agent.” She pointed with her pen. “He’s a volunteer firefighter. I’m his wife, Rhonda. We were at your wedding yesterday.”

I tried to smile. “We have an emergency. Gastric distress.”

“Mmhmm.” Rhonda clicked into her computer and brought up a file. She had a tiny, round face and dark, glossy hair parted in the middle. It hung down smooth on both sides and dangled on the keyboard. If she was a pet owner herself, her matching companion would be a shih tzu groomed for the show ring. She had to swish her hair out of the way in order to type. “Is the patient Tuppence?”

I nodded.

“I’ll put you on the list. As you can see, we’re swamped.” She swooped the pen toward the waiting area as though it was a magic wand and could make all the patients disappear. “And Doc Corn is out on a calving call. Merle Gunn’s prize heifer is delivering prematurely this morning. Probably this heat.”

Pete stood next to the only empty chair, still cradling Tuppence.

“Sit,” I whispered to him. I tidied the horse and farming magazines on a wobbly side table and cleared a spot for myself.

Pete settled Tuppence at our feet. She whimpered, her eyes closed. I bent and stroked her silky ears.

The room didn’t smell fabulous to start with, but we’d brought a peculiar odor in with us. I gently rubbed Tuppence’s side, smoothing her fur and trying to gauge her level of discomfort.

There weren’t any obvious signs from Tuppence’s supine posture, but she might have started deflating. I judged this by how quickly all the other patients and their handlers decided to wait out on the sidewalk. Even Rhonda discovered she had something urgent to do in the back and abandoned her post behind the desk. I guessed Pete and I were fairly desensitized to the unpleasantness by now.

“We sure know how to clear a room.” Pete bounced with silent laughter and patted the newly-open seat next to him. “The very least you can do under the present circumstances is come snuggle with me.”

I slid in beside him, and he pulled me closer, hitching an arm around my waist.

“I think we should celebrate our first day of marriage by renting a carpet steam cleaner,” he murmured.

I giggled into his shoulder. “You know what I want? To go out on the
Surely
. Anchor her somewhere and float for a few days — just you and me.”

Pete pulled back to look in my eyes, his brows arched. “That can be arranged.” A smile slowly spread across his face, and he leaned in for a lingering kiss.

Someone coughed in a pointed manner. We glanced up.

Doc Corn in a tattered sweater vest, short-sleeved shirt, dirt-streaked jeans and rubber boots, beaming like a benevolent grandfather. “Hate to interrupt, but I understand Tuppence is next on the list. Rhonda said it’s an emergency, and I can see why.” He peered through the plate glass window at the lineup outside, people and animals shifting wearily from foot to foot. “Bring her on back. First exam room on the left.”

Tuppence adores Doc Corn, mainly because he leaves a stripe of Cheez Whiz on the table to distract her while he pokes and prods. But today Cheez Whiz was no temptation.

“Case of gluttony?” Doc Corn tipped his head and frowned, concentrating on what he was hearing through his stethoscope.

“Mae Brock’s pork sausage and stuffing casserole,” I replied.

“Ahhhh.” Doc Corn’s merry green eyes widened behind his spectacles. “I saw that at the potluck yesterday. Avoided it myself. Hmmm.” He slid the stethoscope to a new location on Tuppence’s belly and listened again. “I’ve never known of anyone to actually die from Mae’s cooking. Well, except maybe
Sherman, but that was a long time ago.”

“I thought it was colon cancer,” I blurted.

“Stuff builds up over time.” Doc Corn made a circular, rolling motion with his hand. “Toxins and such. Who really knows what causes cancer?” He shrugged. “Not that it was intentional, mind you. Mae and Sherman were quite the pair. Pity.”

He eased around the table and lifted Tuppence’s head, examined her eyes, mouth and nose. “Well, my dear,” he sighed — and he was talking to Tuppence, not to me, “good news is you’ll live. Bad news is you’ll be uncomfortable for another six to twelve hours.” He turned to Pete and me. “I’d like to keep her overnight. She’s showing signs of dehydration. I’ll put in an IV if she needs it.”

“Poor dog.” I patted Tuppence good-bye. She gave me one tail thump — definitely an improvement. “Tomorrow, old girl.”

We stepped out of the exam room, and Doc Corn hesitated. He quickly scanned the still empty waiting area and touched my arm. “Say, have you talked to Bob Cummins or Sheriff Marge this morning?”

I didn’t think that by ‘talk’ he meant holding Harriet up while Sheriff Marge and I watched the Tinsleys’ barn burn, so I shook my head.

Doc Corn heaved a deep sigh. “You know how speculation flies around here. I was hoping to get a more authoritative source.”

“About what?” Pete’s voice was sharp.

“That the fire at the Tinsleys’ place might not have been accidental. There’s been a spate of fires, and people are starting to talk. I’m not liking what I’m starting to hear.”

“Kids?” I asked, remembering Sheriff Marge’s line of inquiry a few days ago.

Doc Corn winced. “If it’s kids, they’re smarter than average. I’m not talking about the porta-potty fire or the grass fires along Highway 14, of course, but about the storage shed behind the hardware store, the empty mobile home over on
Ferry Road, and now the Tinsleys’ barn.” He pursed his lips and scowled. “It’s making folks nervous, which fuels the rumor mill.” He patted my shoulder. “You two take care, now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 6

Pete and I performed the necessary chores with a zombie-like lack of animation. All things considered, we
’d gotten very little sleep in the past twenty-four hours. While we removed the physical evidence of Tuppence’s distress, the odor remained. We showered — separately — and pulled on clean clothes, then flopped in lawn chairs under the shade of a big maple in our campsite. I was mentally struggling with the proper wording for the thank you note I would have to write to Mae.

Pete reached for my hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. “We should probably sleep on the
Surely
tonight. It’s going to take a few days for the trailer to air out.”

I nodded, too tired to speak. My eyes burned, dry and itchy. I tipped my head back and rested them.

“It’ll be cramped. I’m not sure what size the bunks are, probably twins.”

“Bunk beds?” I croaked and scowled at him.

Pete grinned. “We’ll figure out a way to fit on one level.”

“It’s always an adventure with you,” I murmured.

A snazzy white and green Ford Interceptor utility vehicle with the county sheriff’s logo on the door slowed and pulled into the parking space behind my pickup. It was so shiny it almost hurt to look at it.

“Whoa.” Pete straightened in his chair.

A beaming Sheriff Marge was behind the wheel. She turned on the light bar for a few seconds, flinging red and blue strobes against the side of the trailer. “Guess what just got delivered,” she shouted out the window.

I chuckled and pushed to my feet.

By all rights, Sheriff Marge should have been as exhausted as we were, or more, but a new toy — especially one as fantastic as a brand new police command vehicle —  is a terrific stimulant. She’d totaled her old rig in the same incident that broke her leg. This was just the treatment she needed to enhance her healing process, although her stubborn, determined nature seemed to be doing a fine job of that already.