I sat on a kitchen chair and followed the hospital’s checklist for cleaning my wound and redressing it. Much less purple. My leg was turning Technicolor with a little yellow and green. The entry and exit spots were starting to look like standard scabs instead of holes, with only traces of dried blood on the old bandage pads. Ticky-tacky. I chuckled to myself. Nothing like having Gemma tell you to suck it up — she’s seen worse.
I rewrapped my leg with the pressure bandage and stood, testing my weight on it. Less hobbling today.
Then I called Mom and left her a good morning message. No questions. Just an I love you.
oOo
The glass front door to Barbara’s salon was propped open with a brass dachshund doorstop, and Hazel of the chili recipe request stood on the stoop wringing out a mass of dingy cotton dreads in a bright yellow mop bucket. She looked far too frail for such back-breaking work, but she whipped the mop around with her ropy arms, splashing water on my sandals.
“Barbara?” I asked.
“In the back.” Hazel jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Don’t leave footprints.”
Frankie tiptoed into the salon behind me.
Several of Barbara’s regular customers bent with brooms and dustpans, sorting through the clutter on the floor, picking out the combs, clips and scissors and sweeping up the rest.
Vince had been thorough. The sink at a hair washing station had been smashed and pieces of it hung precariously from the wall. I recognized the coveralled posterior of Jim Carter, local handyman, as he squatted in front of the pipes underneath, wrestling with a shutoff valve.
The mirror that ran the length of the room behind the styling chairs and counter had huge starburst cracks radiating out of spots where it’d been hit with something hard and heavy. Barbara’s till lay on its side on the floor, coins scattered everywhere.
“Barbara?” I called.
“Here.” Barbara’s bandanna-protected beehive popped around the corner of the backroom. “Meredith, Frankie. I want you to have these.” She loaded a stack of framed photographs into my cradled arms. “I think I’m through with them, considering.” She fanned her face with a hand, her cheeks flushed. “And maybe they can work into a local history exhibit at the Imogene? I’ll give you whatever related items I find in my father’s effects too.”
“With all the money you helped recover for the Imogene, we could have an entire exhibit wing renovated,” Frankie gushed.
I frowned at her over Barbara’s head. Jumping the gun a bit there.
Frankie’s lips pursed into a tight O. “Or maybe we’ll have a few rooms painted,” she backtracked. “Every little bit helps. You never know.” She patted Barbara’s arm.
“I’m just glad it’s over,” Barbara said. “Maybe now Cosmo can rest easy in his grave.”
“What can we do to help?” I asked.
“You can finish taking these pictures down.” Barbara pointed to the half-bare wall. “Dad didn’t just hang them, he screwed them into the wall at each corner. Very thorough, that man. I’m thinking of moving the pedicure station to my other spare room anyway.” She grabbed Frankie’s arm, parted the beaded curtain and towed her out of the storeroom. “I want your opinion on a new nail polish display.”
I grabbed a cardboard box that had been flattened and stashed next to the shop’s back door and taped it up. But before I started loading it with Barbara’s pictures, I checked the card in an enormous bouquet of red roses that sat on the little table between the pedicure chairs.
Platts Landing’s propensity to busybodiness is rubbing off on me. I didn’t plan on sharing the information; I was just curious.
Sure enough, the roses were from Rupert. But his note to Barbara was far more effusive than the note he’d sent me, and he signed off with an ‘XO’ after his name. Hugs and Kisses. Mmhmm.
Childhood friends seeing each other in a new light? The situation seemed promising. Maybe I could finagle a few things to encourage it.
I worked steadily, enjoying the activity after feeling so cooped up yesterday. Besides, wielding a screwdriver, sorting and boxing are in my normal job description.
I hadn’t noticed the ladies’ chatter in the front room until it stopped. The hushed silence sounded as though they’d all been struck with sleeping sickness at the same time.
Then a few whispers, and one high-pitched elderly voice piped up, far too loud. “She’s in the back.”
I was just stepping to the doorway to see what was going on when Pete appeared, a little flushed. Probably his first time ever inside a beauty salon. And certainly his first time figuring out how to deal with a beaded curtain.
I grinned. “You’re back early.”
“You weren’t home — or at the Imogene.”
“No.” I shook my head slowly. “But I’m here.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
There was a shuffling and chinkling behind Pete as the ladies jockeyed each other for better positions and became entangled in the curtain. We had an audience.
Pete’s jaw tightened and he gripped my elbow, spun me around and propelled me out into the alley through the back door. He thumbed the lock on the door and slammed it behind him.
“Are we alone now?” he asked.
“For two seconds, if we’re lucky.”
He gathered me in, tight against his chest. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled his head down. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his cheeks were scratchy, but I didn’t care.
He murmured against my neck. “When are you going to marry me?”
Footsteps pattered and a muffled squeal came from the vicinity of the salon.
“How far is the Nevada border?” I whispered.
SNEAK PEEK
SHIFT
BURN
an Imogene Museum mystery — book #6
Jerusha Jones
After weeks under a Red Flag Warning and several flare-ups, the residents of Sockeye County, Washington are on edge. When a fire threatens the Imogene Museum, curator Meredith Morehouse realizes the frequency and increasing size of the conflagrations aren’t as random as lightning strikes.
Are the fires targeted? Are they vindictive revenge or a risky cover-up for something even worse?
Meredith already has her hands full with a brand new endowment for shoring up the Imogene’s crumbling foundation plus the imminent arrival of the most valuable collection Rupert Hagg, the museum director, has scored to date. And Meredith’s hunky beau, Pete Sills, wants another kind of date — a non-negotiable wedding date.
Can Meredith and Pete and cast-encumbered Sheriff Marge Stettler nail down the arsonist before their tinder-dry community goes up in flames?
For notification when the next book in the Imogene Museum Mystery Series becomes available, subscribe to Jerusha Jones’s newsletter.
NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Imogene Museum mystery series is a tribute to the Columbia River Gorge and the hearty people who live in gorge towns on both sides of the Oregon/Washington border. It’s an extraordinary piece of God’s real estate, and I savor driving, sightseeing, picnicking and camping its entire length. Hitching a ride on a tug run from Umatilla to Astoria is on my bucket list.
If you’re familiar with the area, you may realize that I’ve taken liberties with distances in some cases. Mostly I squished locations (albeit fictional) closer together to move the story along and also to showcase the amazing geologic and topographic features of the gorge. In real life for many gorge residents, the roundtrip to a Costco or a bona fide sit-down restaurant might well take a full day. This kind of travel time is not helpful when you’re chasing a fleeing murderer. But if you’re not Sheriff Marge and have time to enjoy the scenery, the gorge is spectacular, and I encourage you to come experience it for yourself.
However, please don’t expect to actually meet any of the characters in this book. All are purely fictional, and if you think they might represent anyone you know, you’re mistaken. Reall
y. I couldn’t get away with that.
oOo
Profound thanks to the following people who gave their time and expertise to assist in the writing of this book:
Debra Biaggi and BJ Thompson, beta readers extraordinaire.
Sergeant Fred Neiman, Sr. and all the instructors of the Clark County Sheriff’s Citizens’ Academy. The highlights had to be firing the Thompson submachine gun and stepping into the medical examiner’s walk-in cooler. Oh, and the K-9 demonstration and the officer survival/lethal force decision making test. And the drug task force presentation with identification color spectrum pictures and the — you get the idea.
I claim all errors, whether accidental or intentional, solely as my own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I live in the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. After too many years as a VP of inventory and analysis, I find writing mysteries much more stimulating than squinting at spreadsheets. When not typing, doodling or staring out the window, I’m usually planning my next local tourist adventure, listening to NASCAR races and Mariners, Seahawks and Trailblazers games on the radio, or sneaking dessert for breakfast.
I post updates on my website www.jerushajones.com
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I love hearing from readers at [email protected]
Faux Reel (Imogene Museum Mystery #5) Page 17