Oxygen Burning

  OXYGEN BURNING

  Tin Can Mystery #6

  Jerusha Jones

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, companies, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Jerusha Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  For more information about Jerusha Jones’s other novels, please visit https://jerushajones.com/

  Cover design by Elizabeth Berry MacKenney.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  WHAT'S NEXT

  NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SOURCES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY JERUSHA JONES

  CHAPTER 1

  Ned Haggerty has a scratchy bass voice that sounds like pebbles rattling in a hubcap. Consequently, he can really get down with that soulful rhythm and blues music the rainy city of Portland, Oregon is known for.

  Actually, it wasn’t raining, but that didn’t dampen the mood of the audience in the Wicked Bean Annex one drop. The young hipsters cozied up to small cafe tables and lining the walls and the balcony of the big, double-decker converted warehouse space were enthusiastically clapping along with the beat, nodding their heads, tapping their toes, and swigging a healthy assortment of both caffeinated and malted brews.

  “You didn’t tell me Ned was this good!” I shouted into Bettina’s ear over a mournful saxophone riff. “Where did he find these guys?”

  Bettina took a turn yelling back. “They’re all retired police officers. Been practicing together for a few months now, in Sam’s garage.” Her pert brown eyes were bright with delight.

  “In a garage? Seriously?” Every one of the band members was on the far side of sixty. You’d have thought they could find a better place than a garage to revisit their lost youth.

  Although I certainly couldn’t complain about the Wicked Bean as an inaugural venue. The acoustics were terrific. And loud.

  Bettina just laughed over the stomping, hooting applause of the audience as the sax player stepped back into the lineup with his bandmates and gave me a knowing, boys-will-be-boys shrug. Her long, dangly earrings did a jitterbug of their own, flashing in the warm glow from the wall sconces.

  I could tell she was both excited and happy because she’d gone all-out in the fashion department. Bettina wears her emotions on her sleeve, quite literally. Well, on her whole body, actually. This time she’d selected slinky and gold and sparkly—the trifecta of ebullience.

  Speaking of gold, my left hand was trapped between the two long-fingered hands of my handsome fiancé, who was sitting on my other side and who also happens to be Bettina’s son. Vaughn was absentmindedly spinning the gold claddagh ring he’d given me around and around on my finger. I was still becoming accustomed to wearing it—and I was going to have a permanent groove worn into my skin at the rate he was going.

  I balled my hand into a fist, and Vaughn shot me an apologetic glance. He scooted his chair closer and settled for slinging an arm around my shoulders.

  “Going crazy?” I murmured.

  He shook his head. Then scowled and nodded.

  He was still on medical leave for the gunshot wound to his abdomen that had happened back in March. He was making a terrific recovery—the doctors and physical therapists all exclaimed about it—but it still wasn’t fast enough for his liking. He had job-absence-itis in spades, and sitting still—even if it was to enjoy an evening musical performance by a man he respected, the man who also happened to be “seeing” (the two of them refused to call it dating) his mother—was a challenge of monumental proportions.

  Too bad it wasn’t really dancing music, or I would’ve dragged him into a skinny space between tables to give gyrating a whirl. He probably would’ve growled at me, though, since he’s not the exhibitionist type.

  Nor am I. So I leaned into his shoulder and trailed my fingers down his bouncing thigh instead. The guy was a taut mass of impatient energy, and the condition was starting to become contagious.

  Maybe it was the packed crowd. Even though the center area was open to the second story, the space was feeling a bit stuffy and claustrophobic, closing in on me too.

  I tilted my head so I could speak into his ear. “Let’s get something else to drink.”

  He was on his feet in a flash, pulling me up with him. I gestured a question to Bettina, and she waved her empty glass, acknowledging the need for a refill.

  Vaughn barreled a path through the throng, towing me in his wake. We finally made it into the original portion of the coffeehouse and joined the long, snaking line of thirsty patrons in front of the espresso counter.

  “Eva! Eva!”

  I pivoted, trying to spot the person who was shouting my name. My height—nearly six feet—comes in handy sometimes, and peering over the heads of a crowd is one of them. But it was Vaughn, who’s a few inches taller, who located my hailer first.

  “Thatcher Frye,” he muttered, pointing out the mop of unruly buckwheat hair that was dodging its way toward the end of the beverage line.

  Thatcher’s goatee, which he’d been working on for some time, had morphed into a scraggly, pointed little tickler that just about reached the collar of his T-shirt. It was not a flattering affectation. He looked so much like a lost and bewildered billy goat that I struggled not to giggle aloud.

  “Eva,” he panted when he finally pulled up even with us at the next bend in the serpentine line. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

  “And here we are,” I said brightly when he failed to add to that statement. He had my phone number—and had used it to great effect in the past. He could’ve called at any time if it was an urgent matter. I looked at him expectantly.

  He leaned across the velvet rope, as though trying to keep his words private, and said, “You know Josie Rodriguez? She says you do. And of course you know Yvonne Ness?”

  His young face was etched into such an expression of apprehensive wonder tinged with alarm that I couldn’t help but nod encouragingly as we sidled along to keep pace with the queue, drawing away from Thatcher as his section of the line moved in the opposite direction.

  We had to wait until the line doubled back on itself again, and we drew parallel with Thatcher once more.

  “We’re starting up a new venture—a website dedicated to investigative journalism covering the city, county, state, and maybe even region if we can recruit the manpower. It’ll have to be freelancers at first, but we’ll pay fairly for real scoops and hopefully add staff over time. We’re going out on our own!” he added jubilantly.

  So that explained the look of surprised terror on his face. I knew all about being self-employed, living by my wits and a laptop and a few dozen printed business cards. I wouldn’t readily recommend it to anyone as a means of earning a living, but on the other hand, there was an exhilarating degree of freedom that came with not having the safety net of a boss and a pension plan and automatic health insurance.

  “Good for you,” I replied.

  “Can you do the marketing? We need someone to make the website look professional and—well, bigger than it is,” he admitted sheepishly.

  I knew all about that too. “Of course. I can email you my rate sheet. I’m guessing you’ll want the hourly option.”

  “Uh, probably.” Thatcher flushed, but in more of an eager, rather than an embarrassed, way. “We’ll pay you,” he added quickly. “Absolutely. But we don’t have a lot...” The line dragged him away again as I nodded understandingly. Tight finances was yet another experience I could readily commiserate with.

  “How on earth do you do it?” Vaughn grumbled, his hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the counter.

  “Do what?”

  But before he could clarify, Darren Hunt, owner of the Wicked Bean and my very first public-relations client in the Portland metro area, appeared from behind the gleaming stainless steel machinery. He rested his palms on the countertop and leaned forward, his snug tank top T-shirt putting his colorful full-sleeve tattoos on prominent display. “Eva! For you, it’s on the house. What’s your poison?”

  Vaughn nudged me aside, whipped out his wallet and smacked it down on the counter.

  “Uh, well, I’m with...” I started.

  “It’s all right, hon,” Darren interrupted with an unsubtle wink in my direction. “Your detective’s covered in the offer too.” And he stuck out his right hand, forcing Vaughn to match his good manners and shake it in a show of pseudo amicability.

  “How about an iced triple-shot for my soon-to-be mother-in-law too?” I asked s
weetly.

  Darren just smirked, but he got started on our drinks.

  “She won’t sleep for a week,” Vaughn growled into my ear, but the amused tilt to his lips that sets my stomach to fluttering was in evidence—for the first time in days. Which was all I’d wanted. Bettina could forgive me later.

  “Mmmm.” I snuggled into Vaughn, snaking my arms around his waist, careful to avoid the tender spot just to the left and slightly below his navel where his new scar is. “You’re cranky and you’re taking it out on everyone.”

  “How do you do it?” he repeated, changing the subject.

  I decided to let him get away with it. “Do what?”

  “Know everybody. We can’t go anywhere without people stopping to talk to you.”

  “Blame it on my charming disposition,” I replied.

  Which made him chuckle. Actually, truly, and for real. A deep little rumble that I felt more than heard, and that made my heart soar.

  I needed my man to get better—all the way better, and back on full-time duty—and pronto. It was a matter of public service, because Vaughn’s stir-craziness is the stuff of legend and it was producing rippled repercussions among his fellow detectives and all the patrol officers in his department. Chief Lonnie Monk had already spoken to me about it, recruiting me in whatever capacity was effective, and, in fact, urging me to use my creativity—those were his exact and desperate words.

  oOo

  The next morning, a bright, shiny, and ever informative email showed up in my inbox. From the editor’s desk at Pacific Northwest Scope—i.e. Thatcher Frye.

  While the new venture’s name was a little boring, I could see where they were going with it and especially appreciated that the name was open-ended enough to allow for the expansion Thatcher was dreaming of. What the journalistic team really needed was a clever logo to slap all over their website and stationary and T-shirts and raincoats (for when they were researching in inclement weather) and as stick-on decals on the sides of their vehicles...you get the idea. All part of looking like the big boys, those matchy-matchy network stations and deeply entrenched print publications that had had a stranglehold on the local news for decades, even easing into centuries.

  It’s always good to support a fresh outlook—and one’s friends—so I fired off my rate sheet and a contract. Five minutes later, the contract, complete with the digital signatures of all three founding members of the organization, pinged back into my inbox. They must’ve been in a meeting of their own—whether in person or virtually, it didn’t matter. You’ve gotta love this new digital age, where time and distance create no barriers.

  I was rudely—but not unexpectedly—interrupted by a volley of pounding on my front door.

  Willow is apprenticing in every meaning of the term—from chef’s assistant to booking manager. She’s learning how to run a kitchen and a small business at the same time, and she’s thriving on the stimulation. I’d mentioned the idea of enjoying her summer, as any newly-minted fifteen-year-old who’s heading into her sophomore year of high school should. You know—sleeping in, playing video games, hanging out with friends, suntanning, that sort of leisurely wantonness teens are so good at personifying.

  She’d turned me down flat. In fact, she’d snorted most expressively and rolled those pale-gray eyes at me as though I were missing the better part of my brain cells. “Are you kidding?! What would you do without me?” Apparently, it was a thought too horrifying to even consider, as she’d dismissed it with another snort.

  And so I was stuck. Not ungratefully, having gotten myself into this of my own accord. But it did mean putting up with the pounding at an hour not yet appropriate for social interaction of the face-to-face variety. I hadn’t had my coffee yet.

  “At least you’ve done your yoga,” Willow conceded when I let her in. My attire was a dead giveaway, since I’m a firm believer in conducting as much of my life in stretchy pants as possible. “But I still say you’re getting lazy in your old age.”

  “Late night last night,” I grumbled, heading straight for the French press.

  “Oh, yeah. Ned and his guitar. Groovy.” With an obscene amount of bouncing energy, Willow popped up onto a bar stool on the other side of the kitchen peninsula and plunked her elbows down on the countertop with syncopated thuds. “How was it?”

  “Really, really good,” I replied, unable to restrain a grin. “Truly. I was a little shocked at first by just how good the guys are, and I loved it.”

  “Now I’m jealous. I want to go next time.”

  “Only if you behave.”

  “Huh.” Willow stood up on the rungs of the stool, reached around the corner, flipped open a cabinet door, and pulled out my tub of homemade granola. “When do I not behave?”

  I was still blinking at her. I’d had no idea such an acrobatic, breakfast-obtaining maneuver was possible. She still needed a bowl and spoon, however, which were truly out of reach. And half-and-half, or Greek yogurt. I obliged her with all of those supplies.

  “I’m still thinking about that,” I replied. “I’m sure something will come to me. But you’re not allowed to make moon-eyes at Darren.”

  “Oh, geez,” Willow huffed, drowning her granola in half-and-half. “I’m so over that. He’s—like—ancient.”

  “My point, exactly.” I tossed a handful of fresh blueberries into her bowl to boost the nutritional value. She might as well get her antioxidants while she was cleaning out my pantry.

  “Although he does make killer coffee.” Now, she was just egging me on. I recognized that glint in her eyes, and capitulated once again by sliding a steaming mug over to her. She emptied the half-and-half carton into the mug, turning the coffee the color of a tepid mud puddle.

  Greek yogurt for me—since that was the only lubrication remaining that was suitable for proper granola mastication. I spooned out my own breakfast and leaned a hip against the counter.

  “You know what I really want?” Willow asked around a crunchy mouthful.

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  Her little face scrunched up in irritation, and she tugged on an electric-blue strand of hair that had escaped her messy bun, yanking it behind her ear. “Sheesh. Vaughn’s grouchiness is rubbing off on you. I really want to go kayaking with you again. We haven’t for ages, and I’m getting rusty on my technique. You know you are, too.” She gave me a wizened glare from under pitched eyebrows.

  I nodded slowly. “Maybe tomorrow night, after the supper club. There’s a full moon,” I added wistfully. The weather had been warm—unseasonably so, and the idea of a balmy, peaceful evening out on the water suddenly became a full-blown craving of epic proportions.

  Willow must’ve seen the yearning on my face, because her own split into a wide grin. “It’ll be a celebration!” she announced. Her smile was so wide, so vibrantly delighted, as she pulled a crumpled, folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of her jeans and smacked it onto the counter. She pushed it toward me. “Read.”

  I was half expecting an acceptance letter to Stanford, or something crazy like that. Instead, I got a printout of the scheduling spreadsheet I’d set up for her to keep track of reservations for the supper clubs we had planned for the summer and early autumn.

  Every slot on the sheet had someone’s name in it. Every single one.

  I stared at her, mouth agape.

  She was wobbling on the seat now, giddy with excitement. “It happened last night. I got several more emails. I was going to turn people away, then I thought to offer them spots on a waiting list, sort of like standby, if they’re ready to come at a moment’s notice if we get last-minute cancellations. All of them agreed—no, actually, they begged me to put them on the waiting list.” She flung her arms wide. “This proves it! We’re officially the hottest eatery in the Portland area right now.”

  The practical side of me had to tone down her enthusiasm. It surely was a matter of debate, this definition of hottest, and there were the constrained legalities of our unlicensed situation. “Not a restaurant,” I reminded her. “A supper club, where suggested donations are gladly accepted—” I scooped air quotes around the word with my fingers, but I was grinning madly back at Willow. Because we both knew that every guest eagerly paid the donation amount and often plus some, with tips for Willow, who acted as the primary server, layered on top of that, for the privilege of eating our humbly and lovingly prepared meals out on the Tin Can’s rear deck. This was heady stuff, indeed.