Her eyes twinkled, and she bit her lip. Definitely a yes.
“Make sure you use the blender,” I added.
“Oh, I will.” Both of her dimples appeared.
Pete and Ford finished sweeping up the wood shards and scraps, returning the area to its previous neatness and leaving no trace of our afternoon’s frantic activity. I waved good-bye to Ford as he took off across the lawn toward his living quarters in a converted outbuilding.
“Harriet’s counting on our coming over tonight,” Pete said, sliding his arms around my waist. “And the fifth-wheel’s habitable again. It passed my sniff test.”
Frankie giggled. “I don’t know another couple who would handle what you two have been through — and immediately after your wedding, too — with such equanimity. When are you going to take a real honeymoon?”
“Soon.” Pete said, giving me a squeeze.
Frankie’s back pocket rang. She pulled her phone out, checked the display and flushed pink again.
I tugged Pete several feet away so she could have some privacy. But Frankie’s pert greeting was followed by a sharp gasp, and I knew the news couldn’t be good.
“Are you sure?” she murmured. “I could come out. No, but—” She shook her head, still clutching the phone to her ear.
I scanned her face, looking for a sign. I was pretty sure her caller was Henry, and if he was able to call, then at least he was okay — probably. What else could it be?
Frankie was silent for a minute, then she whispered, “Please be careful. I’ll wait up to hear from you.” She clicked off.
“Frankie?” Pete said. “Do you need help?”
Frankie’s hand quivered over her mouth, then she habitually reached for an earring that wasn’t there. She’d pared down on her usual jewelry today in deference to the manual labor. “No, not me. There’s a fire at Henry’s place.”
“Henry Parker?” Pete asked.
I laid a warning hand on his arm, not sure Frankie was ready for the logical next question he might ask.
“The whole field next to his shop went up in flames,” Frankie said, “and the fire jumped a ditch to some scrub on the other side of the road. His house, shop and hangar are safe for now, but he needs to stay to keep an eye on things.”
“Kind of sounds like the others,” Pete muttered.
“The fire department’s there?” I asked.
Frankie nodded. “It’s contained. They expect to have the fire extinguished in the next hour. I wish he’d called sooner. I could have—”
I pulled Frankie in for a tight hug. “Worried more. That’s what he was thinking. The last thing he wants to do is cause you worry.”
Frankie sniffed and managed a weak smile. “I guess the blender will have to wait.”
“You’ll have the chance to use it again — very soon — I’m sure,” I whispered to her. “You’ll call if anything changes?”
Frankie nodded.
oOo
“Can you explain that to me or are you sworn to secrecy?” Pete asked.
We were zipping down Highway 14 toward home, and as usual I was snuggled up next to him as much as the high ambient temperature would allow while Tuppence stuck her nose out the window, ears flapping in the dry breeze.
“What?” I gave him my best attempt at an innocent smile.
He chuckled. “Frankie, Henry Parker and a blender?”
“Then you already know the secret,” I said.
Pete grunted.
“What did you mean by sounds like the others?” I asked.
“The other fires. The ones Doc Corn mentioned, plus the Tinsleys’ barn, now Henry’s place.” Pete shook his head. “They’ve caused extensive damage to property but have been set in such a way that they haven’t caused loss of life — not yet anyway. Seems to be a pattern.”
“Who’s next?” I murmured.
Pete leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “I’m sure Bob Cummins and Sheriff Marge are running scenarios like crazy. The more fires, the more evidence he’s leaving behind. They’ll catch him soon, hopefully before he escalates the risk.”
CHAPTER 10
Harriet greeted us at the kitchen door with a wide smile on her face and pink frosting smeared on the front of her ruffled apron. “Have you eaten dinner?” she asked.
“No, but you don’t have to—” I started.
“Good,” she announced. “I was hoping you’d be hungry. Herb’s set up a picnic table for us outside since it’s cooler out there.”
“Should he be—” But Pete gave me a tiny frown and shake of his head, and I didn’t finish. There was no stopping the Tinsleys. Maybe returning as quickly as possible to their normal life was the best thing for them.
I helped Harriet carry the salads and lemonade pitcher outside. Several strings of white Christmas lights were draped from the overhanging branches of a tree, illuminating the place settings.
“Harriet, it’s beautiful,” I murmured.
“Not quite the same ambiance as candlelight, but it’ll have to do. We’re not too keen on open flames these days.” She fussed with the folded napkins.
We settled down to business, spending the first several minutes taking care of filling our plates and our stomachs. But Harriet and Herb kept sharing fidgety glances, and there was definitely an undercurrent of excitement between them, as though they’d hatched a plan to run away from home or something.
Pete noticed it too and set down his fork. “All right, you two. What’s up?”
Herb slid a manila envelope out from under his placemat and handed it to Pete. Harriet literally bounced on the edge of the bench, her hands clasped together, eyes bright under the twinkling lights.
Pete pulled a sheaf of papers out of the envelope and started scanning the top page. His jaw dropped, and he shot a startled glance at the eager twins across the table.
“Babe.” He cleared his throat and pulled me snug against him on the bench. He tipped the papers so I could see them in the faint glow and whispered, “This is for you.”
“And you, Pete — both of you,” Harriet piped.
“We’ve wanted to do it for a long time,” Herb said. “We were just waiting for the right time, and this seems to be it. I’m awfully sorry there isn’t a barn now, and you’ll have to deal with the wreckage from the fire. I would have liked to have the place in better condition for you.”
“And we don’t want to saddle you with something you don’t want, so you just say the word. There’s no obligation,” Harriet added. “But just think how short your commute to the port would be. Perfect for hurrying home after a long trip.”
I’d read enough by now to understand what they were talking about. I’m afraid I burst into tears and buried my face in Pete’s neck.
Pete squeezed my shoulder. “That’s a yes,” he said. “We’ll take it. But are you sure? This is — this is—” his voice shook, “—overwhelming.”
“Oh, yes,” Harriet said. “The Edgewater Retirement Village just this side of Lupine will have an apartment ready for us in two weeks. We’ve already given them our deposit.”
“The campground fees cover the property taxes.” Herb sounded relieved to be able to talk about something practical in the wake of my emotional flood. “Plus enough extra so you could hire a handyman to manage the place while you’re away on tow jobs. The property just needs someone who cares for it to keep an eye on things. And Harriet and I thought you two — well, we know how much you love living here next to the river, and we’d like you to have it.”
“Deuce Hollis wrote the deed transfer.” Harriet pointed to the papers still clutched in Pete’s hand. “You just need to go into his office to sign the papers. There’ll be some extra taxes due to the gift, but Herb and I have that covered through some creative finagling that Deuce figured out when he set up our retirement accounts. He may not look like it, but he’s a whiz of a lawyer.” She beamed at us.
“How can we ever—” I choked up again and couldn’t finish.
“
You’re the kids we never had,” Herb said, he eyes glistening, “since we were — both of us — too stubborn to marry. We’re thrilled to do this.”
Harriet popped up and collected our dirty plates. “I think it’s time for cake. Since you didn’t have official wedding cake at your reception, I took the liberty.” She disappeared into the dark, and the screened-in porch door slammed.
She returned with a lovely two-tiered round cake covered in roses sculpted in pink frosting. “It’s sliding,” she squealed, quickly depositing it on the table. “This heat. I hope it tastes better than it looks.”
Around mouthfuls of dense chocolate cake and raspberry filling, Harriet suggested we leave our wedding gifts piled on their kitchen table until we had time to open them, and then she would help me find places to store the items in the cupboards and closets of our new house. Herb also wanted to go over the campground’s accounting records with us.
“And we’ll only be a phone call away at the retirement village,” Harriet said. “I expect we’ll be dropping by for visits all the time. We’ll help you adjust, and Herb can do some fill-in mowing if you’re too busy.”
“Well, now, Harriet,” Herb murmured. “They’ll need their privacy.”
“Privacy?” Harriet looked surprised. “But there’s so much to do.”
oOo
That night, Pete and I sprawled in bed in the dark, lying still as the oscillating fan swished nominally cooler air over us. I stared up at the ceiling I couldn’t see, my mind racing over and over the events of the day, especially Herb and Harriet’s amazing generosity. No matter how tired I was, I would not be falling asleep anytime soon.
Pete’s breathing was even and deep, but he shifted uneasily. “Babe,” he murmured, “we don’t deserve this. How do we deserve this?”
“We don’t. We can’t,” I whispered back. “When Mom was giving me my pep talk before the wedding, she mentioned extending grace to each other. We were just given a huge dose of grace.”
Pete was silent for a long minute. Then, “You needed a pep talk before the wedding?”
“Because I don’t deserve you,” I whispered.
Pete pulled me tightly to his chest and held me there, his heart thumping steadily against mine. And that was all the answer I needed. More grace.
oOo
I rolled over, checked the clock and grinned at the unprecedentedly late hour. Tuppence’s whine had reached the urgent pitch that indicated her desire to go outside had moved from want to necessity. I snagged my robe off the floor and tiptoed to the door.
“You’re worse than a kid,” I whispered to her, but she just whapped her tail against my bare legs and scrambled down the steps. I was glad to see her constitution had returned to normalcy. Then she headed out on her morning inspection of the campsite.
Our campsite — our whole campground — and a real house to live in. Pete’s and mine. I hugged my arms across my chest, tipped my head against the doorframe and inhaled the smoky, almost smothering, air, and enjoyed the view I have come to consider essential to my survival.
Sunlight winked off the river’s deep blue ripples. The water seemed to be the only thing moving, and even it was sluggish. The maple leaves drooped, stagnant and limp, creating solid blobs of shade instead of the dappled patterns that usually flickered across the lawn.
In the winter, I sometimes get sick of the rain. But if we were to have a freak shower right now, I’d dance in it barefoot and let it soak me through. We needed it so badly.
I latched the screen door — it was the same degree of stifling both inside and out — and crept back to bed. I lifted the sheet and scooted in beside Pete.
He wrapped me in a hug, and his kisses found my neck. “Are we sleeping in?” he murmured.
“Mmmmm.” I returned the kisses. “Greg can’t get here until after noon, and I don’t want to shortchange him. I promised the entire thrill — including acres of cardboard boxes needing to be flattened and mountains of packing paper and bubble wrap. It’s a glamorous job, which means I don’t start until he joins me.”
“So I get you all to myself for half a day?” Pete pushed up on his elbows and smiled down at me. Those sapphire blue eyes with their crinkle corners turn me all loopy. Every single time. There’s no cure. “Let’s go for a ride.”
I am not the kind of girl who turns down an offer like that.
oOo
Pete loves the back roads — the ones that aren’t gravel, anyway. The curvier the better, and we wound our way deep into Sockeye County, back into the hills, into thicker forest where in wetter days streams and creeks rush along the bottom of ravines and crash down cliff faces. The waterways were down to trickles now, seeping under moss covered logs and around boulders, but they still fed an abundance of foliage.
How is it that a color can change the temperature? But green always does that for me. I luxuriated in the cooler air in spite of my helmet and leather jacket.
We flew over a hill and down the other side where the landscape gave way to brown fields of stubble that had the texture of velvet nap — some lighter, some darker, some golden-brown, some khaki tan with hints of dusty green — depending on the crop and method of harvest. At the base of the hill, several buildings, small in the distance and hazy air, stood next to a huge black burn scar.
As we drew closer, I realized one of the buildings wasn’t small — in fact it had giant doors, one of which had been pushed open on its roller track. A hanger. And I knew where we were.
Pete pulled into the long dirt driveway, and we slowly bounced around the potholes. Deep gouges from heavy truck tires had churned up the dead grass on either side of the road, effectively widening it — the fire trucks from yesterday. The mud had already dried into ruts.
Frankie’s little white pickup and another vehicle I didn’t recognize — a gold-toned Mercedes too old to be hip but too young to be vintage, the kind with a trunk bigger than a whirlpool bathtub and a backseat roomy enough for a trio of NBA centers, complete with a volunteer firefighter sticker on the bumper — were parked near the open hangar door.
The Harley’s rumble announced our arrival. Frankie and Henry appeared in the doorway before we had a chance to remove our helmets.
“Mornin’.” Henry stuck out his hand to shake with Pete.
“Close call,” Pete replied, nodding toward the several acres of scorched earth beside Henry’s hangar.
“Yeah.” Henry ran a hand over his silver crew cut and glanced at me. “Fires popping up everywhere. All calm at the Imogene?”
I smiled. “Thanks to you.”
“Seems that was just a warm-up for me.” Henry shook his head. “Come in and have some coffee.”
Frankie beamed, hooked her arm through mine and led me inside. While most of the space was occupied with helicopter skeletons and motors in various stages of assembly and repair, Henry had a cozy sitting area in one corner of the otherwise utilitarian space. A few mismatched upholstered chairs and rag rug were clustered around a currently unlit wood stove. Nearby, a microwave sat on a counter and a mini refrigerator hummed underneath it. A coffee maker burbled next to the sink.
A padded rocking chair with a 1960s modern vibe was occupied by Quincy Nugent. He had papers spread all over the low coffee table in front of him and was tapping the end of a pen against a manila folder. A tight frown pulled down the corners of his washed-out blue eyes. He was wearing the entire uniform again, from pointy-toed boots to bolo tie.
“Refill, Quincy?” Frankie chirped.
Quincy glanced up, and his face split into a syrupy smile when he saw me. “You bet. Best coffee I’ve ever had.”
Frankie snorted softly, then whispered to me, “Just Folgers. But he can think what he likes. Quincy is reviewing Henry’s policy, updating it for additional fire protection.” She bustled over to the makeshift kitchen and pulled mugs from a cupboard covered with a checked gingham curtain.
Pete dropped into a recliner that was patched together with duct tape, and I
perched on the matching footstool next to him.
“Any idea about the cause?” Pete asked.
“Kids.” Quincy let the disgust flow in his voice.
“Well, now,” Henry said, giving Frankie a squeeze and a wink as she handed him a brimming mug, “maybe not the best decision of their young lives, but it was just boys bein’ boys.”
“Boys?” I asked, remembering the delinquents Sheriff Marge had mentioned she was keeping an eye on.
“Neighbor kids and their cousins — twelve- to fourteen-year-olds. They must’ve finally got that old Volvo runnin’. Can’t drive it on the streets yet, of course. But since they’re farm kids they can tear around the fields. Took it skidding.”
Pete ducked his head and chuckled — that deep, manly, inside joke type of chuckle.
I scowled. “What’s skidding?”
“Best done on a fresh cut field with a layer of straw. Slicker’n snot.” Henry laughed. “Heckuva lotta fun.”
“I take it both of you have done this?” I squinted from Pete to Henry and back. What did I miss by growing up in a city? Or by being a girl?
“It’s kind of like doing doughnuts — you know those circles of tire rubber you see in the high school parking lot? — except you do it in a wheat field after it’s been cut. And you do it in a beater car because you’ll probably end up in a ditch—” Pete shrugged, “if you think that far ahead. The back end flies out—” He moved his hands to demonstrate the pleasurable spinning effect.
The mere idea made my stomach queasy.
“Or if you accelerate like mad and crank it into a slide,” Henry added, “you can go for a hundred yards, more, on a good patch.” He glanced into his mug with a gurgled, throat-clearing noise that sounded suspiciously like the male form of a giggle.
Pete was still chuckling too. Apparently, some rowdy memories were being unearthed in those two skulls.
Frankie and I shared a frown. She’s a former city girl like me, and I think we were both thinking the same thing — boys are crazy, and maybe it was better we hadn’t met our boys until they’d turned into men.
Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Page 7