Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (11 page)

With Tuppence as my traveling companion, I hit the road for Lupine and the supplies necessary for handling sensitive, fragile artifacts. The pharmacist at the town
’s only hardware/household goods/craft supply/drug store keeps giant boxes of disposable cotton gloves on hand for me. I also wanted to augment the museum’s supply of shallow plastic trays. Our transit carts are padded to help prevent artifacts from rolling off. But I was anticipating that some of the new arrivals would be very small, and I hated the idea that we might accidentally misplace something. Corralling small treasures in the trays helps to keep items organized and visible until they can be properly displayed. I’d also buy several bolts of thick felt from the craft section to line the trays with. It’s handy to have a multi-purpose store with an accommodating proprietor so close to the museum.

My stomach dropped when I spotted the dusty gold Mercedes with the volunteer fire department sticker in the store’s parking lot. I’d just about had my fill of Quincy Nugent. But I also had a to-do list and a rapidly approaching deadline. I groaned and slid out of my pickup.

“Just a few minutes, Tupp. Be a good girl and don’t munch on anything.”

My hound snorted in indignation as though I was foolish to even hint at such a thing.

“Uh-huh. I’m not sure I believe you.” I slammed my door. If Tuppence could stomach, however briefly, a full 9 x 13 pan of Mae Brock’s casserole, I figured bench seat upholstery wasn’t that far behind on the appetizing scale.

I grabbed a shopping cart which had all four wheels pointed in different directions — well, three, I guess; one of them wasn’t spinning at all — and made a screeching and squiggly beeline for the pharmacy counter.

Ralph Moses, the pharmacist, pitched his eyebrows at me in recognition behind the glasses he’d shoved up onto his forehead. But his lips were puckered and he was nodding his shiny, bald head in time as he silently counted pills into a translucent orange bottle, so I didn’t interrupt him.

He snapped a safety cap onto the bottle, pulled a sticker off his label printer, and carefully smoothed it around the container. In many ways, his job wasn’t much different from mine — the counting, organizing, documenting.

I was contemplating the value of a specialized printer for artifact identification tags which would save Greg and me a ton of handwriting and the risk of illegibility when our fingers started to cramp after processing hundreds of items when a feminine voice said, “How’s Tuppence feeling?”

I flinched, turned and breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief. Rhonda Nugent, not
Quincy. She was probably using the Mercedes to run errands on her lunch break.

“Back to her normal self,” I replied.

“How’s the Imogene’s foundation repair going?”

“Fine,” I said warily. Apparently nosiness is a Nugent family trait.

“My brother heads the concrete crew. He said they’re scheduled to start building the new pillar forms tomorrow.”

“Right.” I sighed again. I sure was getting jumpy about stuff that turned out to be innocent. Of course people would be talking about the Imogene’s renovations. The construction contract had provided quite a few jobs, something that was desperately needed in
Sockeye County. “What’s his name? I’ve probably met him.”

“Will Bremer.” Rhonda swatted a strand of her sleek dark hair over her shoulder.

“Oh, sure. I know Will.” He had the same glossy brown hair, just shorter and usually hidden under a hard hat.

“
Quincy might stop by the museum in the next day or two. He has dreams of selling you a policy.” Rhonda’s tone had turned scornful.

“I already saw him today. He needn’t bother. The Imogene’s so unusual, no standard insurance company will cover us.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him, but will he listen to me?” Rhonda scowled and shook her head, sending shivers through her long tresses. “Head in the clouds.”

I had no desire to add fuel to what sounded like a reoccurring spat between the Nugents, especially since I was hardly unbiased in my own opinion on the matter. I also didn’t consider myself qualified to offer marital advice based on my two-and-a-half days of experience.

I had my mouth open, thinking I’d change the subject to the hot and dry weather, always a favorite topic of conversation, when Ralph stepped up to the pass-through window and leaned over the counter, making my attempt at politeness unnecessary.

“Now you know you shouldn’t drive after taking these, right?” he said. “You need to allow at least four hours after you wake up to do anything that requires your full attention. You might sleepwalk, sleeptalk, have no recollection the next day of things you did or said. Best to go straight to bed and stay there.”

“And how many times have you filled this prescription for me?” Rhonda muttered while she signed the electronic consent pad.

“I just like to make sure,” Ralph said patiently. “It’s habit-forming, so only take a pill if you absolutely need it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rhonda dropped the bottle into her shopping basket, then she nudged my elbow. “If Quincy bothers you, just send him packing. He’s getting enough rejections, he should have a thicker skin by now.”

Ralph and I watched her go, following her with our eyes as she wound through the racks of merchandise until only the top of her glossy head was visible as she paused near the cash registers up front.

“How’s my favorite curator? Besides happily married, I mean, not like those two—” Ralph flicked the edge of his glasses, knocking them back down onto his nose. “Sure enjoyed the ceremony and the potluck reception. Good to catch up with folks I hadn’t seen in a while. Sorry to hear about the Tinsleys’ barn though.” He clucked and reached under the counter. “I’m guessing you’ve come for these.” He pushed a heavy box of cotton gloves over to me.

I grinned. “You read my mind.”

“My specialty. Birthdays, retirement parties, old geezer get-togethers, I’m your man.” Ralph twirled a pen over the back of his fingers, and it disappeared.

I was pretty sure the writing instrument ended up inside the cuff of his starched, long-sleeved shirt, but I chuckled appreciatively.

Ralph winked. “The ladies love it.” 

It was my turn to be nosy. “Any particular lady?”

Ralph pressed his palms on the counter and leaned closer. “Got my sights on Betty Jenkins. You might put in a good word for me,” he whispered.

“Consider it done.” I flashed him a parting smile.

Sockeye County has more than its fair share of widows and widowers — strong, independent souls who are a testament to the hard life associated with a rural area — farming, ranching, logging, manual labor jobs, and raising big families. I buzzed around the store, filling my cart. But my mind was occupied with admiring the spunk and resilience of my friends who had chosen to live here their whole lives. People who had outlived beloved spouses, survived natural disasters and economic downturns with their sense of cheerfulness and humor more firmly entrenched than ever.

And then there was Rhonda who was bitterly sleeping through her marriage. Country living is not idyllic. Like anywhere, you need to choose your friends — and your mate — wisely.

I paid and pushed the obstinate cart out to my truck. Tuppence craned her neck through the open window, prepared to inspect every item I’d purchased and hopeful of finding something edible.

My phone rang. I pulled it out of my purse and cradled in between my shoulder and ear as I flopped bolts of felt over the side into the pickup bed.

“Meredith? This is Karl DeVoss. We delivered your shipment yesterday.”

“We’re so grateful for all your help unloading,” I replied. “How’s the drive today?”

“Hot. Sure glad we have air conditioning in our rig. But that’s not why I’m calling. I don’t mean to pry. We transport sensitive items all the time. But I thought maybe you should know—” His voice trailed off.

I dropped a stack of plastic trays back into the cart and grabbed the truck’s side mirror for support. Tuppence’s dry nose bumped my shoulder. “Karl? What’s happened?”

He exhaled into the phone. “This is a first for Ginger and me. Our dispatcher just instructed us to detour to the FBI office in Pendleton before we pick up our load in Hermiston. Apparently, the FBI wants to talk to us about the shipment we dropped at your place.”

I squinted against the glaring sun and licked my chapped lips, thinking about how to phrase the questions that immediately leaped to mind. “Were they asking about the shipment or the shipper?”

“The dispatcher didn’t have many details. Frankly, she was a little flustered. We’re accustomed to scrutiny from state patrol troopers — just doing their jobs — but the FBI is another matter.”

“No kidding,” I muttered. “Did you help load the shipment in
New York the same way you helped us unload it?”

Karl snorted. “Nope. Never met an unfriendlier bunch of people in my life. Fancy estate up in
Dutchess County’s horse country. We had to pick up late, after 11:00 p.m. per their specifications. I really hate loading and unloading in the dark — too easy to make a mistake or have an accident with a forklift or something. Semi-trailers actually have pretty thin skins, and it’s not hard to cause damage. They didn’t even have decent exterior lighting. But they had the manpower. Told Ginger and me to wait in the cab, then called me around back when it was time to lock it up.”

“I understand secrecy and security, given the contents of the shipment. Guardado’s paranoia is rubbing off on me too,” I muttered under my breath.

“What? Didn’t catch that,” Karl asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know. We’re going to start unpacking the inner cartons this afternoon, so if we find anything fishy, I’ll know to contact the FBI.”

“Ginger wants me to tell you something else,” Karl blurted. “We didn’t think much of it at the time—” Karl paused, and I heard Ginger speaking in a chiding tone in the background.

“Okay,” Karl resumed, “
I
didn’t think much of it at the time, but it’s possible we were being followed. We didn’t see them every day, but pretty regularly. Not too many vehicles take the exact same route across the country at exactly the same time and pace. And we were moving. With two of us driving, we were on the road sixteen to twenty hours a day.”

“What did the vehicle look like? Did you see the driver?” I held my breath.

There were shuffling noises, and Ginger came on the line. “Meredith? It was a maroon Ford Taurus, old, not sure what year, but too old to be a rental. Florida plates. There were two men in the car. I never got a good look at the driver — he was always wearing sunglasses and a ball cap, but I saw the passenger once when we were gassing up at a truck stop. He ran into the 7-Eleven store and came out with nachos and three Big Gulps. I remember wondering at the time how he could stand so much caffeine, but if he was trying to keep up with us, then he’d need it.”

“Hair, eyes, build?”

“Paunchy — slobby, in fact. Black sweat pants with a hole in the knee and a white t-shirt under an unbuttoned long-sleeved denim shirt. He wore a ball cap too, so I never saw his hair or eyes well enough to identify the colors.”

“They were wearing the same clothes every time you saw them?” I asked.

“Um, no. Well, yes, the caps I mean. But the shirts did change. Yes, I remember a tan shirt on the driver once, but the last time I saw him, it was red.” Ginger’s voice pitched up. “So they packed changes of clothing.”

“Which means that if they were following you, then they knew they would be doing it before they left. It wasn’t a spontaneous trip.”

“Oh, Meredith,” Ginger murmured, “I don’t like this.”

“I don’t either. Where and when was the last time you saw them?”

“Rock Springs, Wyoming. Day before yesterday. I’m marking a map with every place I remember seeing them.”

“That’s worth telling the FBI about.” I quickly tossed the remaining supplies into the pickup bed and shoved the cart up onto the sidewalk. “Sounds like I’d better get to the museum.”

“You’re not there now?” Concern pricked Ginger’s voice.

I trotted around to my side of the truck and yanked the door open. “I will be soon.”

“We’ll call you later. Be careful.” Ginger clicked off.

CHAPTER 12

I careened into the Imogene
’s parking lot and swerved around a dump truck and baby backhoe hard at work along the southern side of the building. The excavator looked as though it needed training wheels in order to not tip over. I would have thought it cute under other circumstances.

I slowed and took the blind corner around the back of the museum at a reasonable speed, then pulled up near the recycling dumpster.

Two men in white hard hats with leather gloves tucked in their back pockets were having an earnest conversation at the ramp that led to the basement door.