Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Read online

  “I probably heard the same rumors.” Frankie stood on tiptoe to slip the dress back on the hanger.

  Sheriff Marge sighed. “They sure picked the wrong time to dabble with this particular form of excitement. The weather’s problem enough without having kids playing with matches.”

  “I heard gasoline in one case,” Frankie said.

  “Hard to say. Could’ve been a spill. I’ve had a chat with the parents, so now we have to wait until it happens again.”

  “But you’re expecting it.” I exited the stall and leaned against the inactive radiator to tie my shoelaces.

  “I don’t put much stock in these particular parents keeping track of their offspring.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Saturday was a crazy blur of preparation. I packed up the extra dresses to return them; helped Harriet Tinsley, one half of the Tinsley twins and my landlords, decorate a sweet little arch her brother Herb had set up on the lawn; had about fifteen phone calls with Sally Levine, the pastor’s wife who was coordinating the food; and lingered over one kiss with Pete who docked his tugboat at the port just before dusk.

  Then I was off for girl time at the insistence of my mother. I dragged Harriet along with me. Talk about a hen party. If you want to laugh until your sides ache, just spend a few hours getting beauty treatments with a group of energetic, experienced, survived-a-hard-life ladies.

  Frankie and Sally joined us, and Barbara Segreti provided the after-hours salon space and supplies. I insisted she include herself in the pampering. Turn a bunch of girls loose with lipstick and nail polish and body scrubs and paraffin and tweezers and you’re in for an adventure.

  Since we wanted the wedding to be simple and easy to plan, I wasn’t having bridesmaids. My mother would be my witness. But if I’d had a cadre of attendants like you see in the glossy magazines, these ladies would be my choice.

  Barbara had the air conditioning blasting. After the hectic pace and interminable heat of the day, it felt amazing to lie back in a reclining chair with cucumber slices over my eyes and giggle at the comments swirling around the room. My other option was to turn bright red and fidget, so it was nice to hide behind the face mask and pretend I didn’t hear a few things.

  Even though she’s naturally cheerful, Frankie was more bubbly than the situation warranted, and I had a pretty good idea why. I definitely needed to get to know Henry better — and soon.

  I’m also working on encouraging a budding interest the Imogene Museum’s director has recently exhibited toward Barbara. Rupert Hagg is sweet and absentminded and needs a woman in his life. See — what goes around comes around, especially in Platts Landing.

  I felt like a sack of Jell-O by the end of the night — so relaxed I could hardly keep my balance. Maybe I’d actually be able to sleep. I gave Mom a huge thank-you hug, promising to meet her and Alex, my stepfather, at church the next day. Then I dropped Harriet off with the same promise and drove home — to my last night alone in my fifth-wheel trailer.

  Well, not really alone. My hound, Tuppence, greeted me at the door with a lazy wag and pointed glance at her empty food bowl. Wedding or not, she had her priorities.

  oOo

  The church was packed. I squeezed onto a pew beside Pete, joining the assembly of my favorite people — Mom and Alex, Frankie and the new addition of Henry, the Tinsley twins, Sheriff Marge — in uniform, as always.

  A good turnout at Platts Landing Bible Church is not unusual, but I had to think some of the less-frequent attendees had put in an appearance due to the festivities planned for later. Pete and I had chosen a Sunday to save families a second drive into town during the week. Might as well line up big events — Sunday morning church service and our wedding — back to back to make it easier for everyone.

  After the service, Sally Levine pulled me aside for a quick status update on the food for the reception. Potlucks are carved-in-stone tradition for any sort of event in Platts Landing. There was no way we’d be able to stop people from bringing casserole dishes, crock pots and platters of brownies. Sally had taken on the monumental task of trying to prevent an epic showing of only baked beans.

  “We’re going to have Jell-O salads in every color of the rainbow,” she whispered. “Green salads, pasta salads, chopped salads. Jim Carter insisted on bringing his giant barbecue — you know the one that has a hitch of its own and he tows behind his pickup — and he’ll be cooking chicken and spareribs.” She wrung her hands. “We’re going to have too much, and it’ll all sit out there in this heat. You know how this town loves their mayonnaise.”

  It suddenly dawned on me why she was so worried. What was wrong with an abundance of potluck food? Food stored in less than ideal conditions for too long — patiently resting in coolers in car trunks or in crock pots plugged into all the outlets lining the church’s multipurpose room during the service — then displayed on folding tables outside on Herb and Harriet’s lawn during the wedding while the temperature soared into the high 90s.

  “Tell Mort to hurry through the ceremony,” I whispered back. “Pete and I don’t mind.”

  Sally squeezed my arm. “Whatever you do, make sure you and Pete don’t eat Mae Brock’s pork sausage and stuffing casserole. That stuff causes gastrointestinal distress even under the best circumstances. She crushes cornflakes on top — you’ll be able to pick it out of the lineup.” Sally flagged down a passing deacon’s wife and bustled off to attend to some other matter in her hectic morning.

  I gave Pete a quick hug and fled the mingling congregants as soon as possible, straight for the Tinsleys’ farmhouse and the white dress waiting for me in an upstairs bedroom. My stomach was in no condition to handle even the thought of food.

  I’d made it though the night and the church service fairly unruffled. But as the minutes ticked down to the ceremony start, my heart started fluttering faster — jumping all over the place. I pulled down the old roller shade on the window and perched on the edge of the squeaky bed draped in a garishly cheerful scrap quilt, gulping deep breaths.

  Outside, car doors slammed and the chatter level picked up as people greeted each other and children worked out the wriggles caused by sitting still so long through church. I envied their freedom to turn cartwheels in the grass. Maybe I could slip out a side door and join them in the not-so-fresh, smoke-filled air. We were all going to smell as if we’d been camping by the end of the afternoon.

  High heels clacked up the wood stairs, and fingernails tapped on the bedroom door. I opened it a crack.

  Mom took one look at me and said, “I’ll get a cool washcloth.”

  When she returned a minute later with not one, but three, soaked cloths, she said, “You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m a mess.”

  “Lie down.” Mom gently nudged me back on the pillows and arranged a folded washcloth on my forehead. She handed me the other two. “Stick these down your shirt. What’s the one thing that’s bothering you most? It usually helps me if I can name my worry. Is it Pete?”

  I bit my lip hard. “Never. It’s me. What if I’m not good enough for this — this kind of forever?”

  Mom smiled softly. “None of us are. Not even Pete, which you’ll find out soon enough. Although it’s good you think so now.” She picked up my hand, turned it over and stroked my palm. “Is that all?”

  My mouth was so dry that forming words was difficult. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Think of everything Alex has done for me. I could never repay him, but it doesn’t matter. We’re together. You know where he is? Downstairs pacing in the kitchen, sweating more than you are. And why? Because he’s terrified he’s going to do something stupid like step on your dress while he walks you down the aisle.”

  I sputtered a surprised laugh, and Mom chuckled with me.

  “The two of you will battle your problems at times, and Pete’s problems at other times. It’s the sticking together that matters, extending grace to each other.” Mom wiped a tear from her eye. “You’re my adventurous girl,
braver than I ever was.” She squeezed my hand. “Go for it.”

  I pushed to sitting and wrapped Mom in a tight hug. She sniffled against my shoulder. She smelled of lavender and peaches, the way she used to when she rocked me through long nights of earaches and upset tummies when I was little.

  “Oooo.” Mom pushed away and brushed at the front of her blouse. “You’re wet.” She swiped at the mascara smudging under her eyes. “Now we’re both a mess.”

  Another tap on the door, and Harriet poked her head in, talking as she entered. “Need help? Pastor Mort and Sally are here and people are starting to get settled—” She cast a quick glance between Mom and me. “Oh dear. Emergency measures?”

  I stood and handed the dripping washcloths to Harriet. “Yes, please. Quickly.”

  It took both Mom and Harriet to wedge me back into the dress. Two days — how could I possibly have become wider in two days? It had to be the heat. I was swelling with every passing moment.

  After much tugging and smoothing and inhaling, the dress zipped all the way to the top. I was so stuffed and stiff, I was going to look like a robot walking down the aisle.

  Mom fiddled with my hair while Harriet dabbed blush on my cheeks.

  “I’m a mess,” I groaned again.

  “That’s what the veil is for, honey,” Harriet murmured as she pinned it in place and flipped the gauze over my face.

  Thundering steps sounded on the stairs, alternating clump — bang, clump — bang, courtesy of an awkward walking cast. “What’s going on up here?” Sheriff Marge’s voice echoed in the narrow hallway, then she appeared in the doorway. “’Bout ready? Got an antsy groom out there.”

  I turned away from the mirror.

  Sheriff Marge sucked in a breath and beamed at me. “Ahh, yes. Well, he’ll think you were worth waiting for. Shoot, the whole county’s been waiting for you two to figure this out. Come on. We’re getting hungry.”

  I uttered a wheezy laugh, but cut it off quickly before I passed out. Of course. It really was all about the food.

  CHAPTER 3

  Knowing Alex was as anxious as I was helped tremendously. The two of us made it down the aisle without stumbling. I think I left permanent finger indentations in his arm.

  Then he turned me over to Pete under the vine festooned arch, and I forgot all about being nervous. And I couldn’t stop grinning.

  Everything happened in a blur. Pastor Mort cracked a few jokes and gave a short message. The whole time I was thinking that I should be listening, but I wasn’t — I was smiling into Pete’s crinkle-cornered sapphire blue eyes and clinging to his steady hands. Pastor Mort guided us through our vows and ring exchange. Then Pete lifted my veil and kissed me, long and vigorously, pulling me off my feet with his strong arms, and all I wanted was to stay in his embrace forever.

  But we had an enthusiastic, if hungry, crowd to face.

  “Ready, Babe?” Pete murmured near my ear.

  I squeezed his hand.

  We made a dash for the shade of a big maple — the starting line for the buffet to be served from the swaybacked tables and our impromptu receiving line. We greeted the friendly mob as they jostled into position to fill their plates, thanking everyone for coming, trading barbs and jokes and well-wishes.

  I don’t think I’d ever blushed so much in my life. I also received so many cheek pecks and hugs that I started smelling like a dozen different colognes and perfumes on top of my own sweaty stickiness. I pressed against Pete’s side and tried to take deep, calm breaths. The dress felt like mummy wrappings.

  Once people were settled into contented groups on the grass, scooping all kinds of yummy food from their paper plates, Pete and I started circulating, my hand tightly clasped in his. I was more than ready for him to spirit me away, but we were trying to do our civic and social duty.

  All the floating snippets of conversations I overheard seemed to be about the fires. The sky had turned an eerie, dull orange color, as though there was a filter over the sun. I caught Sheriff Marge, Henry, Bob, and Pastor Mort, among others, casting worried glances toward the northeast. They probably knew the most about what progress — or not — the firefighting crews were making.

  “Want to eat?” Pete wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and pulled me close.

  I shook my head, happy with the sight of my friends and townspeople relaxing and enjoying each other’s company. Utter exhaustion swept over me.

  “Let’s try.” Pete tugged on my hand, and we meandered toward the food tables.

  Frankly, there wasn’t room in my dress for a meal. I picked through the best Sockeye County’s gourmet cooks had to offer.

  “They’re miles away,” Jim Carter said as he plunked a chicken thigh coated in ashy red barbecue sauce on my nearly empty plate. The jerk of his thumb over his shoulder indicated he meant the wildfires. “Well outside Lupine. Just gotta pray we don’t get gorge winds until they’re at least partially contained.”

  “Anyone been evacuated?” Pete asked.

  “A few ranches and the maintenance crew from a wind farm. Right now what’s burning is mostly uninhabited, but the land out there doesn’t have natural impediments, so the fire’s moving fast.” Jim swiped his brow with a forearm. “Haven’t seen it this dry since the summer I was fifteen. Fire came close to our house that year, burned down the gulch of the creek bed behind the barn. Lost some cattle. My dad didn’t sleep for two, three nights straight, plowing a firebreak around our place and spraying down the roofs and trees. My brother and I helped him as best we could.”

  Based on Jim’s graying temples and modest paunch, I guessed that was at least thirty years ago and turned to gaze at the smoke billowing like thunderclouds on the horizon where a twice-in-a-lifetime series of fires raged. No wonder everyone was on edge.

  The combination of the heat, smoky air and the fact that the next day was a regular working Monday kept people from lingering too long. While Platts Landing enjoys a good shindig, most folks have families and responsibilities that don’t allow for staying up until the wee hours.

  The women retrieved their serving dishes and utensils from the food tables while the men folded blankets, collapsed lawn chairs and rounded up children.

  A tiny, blue-veined hand perched on my arm. “Sweetie, I have leftovers.”

  I turned to look down — way down — into the sharp, almost black eyes of Mae Brock. She balanced a foil-covered casserole dish on her hip.

  One paper-thin eyelid slid halfway down over her left eye, and she cracked a sly grin.

  Was she winking at me? I plastered a smile on my face.

  “I know you won’t be having much time for cooking in the next day or two, and I certainly couldn’t eat all this by myself.” Mae thrust the pan at me. “Pork sausage and stuffing casserole — used to be my Sherman’s favorite. Hopefully your new husband will last longer. My Sherman died of colon cancer just after his fifty-first birthday.”

  I grabbed the heavy pan before she dropped it. It might have weighed more than she did. I peeked under the tin foil — at the untouched crushed cornflake surface. Sally must have broadcast the secret warning to all of the attendees in time — or enough people had had previous experience with Mae’s cooking to spread the word organically.

  “That’ll put some meat on your bones.” With startling strength Mae gave my backside a resounding smack, exacerbated by the taut satin hugging my curves — apparently where she thought the meat should go. I winced. She tottered off, cackling.

  “Is this something I should know about?” Pete’s voice, low and husky, sent tingles up my spine.

  I whirled around to face him and found that he was struggling, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

  “You carry it.” I pushed the pan into his arms, then leaned in, whispering, “We’ll throw the casserole away then wash her dish and send a thank you note back with it.”

  “I don’t know. I might like more meat on your bones.” Pete’s eyes sparkled in the way that makes my knees tur
n to jelly as he tried to take another peek over my shoulder at my backside.

  I pinched him.

  “You’re perfect, you know,” he murmured.

  “Actually, I’m not. But it’s too late. You’re stuck now.” I stood on my tiptoes, wrapped my arms around his neck and planted a juicy kiss on his lips.

  A throat cleared behind me, and Alex stood there, a small, apologetic smile on his face. “Your mother and I are leaving now.”

  Pete and I spread the hugs around and helped bundle them in their new-to-them used Camry — part of their strict austerity measures adopted in order to recover from my mother’s gambling addiction.

  I reached through the open passenger window and squeezed Mom’s hand. “Call me.”

  “In a few days. I’ll give the two of you a little space just now.” She tipped her head toward the driver’s side where Pete and Alex were having a conversation, her smile widening. “But, yes, I will. Feeling better — about the future?”

  I exhaled, as least as much as I could in the dress, and nodded. “You were right, as usual.” I glanced up and caught Pete’s eye over the top of the car. We shared a grin.

  “Take the dress off as soon as possible,” Mom whispered. “You’re getting hives.”

  I jerked back and glanced down at my chest. Sure enough, red welts spread across my upper torso and onto my arms. I groaned. From the itchy prickles also tormenting my less visible parts, I was pretty sure the hives were running rampant.

  “It’s the heat and the lace and the nerves,” Mom murmured. “They’ll go down just as soon as you’re comfortable and cooled off.”

  Unlike my mother, I have never been good at being glamorous. Even trying is an effort in futility.

  Pete and I waved good-bye as Alex pulled away and hurried through the remainder of our thank-yous and seeing people off. Then I practically dragged him across the campground to my — I mean our — fifth-wheel trailer. Tuppence bounded up the steps behind us.