Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (9 page)

Nearer the basement door was an area I’d cleared, hoping it was sufficient floor space to hold the contents of the crates with a little room to spare for further unpacking, photographing, tagging and researching. Greg and I would be operating in close quarters for the foreseeable future.

I stepped through the open door into the blinding sunlight. I trotted up the ramp in time to see the semi-truck and trailer backing steadily, and very neatly, into place.

Karl and Ginger must have swapped seats because it was Ginger who stuck her head out the driver’s window and called, “Close enough?”

“Yup,” Ford shouted back.

Karl walked me through all the spots I needed to initial and sign on his paperwork, then he punched a code into the lockbox which was clamped around the handles on the trailer’s rear doors.

“Handy new gadget,” he said. “This lock has a GPS mechanism that only allows me to open it when it’s within a specified geographic zone. Our dispatcher plugged the museum’s coordinates into the system. If we’d tried to open it a mile down the road, nothing would have happened. Prevents tampering and theft. Safest way to travel.” He heaved on the doors and pulled them open.

“Whew. Somewhat anti-climactic, isn’t it, my dear?” Rupert wheezed as he shuffled up.

He was right — as far as it went. Crates are nothing special. “It’s what’s inside that counts.” I grinned at him.

Ford fetched the museum’s selection of crowbars and hammers and climbed up in the trailer with Karl. Pete arrived shortly after, and we let the guys do the hard work of cracking the crates open. Frankie, Ginger and I loaded and wheeled — back and forth, back and forth — into the basement. I suggested Rupert manage the receiving end, and he promptly dragged a hideous ottoman upholstered in 1970’s psychedelic velour into the best position for proper oversight and took up his perch with scratch paper in hand for a rough diagram of which crate’s contents were placed where.

He also kept an eye on Tuppence who dozed contentedly at his feet. Doc Corn had written that it would take a while for her to regain stamina after her distressing episode.

Karl and Ginger had confirmed they had the time and inclination to help us, which was certainly above and beyond their job description. I think they were as curious about their cargo as we were. After interacting with them over the course of several sweaty hours, I was comfortable they operated with discretion. They weren’t long for the neighborhood anyway, since they had a load to pick up in Hermiston the next day. Everyone on our work crew knew how to keep their own counsel when necessary, for which I was grateful.

Not that the DeVosses got to see any of the artifacts, though, since it turned out they were thoroughly, perhaps excessively, protected. We only dismantled the cartons enough to get them through the basement door. Greg and I would do the remainder inside the privacy of the Imogene’s thick foundation walls.

Watching the unpacking unfold set my mind at ease about potential losses. The transportation phase is definitely the most risky element of a collection’s transfer, and I was glad to see Silas Guardado had taken excellent preventive care of the artifacts he was willing to give away.

We wrapped up close to dusk with an empty semi-trailer and a full dumpster and about a year’s worth of new work sitting in the basement. Dirty, grimy, my muscles wobbly from the exertion, but it felt good.

Ginger squeaked the truck out of our back lot and pulled it along the curb near the marina for their overnight stay in the sleeper cab. Rupert hurried off to keep his promise to treat them to “the best cheeseburgers this side of the Cascades” (his words) at the Burger Basket.

I glanced at Frankie. Her hair was slightly askew, a big smudge on her cheek, but she was humming under her breath.

“What are your plans for tonight?” I asked.

She turned slightly pink, as I thought she might. “Clean up, for one thing.” She brushed her hands together in a futile attempt to dislodge the dirt ground into her palm creases. “Then cook dinner.”

“Having company?” I whispered.

Her eyes twinkled, and she bit her lip. Definitely a yes.

“Make sure you use the blender,” I added.

“Oh, I will.” Both of her dimples appeared.

Pete and Ford finished sweeping up the wood shards and scraps, returning the area to its previous neatness and leaving no trace of our afternoon’s frantic activity. I waved good-bye to Ford as he took off across the lawn toward his living quarters in a converted outbuilding.

“Harriet’s counting on our coming over tonight,” Pete said, sliding his arms around my waist. “And the fifth-wheel’s habitable again. It passed my sniff test.”

Frankie giggled. “I don’t know another couple who would handle what you two have been through — and immediately after your wedding, too — with such equanimity. When are you going to take a real honeymoon?”

“Soon.” Pete said, giving me a squeeze.

Frankie’s back pocket rang. She pulled her phone out, checked the display and flushed pink again.

I tugged Pete several feet away so she could have some privacy. But Frankie’s pert greeting was followed by a sharp gasp, and I knew the news couldn’t be good.

“Are you sure?” she murmured. “I could come out. No, but—” She shook her head, still clutching the phone to her ear.

I scanned her face, looking for a sign. I was pretty sure her caller was Henry, and if he was able to call, then at least he was okay — probably. What else could it be?

Frankie was silent for a minute, then she whispered, “Please be careful. I’ll wait up to hear from you.” She clicked off.

“Frankie?” Pete said. “Do you need help?”

Frankie’s hand quivered over her mouth, then she habitually reached for an earring that wasn’t there. She’d pared down on her usual jewelry today in deference to the manual labor. “No, not me. There’s a fire at Henry’s place.”

“Henry Parker?” Pete asked.

I laid a warning hand on his arm, not sure Frankie was ready for the logical next question he might ask.

“The whole field next to his shop went up in flames,” Frankie said, “and the fire jumped a ditch to some scrub on the other side of the road. His house, shop and hangar are safe for now, but he needs to stay to keep an eye on things.”

“Kind of sounds like the others,” Pete muttered.

“The fire department’s there?” I asked.

Frankie nodded. “It’s contained. They expect to have the fire extinguished in the next hour. I wish he’d called sooner. I could have—”

I pulled Frankie in for a tight hug. “Worried more. That’s what he was thinking. The last thing he wants to do is cause you worry.”

Frankie sniffed and managed a weak smile. “I guess the blender will have to wait.”

“You’ll have the chance to use it again — very soon — I’m sure,” I whispered to her. “You’ll call if anything changes?”

Frankie nodded.

oOo

“Can you explain that to me or are you sworn to secrecy?” Pete asked.

We were zipping down Highway 14 toward home, and as usual I was snuggled up next to him as much as the high ambient temperature would allow while Tuppence stuck her nose out the window, ears flapping in the dry breeze.

“What?” I gave him my best attempt at an innocent smile.

He chuckled. “Frankie, Henry Parker and a blender?”

“Then you already know the secret,” I said.

Pete grunted.

“What did you mean by sounds like the others?” I asked.

“The other fires. The ones Doc Corn mentioned, plus the Tinsleys’ barn, now Henry’s place.” Pete shook his head. “They’ve caused extensive damage to property but have been set in such a way that they haven’t caused loss of life — not yet anyway. Seems to be a pattern.”

“Who’s next?” I murmured.

Pete leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “I’m sure Bob Cummins and Sheriff Marge are running scenarios like crazy. The more fires, the more evidence he’s leaving behind. They’ll catch him soon, hopefully before he escalates the risk.”

CHAPTER 10

Harriet greeted us at the kitchen door with a wide smile on her face and pink frosting smeared on the front of her ruffled apron. “Have you eaten dinner?” she asked.

“No, but you don’t have to—” I started.

“Good,” she announced. “I was hoping you’d be hungry. Herb’s set up a picnic table for us outside since it’s cooler out there.”

“Should he be—” But Pete gave me a tiny frown and shake of his head, and I didn’t finish. There was no stopping the Tinsleys. Maybe returning as quickly as possible to their normal life was the best thing for them.

I helped Harriet carry the salads and lemonade pitcher outside. Several strings of white Christmas lights were draped from the overhanging branches of a tree, illuminating the place settings.

“Harriet, it’s beautiful,” I murmured.

“Not quite the same ambiance as candlelight, but it’ll have to do. We’re not too keen on open flames these days.” She fussed with the folded napkins.

We settled down to business, spending the first several minutes taking care of filling our plates and our stomachs. But Harriet and Herb kept sharing fidgety glances, and there was definitely an undercurrent of excitement between them, as though they’d hatched a plan to run away from home or something.

Pete noticed it too and set down his fork. “All right, you two. What’s up?”

Herb slid a manila envelope out from under his placemat and handed it to Pete. Harriet literally bounced on the edge of the bench, her hands clasped together, eyes bright under the twinkling lights.

Pete pulled a sheaf of papers out of the envelope and started scanning the top page. His jaw dropped, and he shot a startled glance at the eager twins across the table.

“Babe.” He cleared his throat and pulled me snug against him on the bench. He tipped the papers so I could see them in the faint glow and whispered, “This is for you.”

“And you, Pete — both of you,” Harriet piped.

“We’ve wanted to do it for a long time,” Herb said. “We were just waiting for the right time, and this seems to be it. I’m awfully sorry there isn’t a barn now, and you’ll have to deal with the wreckage from the fire. I would have liked to have the place in better condition for you.”

“And we don’t want to saddle you with something you don’t want, so you just say the word. There’s no obligation,” Harriet added. “But just think how short your commute to the port would be. Perfect for hurrying home after a long trip.”

I’d read enough by now to understand what they were talking about. I’m afraid I burst into tears and buried my face in Pete’s neck.

Pete squeezed my shoulder. “That’s a yes,” he said. “We’ll take it. But are you sure? This is — this is—” his voice shook, “—overwhelming.”

“Oh, yes,” Harriet said. “The
Edgewater Retirement Village just this side of Lupine will have an apartment ready for us in two weeks. We’ve already given them our deposit.”

“The campground fees cover the property taxes.” Herb sounded relieved to be able to talk about something practical in the wake of my emotional flood. “Plus enough extra so you could hire a handyman to manage the place while you’re away on tow jobs. The property just needs someone who cares for it to keep an eye on things. And Harriet and I thought you two  — well, we know how much you love living here next to the river, and we’d like you to have it.”

“Deuce Hollis wrote the deed transfer.” Harriet pointed to the papers still clutched in Pete’s hand. “You just need to go into his office to sign the papers. There’ll be some extra taxes due to the gift, but Herb and I have that covered through some creative finagling that Deuce figured out when he set up our retirement accounts. He may not look like it, but he’s a whiz of a lawyer.” She beamed at us.

“How can we ever—” I choked up again and couldn’t finish.

“You’re the kids we never had,” Herb said, he eyes glistening, “since we were — both of us — too stubborn to marry. We’re thrilled to do this.”

Harriet popped up and collected our dirty plates. “I think it’s time for cake. Since you didn’t have official wedding cake at your reception, I took the liberty.” She disappeared into the dark, and the screened-in porch door slammed.

She returned with a lovely two-tiered round cake covered in roses sculpted in pink frosting. “It’s sliding,” she squealed, quickly depositing it on the table. “This heat. I hope it tastes better than it looks.”

Around mouthfuls of dense chocolate cake and raspberry filling, Harriet suggested we leave our wedding gifts piled on their kitchen table until we had time to open them, and then she would help me find places to store the items in the cupboards and closets of our new house. Herb also wanted to go over the campground’s accounting records with us.

“And we’ll only be a phone call away at the retirement village,” Harriet said. “I expect we’ll be dropping by for visits all the time. We’ll help you adjust, and Herb can do some fill-in mowing if you’re too busy.”