Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6)

by Jerusha Jones

  Once inside, I presented my back to him. “Unzip me. Get it off.”

  “Babe.” Pete sounded worried. “We don’t have to rush.”

  I flapped my hands. “I’m going to swell up like three-day roadkill if I don’t get this dress off.”

  “Oh. You are kinda red.” Pete set Mae’s pan and a few other loaded plates well-meaning friends had foisted onto us on the dining table. People seemed to think cooking would be nigh unto impossible for a staycationing, honeymooning couple, that we might actually starve without their attention.

  “Aaargh.” I hopped from one foot to the other. Tuppence whined and pressed against my leg so hard she almost knocked me off balance.

  “All right, Babe. All right.” Pete held me with one hand on my waist, the other hand fumbling with the zipper.

  Then he switched to two hands tugging on the zipper. His breath came in frustrated puffs against my shoulder blade. “Um, Meredith? We might have a problem.”

  “I don’t care what happens to the dress,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m inflating by the second.”

  “Hold still.” He wedged a couple fingers — or his thumb? — under the top edge of the dress and started pulling.

  I grabbed the back of a dining chair for support. “I have scissors,” I wheezed.

  Then something popped, and the zipper let go, all the way down. I clutched at the fabric, but missed, as it slid to a pile around my knees.

  “Got it.” Pete said, sounding immensely pleased with himself. “Better?”

  I stood there, blinking and suddenly shivering, in the scanty scraps of fabric that pass for underwear when you’re wearing a tight, low-cut gown.

  He turned me around by the shoulders, grinned, and nodded. “Better.”

  I snorted. Then I giggled.

  “You know, I have an antidote for hives,” Pete said.

  “Really?”

  He scooped me up in his arms and nuzzled my neck. “Mmhmm.” He carried me up the steps to the bedroom, and things improved remarkably from there.

  The only comment I have is that I satisfied my burning curiosity on one point — if Pete had survived fifteen years in the Navy without getting a tattoo. He did. I know this because I checked every square inch of his skin.

  oOo

  I woke up in the dark to the sound of deep, steady breathing in my bed — and not my own. I grinned and snuggled closer to Pete. Hard to do as I was already wrapped in his arms, but I managed.

  The happy reality that his breathing was going to become my primary comfort noise in the middle of the night settled on me. I have a list of all’s-right-with-the-world sounds — train whistles, the campground’s nightly rotation of sprinklers, the hooting of great horned owls, and now my husband’s breathing.

  It wasn’t completely dark. Orange light flickered on the wall opposite the bed, warm and soft, casting weird shadows that bounced between the tree branches outside the window. I frowned and squinted at the alarm clock — 3:36 a.m. — far too early for sunrise.

  Orange. After the past few weeks of fire warnings and choking smoke in the air, I no longer considered orange a happy color.

  I gently scooted out of bed and peered out the window. My heart stopped.

  “Pete! Pete.” I jiggled the bed. “Fire.”

  The word woke him instantly — the most dangerous threat for a sailor. He leaped out of bed and joined me at the window. One glance had him reaching for his pants.

  We pulled on enough clothing to be decent and stumbled to the front door. Tuppence must have heard us knocking about because she met us there, crowding the space, her tail wagging hopefully, always ready for a hike, regardless of what time it was.

  “You have to stay.” I gave her a shove, and she slid backward on the slippery hardwood floor before I pulled the door closed behind Pete and me. No way was I letting my dog run around loose with the fire already engulfing the Tinsleys’ barn, shooting sparks high into the night sky.

  We ran.

  CHAPTER 4

  The grass was soaked from the sprinklers. I tripped over a tree root and went sprawling face first on the slick green carpet.

  Pete hesitated, turned back, but I yelled to him, “Go! I’m fine.”

  As I pushed to my knees, then to my feet, I wished we had the water where we needed it — on the Tinsleys’ barn. Soaking the ground did no good at this point. I couldn’t make my legs move fast enough.

  By the time I joined Pete at the kitchen door of the Tinsleys’ farmhouse, he had it open. Like everything else about the house, it was old with peeling paint, and it appeared to have splintered easily away from the locked handle. The whole place was essentially kindling.

  “Get them out. Call 911,” Pete shouted. Then he was gone around the corner, toward the barn — and the fire.

  Just a fraction of a second while I squeezed my eyes shut — but it was all I needed to imagine the worst possible that could happen to him. Then I rushed into the dark kitchen, where I’d been a welcomed visitor any time day or night for the past few years. I skirted the table and banged my shin on a chair that hadn’t been pushed in all the way.

  How could the elderly twins not have noticed the fire yet? The barn was only about twenty yards from the house. Just last week, Harriet had cheerfully complained about her insomnia, claiming it made her more productive. Said she canned apple pie filling in the middle of the night because she felt like it.

  But Herb and Harriet were probably exhausted from hosting our wedding. Fear wrapped around my lungs as I charged up the stairs.

  I collided with Herb in the narrow hallway. He bumped back against the wall, and I grabbed his shoulders to steady him. I reached over and snapped on the light switch. He’d been trying to tuck his shirttails into his pants, but now his arms hung limp at his sides and he blinked at me, bleary-eyed. His sparse white hair stuck out at all angles.

  “Meredith — the barn — Harriet,” he murmured.

  “I’ll get her. You call 911.”

  It took him another few seconds of blinking before he nodded.

  I’ve only known Herb as a wiry man of boundless energy and in unflagging health. But now he appeared fragile and disoriented. Could have been because it was the middle of the night, could have been because of the terrifying way in which he awoke, could have been because he was eighty years old. I didn’t want to think it might be for a medical reason.

  I squeezed his shoulders. “You all right?”

  He nodded again and straightened.

  I waited until he gripped the handrail and started down the stairs before turning the opposite direction toward Harriet’s bedroom.

  She was a tiny lump under a thin quilt. I could probably carry her if I had to. I yanked the bedding off and shook her.

  Harriet’s bright blue eyes popped open.

  “The barn’s on fire. Let’s go.” I grabbed her hand and pulled her to sitting.

  I snatched her chenille robe from the hook on the back of the door and wrapped it around her as she wriggled her feet into her slippers. No question about Harriet’s alertness.

  “Herb?” She piped.

  “Downstairs.”

  Harriet slid her cool, slender hand in mine, and we hurried down to the kitchen — which was unoccupied. Herb must have dashed outside to help, but had he remembered to call 911 first?

  The Tinsleys’ only phone hung on the wall beside the refrigerator. Push button technology. I punched in the numbers.

  “You know about the fire at the Riverside RV Ranch, the Tinsleys’ barn?” I asked the dispatcher.

  “Yep. Fire department’s on the way. Need an ambulance?” she asked.

  “Not that I know of.” Then I remembered Herb’s unsteadiness. And if anyone got burned— “Wait. Yes. Just in case.”

  “You got it. Are the Tinsleys safe?”

  I glanced at Harriet over the pile of wedding gifts our friends had stashed on the kitchen table. She had several thermoses lined up on the counter and was fi
lling them one by one at the tap. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t let them go back in the house until the fire captain clears it. They’ll probably try. I had Harriet as a Sunday school teacher when I was in elementary school. The most fun I ever had in church. I’d hate to lose her or Herb.”

  “I’m on it.” I hung up.

  “What are you doing?” I asked Harriet.

  “The firefighters will be thirsty. And all the spigots outside will probably be used to help spray the fire, as long as the well holds out.”

  I scooped the thermoses off the counter with one arm and cradled them to my chest. With my other hand I clamped onto her elbow and propelled her through the open kitchen door, across the screened-in porch and onto the wet grass.

  I didn’t have the heart to chew her out for trying to be hospitable while a fire raged a few yards away.

  We loped across the lawn to the vine-covered arch Pete and I had said our vows under just hours before. The way the sparks were flying, we needed to be under cover.

  Harriet shivered, her teeth clattering. Had to be nerves and worry because the night was almost unbearably warm, and the fire was radiating enough heat to make me sweat, even at this distance. I pulled her close, her head coming in under my chin.

  The Tinsleys’ barn was of the big, boxy, sloped roof variety. It was a relic from the days when the campground had been a thriving orchard — apples, pears and peaches. Now, it was more of a junk collection space for obsolete farm equipment plus room for the Tinsleys’ vehicles and the large riding lawn mower Herb used to keep the campground tidy.

  It was clear the barn and everything inside it would be a total loss. With a rumbling crack, a chunk of the roof imploded, and most of the east wall fell in. The flames flared hungrily with the rush of oxygen and new fuel.

  I caught a glimpse of a man, with another smaller, stooped man beside him — Pete and Herb — hosing down the side of the house closest to the barn. But the water streams fell short of the two-story house’s roof — inadequate pressure from the well pump, or the water was running out.

  Cinders flew through the air, some of them landing in sizzling defeat in the wet grass around Harriet and me. One or two of those little fire bombs on the Tinsleys’ roof and they’d be homeless.

  I clutched Harriet tighter, trying to shield her from a view of the fire, but she resisted. She’s a tough little lady, and there was no hiding reality from her. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Our daddy built that barn when Herb and I were twelve,” Harriet sniffled, “because he got a new tractor that wouldn’t fit in the old barn, and he didn’t want it sitting out in the rain. I stabled my sweet Morgan pinto — Hortense — in there, too. We won 4-H barrel racing three years in a row.”

  A fire engine raced in from the highway, followed by the tanker truck and the captain’s SUV. Their light bars flashed, but no sirens. Not much traffic this time of night.

  Plus the campground was empty, with the exception of my fifth-wheel trailer. Herb and Harriet had refused reservations for this weekend so they could concentrate on preparing for our wedding. It turned out not too many campers were interested in bunking down within the wildfire warning zone anyway, so Pete and I hadn’t really reduced the Tinsleys’ income with our nuptials. Although I knew they would have gladly forgone total occupancy to accommodate us.

  The firefighters unwound hose, laying it out in neat lines. They connected it to the tanker truck with quick efficiency and launched a water blast along the ridgeline of the Tinsleys’ house.

  I picked out Bob Cummins, the fire captain, from among the black silhouettes. He seemed to be inspecting the perimeter of the barn, probably deciding how best to battle the blaze. He huddled with Pete for a brief conversation, then gestured another firefighter over to relieve Herb of his garden hose.

  Herb backed away, but not out of the wide glow cast by the fire. His body language said it all — I’d never seen him so dejected, defeated even. Where was my capable, quietly resilient, tenacious landlord? Had this transformation been happening for a while and I just missed it, or was the fire the dramatic turning point? My throat burned, more from the tears I was trying to hold back than from the smoke.

  “Harriet. Meredith.”

  I jumped at the close voice, even though I knew it well.

  Sheriff Marge was like an eclipse, the half of her body toward the fire lit up while her other half was in pitch darkness. “Heard it over the scanner.” She bent a little so she could look straight into Harriet’s eyes. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” But Harriet’s voice wavered. “It’s Herb I’m worried about. He carries everything inside. Me, I just blab and get it out, but Herb — I’m not sure his heart can take this. My brother’s been so good to me, all these years, and now — this’ll crush him,” she ended in a whisper.

  So it wasn’t just my belated imagination. Of course Herb’s twin would recognize the changes in him, physical and emotional.

  Sheriff Marge grunted softly and squeezed Harriet around the shoulders. We stood that way for a long time, Sheriff Marge and I bookending Harriet, all of us holding each other up.

  oOo

  Pete made his weary way over to us when the light in the eastern sky was just beginning, when the blackish blue turns to a pale green glow before the sun’s yellow rays start warming the earth’s crust. I released Harriet and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my face into his grimy t-shirt.

  He caressed my back and murmured into my hair, “I smell bad.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Bob’s just declared the house safe, Harriet,” Pete said, “but you and Herb are welcome to come clean up at our trailer if you’d like. We’ll fix you breakfast.”

  I smiled. I liked the ‘our’ and ‘we’ in his statement. It felt like home.

  “No, but thank you,” Harriet announced. “Best thing I can do is get back into my own kitchen.”

  She squared her shoulders and marched across the lawn, her slippers flapping against her heels, her back arrow straight, her hands bunched in fists at her sides.

  Sheriff Marge shook her head. “Pillars — Harriet and Herb. Irreplaceable.” She turned her worried gaze to Pete and me. “But it’s risky for them to continue living out here, just the two of them, with all the hard work they do. They just won’t quit. I don’t want to be the one who has to pull Herb out from under a tractor or deal with some other preventable accident. At their age, even a small problem could become—” She frowned while our imaginations filled in the blank. “I’m counting on you two to have a talk with them about it. You’re the closest thing to family they have.” She turned and followed the trail of footprints Harriet had left in the wet grass.

  Pete and I didn’t talk as we trudged back to the fifth-wheel. I kept my arm tight around his middle, feeling his muscles contract and release as he walked. He had to be exhausted.

  When we reached the steps, he pulled me into his arms again and nuzzled my cheek. He needed a shave, among other things. “Some night, huh?”

  I relaxed into him. “We’re not likely to forget it.”

  “You’re a pillar too — mine.” He kissed my earlobe. “Actually, you’re my anchor. I like that analogy better.” His lips traveled down the side of my neck.

  I squirmed. “That’s too close to ball and chain for my comfort.”

  Pete chuckled. “How about that breakfast?”

  How on earth can he talk about food in such a sexy voice? “The shower’s only big enough for one — unfortunately.” I grinned up at him. “So you get dibs on it while I whip up some waffle batter.”

  “We might have to fix that space problem,” Pete said as he reached over and opened the trailer door. And unleashed a wave of odor so noxious that we staggered backward, gagging.

  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 mout
h 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.