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.
Sheriff Marge unlatched her door, and Pete and I crowded into the opening for a tour of all the bells and whistles — quite literally. The driver’s capsule had as many switches and buttons and gauges as an airplane cockpit. She had a full computer monitor and keyboard on a stand within easy reach of her right hand and all kinds of communication equipment and a shotgun and rifle rack. The thing was loaded.
“How fast does it go?” Pete asked.
I elbowed him. Sheriff Marge did not need encouragement in the speed department.
“Hit 94 on the way here, but I’m sure she’ll go faster than that. Gotta get used to the handling, but she sure is smooth.” Sheriff Marge stroked the steering wheel.
I grinned at the ‘she.’ Fast, sexy and sleek — the machine had to be female.
Sheriff Marge inhaled and began the laborious process of disembarking with the awkward cast on her left leg. “This isn’t a completely frivolous visit. I brought you something.” She hobbled to the back, pulled a cardboard box from the rear cargo area and handed it to Pete. “Requires some explaining so I didn’t want to leave it with the rest of your wedding gifts.”
We moved toward the picnic table.
Sheriff Marge’s face puckered. “Whew. What’s that smell? Like something dead in a ditch.”
Pete rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile on his face. He explained about Tuppence’s ingestion of Mae Brock’s casserole and the consequences and why all the windows and door of our fifth-wheel were wide open.
The laugh started at her belt buckle and jiggled outward from there. Sheriff Marge plopped onto the bench and removed her reading glasses to wipe her eyes. “I suppose I shouldn’t laugh,” she sniffed. “The poor thing’s probably still in agony. Hehehehe.” And we lost her to another volley of chortles.
“You two really need to get away,” she finally wheezed. “Have a real honeymoon.”
“Just as soon as the shipment comes in,” I said.
“Ahhh, yes.” Sheriff Marge replaced her glasses. I’d consulted her about security measures for the new collection.
Rupert Hagg, director of the Imogene Museum and my boss, had sweet-talked a New York collector he’d met at a convention into gifting his extensive array of Near East artifacts from the Bronze Age to the museum. It would be our most valuable collection to date. I also knew that it was next to impossible to amass a collection this size without some shady dealings because the source countries were usually extremely protective of their cultural artifacts — which made me nervous about what I might find when I started documenting the items. I was rather surprised the donor was willing to part with them, but Rupert is a highly persuasive extoller of the Imogene’s virtues.
The collector had sent a comprehensive list ahead of time, but there’s a big difference between a printed line item and holding the real thing in your hands. My stomach shivered into knots every time I thought about it. I remembered that I’d forgotten to track the shipment’s progress today.
“Go on.” Sheriff Marge gestured toward the box. “Open it.”
I did the honors, slitting the tape with my thumbnail and pulling out wads of newspaper. Something sparkled, and I gasped.
Sheriff Marge’s gray eyes twinkled, and a broad grin bunched her cheeks up.
I lifted out an intricate tea pot — then a coffee carafe — then a sugar and creamer set — then an ornate platter — all in pristine silver plate.
“There are a couple spoons and tongs in there too,” Sheriff Marge said. “Here’s the deal. I have cupboards full of stuff — china, silver, stemware, the works. Most of the items were wedding gifts to us — Big John and me — forty-two years ago. I never use it these days. My occupation doesn’t exactly allow for elaborate entertaining, and with Big John gone—” She sniffed and glanced away. “But I know you’d use it if you had the space. So the rest is yours when you settle down in a regular house.” She cleared her throat, her eyes misty. “I’m counting on you two to put down roots and stick around here for the next hundred years.”
I pressed my hand over my mouth and blinked back tears. Pete wrapped an arm around me.
“Don’t you want to keep it in the family?” I whispered. “What about your daughters-in-law?”
“Not interested. Besides, you are family.” She gave me her and-that’s-that look.
Sheriff Marge is a formidable woman to hug, but I did it anyway. So did Pete. In fact, we squashed her.
“Oooof.” Sheriff Marge pushed away. “I gotta go. Need to check on the Tinsleys.”
My heart lurched. I should have done that earlier, maybe taken them lunch in spite of Harriet’s insistence on self-sufficiency.
“What about the fire?” I asked. “Doc Corn said he’s been hearing it wasn’t an accident.”
“Who told him that?” Sheriff Marge whirled around, a scowl on her face.
I stepped back, startled. “He didn’t say.”
Sheriff Marge whipped off her hat and wiped her forehead. “I do not want that word getting out. It would just encourage whoever’s setting the fires and make him cover his tracks better.”
“So not kids?” Pete asked.
“We’ve had a bunch of fires lately. Some kids, some accidents, some not kids or accidents. Tinsleys’ barn fire falls in the latter class, along with a few others. Bob’s picked up on some similarities between several of the bigger fires.”
Pete whistled softly.
“Yeah. It’s not information I’m excited about sharing with Herb and Harriet. Who’d hurt them?” Sheriff Marge’s habitually worried look had returned.
“Just about everyone in the county was at their pl
ace yesterday because of our wedding,” I murmured. “What’s the timeframe? Could the fire have been started small during the potluck but taken a while to reach the size where we noticed?” I glanced up at Pete who was gazing at Sheriff Marge with concerned concentration.
Sheriff Marge exhaled. “Exactly. We’re short on viable suspects. Bob has a couple working hypotheses. He’ll be back this afternoon to have another look around.”
My phone rang in the trailer. I hurried to the door and snagged it off the dining table. The caller ID said Harriet Tinsley. I turned back toward Pete and Sheriff Marge and slowly brought the phone to my ear, determined not to reveal the scary news Sheriff Marge had just shared. Sheriff Marge would handle that in the way she thought best.
“Meredith?” Harriet’s voice shook. “Herb’s not doing so well. He’s been feeling poorly all day, but now he’s having trouble breathing. Will you come?”
I stretched out and grabbed a fistful of Pete’s shirt while shooting a scared look at Sheriff Marge. “Have you called 911?”
“Yes, an ambulance is coming. But will you come too?”
“We’ll be right there.”
I only had to say Herb’s name to trigger Sheriff Marge into crisis mode.
“Get in,” she yelled, stumping rapidly across the grass to her new vehicle.
Sheriff Marge drove cross-country, ignoring the meandering paved loops through the campground. She took the most direct route across the rolling lawn, dodging trees and fire pits and exhibiting her new vehicle’s impressive suspension and horsepower.
Herb sat on a chair at the kitchen table, with Harriet hovering over him. His jeans and boots were caked with mud as though he’d been sifting through the muck left from the fire and the water.
He stubbornly resisted our attempts to get him to lie down, and it was clear he wasn’t fully comprehending his own condition. His ragged breathing stripped him of energy for anything else.
Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Page 4