Herb’s blue eyes were dull, and his gaze darted around the room, as if seeking a place of reassurance. As usual, he wasn’t saying much. I doubted he was capable of forming words.
I squatted on the floor next to him and took his hand. He squeezed it so hard I almost cried out. The pressure seemed to be a reflex action, not under conscious control.
Pete rested his hands on Herb’s shoulders, holding him in the chair as much as anything, so he wouldn’t fall to the floor. Then he started talking — my husband who doesn’t waste words — just started talking about the weather and farming and what to expect from the crops next year, what the forecast might do for his tow jobs in the spring. All things Herb would know about and find interesting.
I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. Pete was giving Herb something to hang on to, something to track with, some comfort through the confusion. Slowly, Herb began to nod along with Pete’s comments.
Sheriff Marge eased Harriet out to the screened-in porch and paced with her, listening to Harriet’s fluttered recounting of Herb’s staggering into the kitchen and collapsing on the chair.
Harriet was borderline frantic, wringing a dainty, embroidered hanky in her shaking hands. She’s usually a stalwart of common sense and sharp humor, a practical joker extraordinaire. But when it’s a twin — and a twin you’ve lived with your entire life — her whole world was on the verge of splitting into a deep, irreparable chasm.
The ambulance arrived, and the paramedics treated both Herb and Harriet with such tenderness. Herb refused to lie on the gurney, so they boosted him between them and gently lifted him into the ambulance so he could sit on the side bench. Then they helped Harriet up, and she perched beside him. Herb was being fitted with an oxygen mask when Sheriff Marge slammed the back doors closed.
“Maybe you won’t need to have that conversation with them now,” she muttered.
The ambulance pulled away, slowly bouncing over the tree root-ridged driveway before picking up speed.
I shook my head. “We still will — when the timing’s better, when we know Herb’s prognosis.” I sucked in a deep breath.
Pete rubbed my arms. “Think the fire prompted this? Pushed Herb over the edge?”
Sheriff Marge grunted. “Didn’t help.”
CHAPTER 7
For the second time that day, we raced into Lupine — this time to the hospital for people instead of animals. I didn’t want Harriet to be left alone too long, sure that Herb would be pulled into a private curtained area for the initial examination. The ER doctor might not want Harriet to witness that.
Pete drove, and I wedged in beside him on the bench seat. He glanced down at my hands clenched in tight fists on my lap.
“We’re going to be there for them, Babe. Whatever the outcome, it won’t be the way you’re worrying it.”
“I know.” I pressed my face against his shoulder. “I know.”
We found Harriet in the waiting room, the hanky still clutched in her hand. She sat like a lost child, alone in the middle of a long line of green vinyl chairs. She perked up when she saw us coming across the squeaky clean linoleum floor, her eyes as bright as ever.
“He talked to me, told me to check the well pump tonight to make sure it’s primed, so I know he’s going to be fine,” she said in a rush. “It’s something called a TIA.” She dabbed her eyes with the hanky. “A pre-stroke or a mini-stroke. He needs blood thinners.”
I slid into the chair beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Pete sat on her other side and squeezed her knee. “I’ll take care of the pump and make sure your garden gets watered.”
Harriet emitted a trembling sigh. “I was hoping we could open your gifts today. I wanted to help you keep track of who to thank for what.”
“I’m sorry they’re clogging up your kitchen,” I murmured.
“Don’t be silly.” Harriet sniffed. “It’s like Christmas, only better.” She flashed me a hint of her usual mischievous smile. “All those pretty packages. I’m going to start peeking if you don’t hurry up and open them.”
I chuckled. “We’ll have a little party when Herb comes home — how about that?”
“Harriet?” A nurse waved Harriet over from the other end of the room.
Pete and I waited fifteen minutes, watching a couple nurses and the ER doctor pass back and forth behind the privacy screen. When it appeared they were finished with their ministrations, we followed and poked our heads into the curtained space.
Herb reclined on a bed — not lying down, of course, but relaxed, an IV line threaded into his arm and a couple other monitoring devices taped to his skin.
His face told me everything I needed to know — our Herb was back. He was weak but alert and still worried about the well pump, based on his first comment to Pete.
Harriet sidled up to me and whispered, “You and Pete go on now. I know you have better things to do.”
I frowned down at her. “Are you staying the night?”
“Yes. We’ll be fine. The doctor gave me a checklist.” She flapped a piece of paper full of small print. “I’m going to badger Herb until he follows it. No more strokes, not even minor ones.” She shook her head emphatically.
If anyone could overcome a health problem by sheer force of will, even if it was someone else’s problem, it was the tiny woman beside me.
“You’ll call? We’ll come pick you up tomorrow. Sills’ taxi service,” I said — using my new last name for the first time. I filled Harriet in about Tuppence who was also spending the night — in a cinderblock cell with doggy accommodations (i.e., a drain hole in the floor) on the other side of Lupine. Why are hospitals so much like prisons?
“Ohhhh,” Harriet whimpered and wiped her eyes — for a different reason this time. “Poor dog. Mae Brock’s cooking—” Harriet’s white ponytail swished against her shoulders. “Well, Tuppence has enough sense to never sample it again.”
“I hope so.”
oOo
If possible, the Surely’s living quarters were more cramped than the fifth-wheel’s. While Pete jury-rigged suitable sleeping arrangements, I set up shop at the built-in banquet table and bench at one end of the galley kitchen.
I pulled up the website for the freight company handling the Near East artifacts. The shipment was getting white glove treatment, which meant it was scheduled with a dedicated semi-truck and trailer tandem the entire distance. In theory, the trailer had been sealed by the collector and would not be opened again until I signed off on it. Certainly not the most efficient or cost effective method, but the most secure, provided the driving team — a married couple who preferred the nomad lifestyle — was honest and vigilant.
It was the freight company’s job to vet their drivers, and they had an excellent track record. It was the most subtle and protected form of transport we could get without bulletproof plating. I also suspected the drivers were armed, if informally. It’s not at all uncommon for long-haul drivers, regardless of their cargo, to carry a gun or two, just because they see long stretches of lonely road and plenty of sketchy characters on their travels.
My laptop pinged as an alert message popped up. The drive team was making excellent progress, and their estimated time of arrival was bumped up to Tuesday afternoon.
Tomorrow!
I jumped up, banged my knee on the support under the table and sat back down fast. “Ow.” I massaged the sore spot.
“Babe?” Pete stuck his head around the door seal.
“Clumsy.” I grinned at him. “Tomorrow’s the big day.”
“Didn’t we just have the big day?”
I scooted off the bench in proper form this time and went to him. “It was the best day—” I stretched up, wrapped my arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek, “—ever. But the shipment’s arriving tomorrow.”
Pete’s hands found their perfect spot in the small of my back. “We might just beat the odds this time. I haven’t heard a peep around town,” he murm
ured against my neck.
“Good.” I sighed and relaxed into his chest. “We can’t afford to have anyone know about this shipment, at least not until I’m ready to put it on display — and the foundation’s finished, and we have a security system installed. Rupert’s working on the new insurance policy, but I don’t think he has it finalized yet. This is crazy,” I whispered. “Like walking a high wire tightrope.”
“It’ll boost the number of visitors.”
“I sure hope so.”
“Then maybe the museum can afford to hire more staff and you can take a vacation — with me.” Pete’s hands moved into tickle territory.
“The vacation’s non-negotiable,” I said, wriggling. “Just as soon as the shipment’s reasonably secured, we’re out of here.”
“Amen to that.” Pete laced his fingers through mine. “Want to see your new bedroom?”
Just before I fell asleep, lying in the gently rocking dark, listening to the Columbia’s rolling waves slap against the side of the tug, I murmured, “I’m glad we were here — to be with the Tinsleys — even though we haven’t had a honeymoon yet. If we’d been gone—” I turned my face toward Pete on the pillow we were sharing.
“Yeah, Babe,” he whispered, “we’re home. This is exactly where we belong.”
oOo
The next morning over bacon and mushroom omelets — Pete’s specialty — we discussed who would do what. It was a first for me, this sharing of responsibilities — and decided that we could pick up Tuppence together, but Pete would have to shuttle the Tinsleys by himself since the truck only held three adults in semi-comfortable condition. Besides, I had some preparation to do at the museum before the shipment arrived. I was loving how sweet mundane tasks were turning out to be when done in his company.
Next week, Pete would be back to work as well, with days- or weeks-long trips on the Columbia-Snake river system, and he’d be busy at least until the end of harvest. I’d be on my own a lot then. But he had a great crew, and he’d be able to finagle a three-day weekend for an official honeymoon as soon as I could leave the museum.
It was already another scorcher, and we rode with the windows down. My truck is far too old to have such a modern convenience as air conditioning. Freckles had popped up all over my body, not just across my nose like they usually do in the summer. Probably had something to do with the fact that I was wearing as few clothes as possible in an attempt to not overheat — lots of shorts and skirts and tank tops. I could identify constellations on my forearms by connecting the dots. Good thing my job at the Imogene kept me out of the public eye most of the time.
Doc Corn’s waiting room was only half full but with the same miserable assortment of furry creatures as we’d seen yesterday. We strode up to the unoccupied receptionist’s desk.
I could hear someone — two someones, a man and a woman — having a muffled conversation around the corner. I strained to pick out the voices, but wasn’t sure about either one, except that the man was definitely not Doc Corn.
“I told you it will have to wait, Rhonda,” the male voice hissed.
The woman muttered a few sentences, but I only caught a snatch — “Whatever. I’m sick of it.”
I scrunched my face at Pete, figuring we were inadvertently eavesdropping on a bit of marital unbliss. Then I winked at him. We’d made it two days so far without that kind of unpleasantness.
Maybe a paying customer would give the unseen pair a chance to cool off. I tapped the service bell and cringed as its loud clang echoed off the hard surfaces necessary in a room that has to be sanitized every evening.
Rhonda’s head peeked around the corner. “Oh, Meredith.” She quickly smoothed her long hair with both hands and bustled to her chair. “Tuppence is just great. No complications. She’s ready to go home. If you give me a minute—” she clicked at her keyboard and the printer whirred to life. She slipped the invoice in front of me.
I dug in my purse for my wallet, and when I glanced up, a man stood behind Rhonda. He wore pointy-toed, heavily embossed cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans with creases pressed down the front of each leg, a Western shirt and a bolo tie with a giant turquoise clasp. His dirty blond hair was stick straight and flared a bit over his ears.
“Quincy Nugent.” He stuck out his right hand, aimed toward the gap between Pete and me. “The newlyweds. Have you considered life insurance? Lots of married couples do it, consider it their gift to each other.”
Pete and I froze awkwardly for a second, unsure who should go first in the obligatory return of politeness — if you could call being solicited for life insurance politeness.
I leaned sideways and scribbled my name on Rhonda’s receipt, leaving Pete to tend to the handshake. I frowned and took my time flipping through the care instructions Doc Corn had written for Tuppence. Pete mumbled something about not making important decisions in a hurry.
Quincy was obviously one of those people who was trying too hard — posturing. Either he was desperate for acceptance in this rural county, or he thought the charade would garner him more business. Only uninitiated people think the bolo tie is cowboy attire. I’m pretty sure the last thing a real cowboy wants to wear is a string around his neck. And the boots — not actually made for walking in, yet Quincy was giving it his best shot.
Rhonda held up a finger, indicating she was going into the back to retrieve Tuppence. She disappeared around the partition.
“It’s nice to meet you folks. ‘Course, Rhonda and I were at your wedding, but I mean to really talk with you, friend to friend.” Quincy scooted around the desk and crowded in. He lowered his voice. “Heard you’re expecting a big shipment up at the Imogene too. Must have quite a bit of money tied up in those collections, yeah? Can never be too careful. May I suggest a custom-written irreplaceable value rider on your policy?”
Pete has an uncanny ability to know when my blood pressure shoots up. Maybe I turn red — I don’t know. He eased in front of me and stared down at the smaller man.
Quincy backed up. “Well, you think about it. Just let me know. I’m happy to be of service.”
Nails clattered on the linoleum and a wet nose collided with my knee. My wiggly, squiggly, absolutely elated hound. Never was a dog so ecstatic to escape confinement. She could hardly hold still long enough for a decent rubdown.
Then it was Pete’s turn to receive a shower of affection. Tuppence adored him long before I did, so his joining the family has never been a problem for her.
Pete held open the door, and Tuppence trotted out, nose angled straight for the pickup. A dry gust spun into a small whirlwind, carrying dead grass and parking lot litter, flapping Tuppence’s ears, and prickling up the back of my neck.
I squinted toward the east and the layer of gray-brown smoke that was built up thick and brought the eastern horizon much closer than it really was. Wind. Exactly what we didn’t need.
Tuppence sneezed, then snorted, her nose quivering toward the east too. No doubt she smelled it as well.
I scooted into the middle so Tuppence could assume her usual shotgun seat. As soon as Pete started the engine, I blurted, “What was he thinking? He has to know that a podunk, two-bit, storefront insurance agency can’t offer the kind of policy the Imogene needs. That’s why Rupert’s working with Lloyd’s of London. How does he know about the shipment?” I ended through gritted teeth.
“Whoa, Babe,” Pete replied. “Maybe he doesn’t realize the magnitude of the shipment. He might have just hit on a lucky guess. Otherwise, he’d know what you know — that he can’t possibly offer insurance for what’s in the shipment. I’d call his offer a general threat of good intentions — not specific.”
“You think?” I blew out a long breath.
“For now. But word will leak. How long until the security system’s in place and operational?”
“Five or six weeks, not allowing for glitches. The security technicians can’t finalize the settings until the foundation repair work is complete because of the motion senso
rs, and the concrete in the support pillars for the foundation will take twenty-eight days to cure after they’re poured.” I sighed. “I wish the donor hadn’t been in such a hurry to unload this collection.”
Pete shook his head, his face grim. We both knew the timeframe was too long to count on lips not flapping in Sockeye County.
CHAPTER 8
Pete dodged the construction equipment in the Imogene’s parking lot and dropped Tuppence and me near the front doors. I leaned into his open window for one last smooch, then he turned around and headed back to Lupine to retrieve the Tinsleys.
Rupert was puttering about the ballroom, our largest exhibit hall and the first one visitors pass through, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped at the plaque beside a case displaying Klickitat beaded pouches, bent forward to peer at the fine print and read every word, muttering to himself. At least eighty percent of his work for the museum is on the road — examining collections, acquiring them in whatever bargain method he can conjure up, and schmoozing with other curiosity seekers and oddity collectors like himself. Essentially marketing on a grand scale. I handle the local marketing and all operations as well as collection preservation and display. In other words, Rupert sets the overall vision while I scurry around after the details.
Since Rupert is certifiably eccentric, you can imagine what sort of vision the Imogene follows, but it’s a fun ride — most of the time. I’m one of the few people on the planet who truly loves her job.
Whenever Rupert’s on the premises, he usually holes up in his tornado-aftermath of an office, a place you enter at your own risk. I darted a glance into the gift shop and caught Frankie’s eye. She just shrugged and shook her head. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one worried about this shipment.
Tuppence took it upon herself to greet my boss by nudging his knee with her nose and swishing her entire back half from side to side. She was still giddy about being released from medical treatment.
Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Page 5