Read Online Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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to side. She was still giddy about being released from medical treatment.
Rupert chuckled and bent even farther to scratch behind her ears. He has the Humpty Dumpty body type but with a dash of debonair flare in professorial tweeds. I didn’t know how he could stand to wear wool pants in this heat, even though inside the Imogene was a good twenty degrees cooler than outside.
Rupert straightened and padded toward me, his face flushed from the exertion. “Meredith, my dear. I do apologize for the unfortunate timing of this delivery. I feel rotten about interfering with your honeymoon.”
“It’s not your fault.” I patted his arm. “Do you know why the donor was in such a hurry to transfer the collection? Seems unusual.”
“It’s my understanding he’s packing up his entire household — and quite a household, you should have seen it — because he’ll be living abroad indefinitely. Tell me about the Tins—”
Rupert’s words were obliterated by the blast of a jackhammer. I jumped and clutched at his elbow. No matter how aware I am — one can hardly avoid it — of the construction, the jackhammers get me every time. Rupert blinked as a new sprinkling of fine white dust settled on his glasses.
The jackhammer stopped as quickly as it started, and Rupert was left shouting, “Tinsleys. Herb and Harriet?” He modulated his deep, gravelly voice. “I heard about Herb’s stroke.”
“It was minor. He seemed to be responding very well to treatment last night.”
Frankie bustled up. She was wearing a pair of neat jeans and cute short-sleeved blouse with lace edges — her idea of grubby clothes for the heavy lifting we’d be doing later. “Is he coming home today?”
I nodded and winced as another jackhammer barrage sounded from the opposite side of the building. The workmen had been doing this last week too — the bizarre staggered squawks of jackhammering all around the building’s perimeter — like some kind of freaky, grating mating calls of blind pterodactyls who were playing Marco Polo, trying to find each other. It was horrible.
As soon as the racket stopped, while my ears were still ringing, Rupert slid his warm, plump hands under Frankie’s and my elbows and scooted us out onto the sidewalk. “I am buying you two fine ladies a cup of coffee at the Burger Basket. I can’t think straight in there. It’s a good thing we decided to close the museum during repairs — no visitors could endure this.”
Tuppence must have thought Rupert’s idea was excellent because she trotted ahead of us toward the marina, the white tip of her tail in the air. I satisfied — as much as I could anyway — Rupert’s and Frankie’s concern about the Tinsleys during our stroll. They peppered me with questions about the barn fire too, and I truthfully skirted around the answers as best I could. Clearly the rumors about an arsonist had spread and reached even the normally quiet halls of the Imogene. Sheriff Marge’s battle to contain the information was already lost.
Technically, Finney Hooper’s fine establishment is called the Burger Basket & Bait Shop and floats on algae-covered pontoons alongside the marina’s rental slips. We tramped down the gangway and entered the restaurant end of the building. I figured Tuppence smelled nicer — at least now that she had recuperated — and was better behaved than most of the paunchy old men who regularly sat around the long tables swapping tales and only occasionally making the effort to fling a line over the edge of the dock, so Finney wouldn’t mind if I let her inside.
We helped ourselves to Finney’s guaranteed-to-grow-hair-on-your-chest coffee from the giant urn and crowded around a table covered with a red and white checked vinyl tablecloth. Rupert dumped a packet of powdered creamer in his mug and swirled a spoon in it until the coffee was mud colored.
I wanted to divert his and Frankie’s attention from fires — whether wild, accidental or
Rupert chuckled and bent even farther to scratch behind her ears. He has the Humpty Dumpty body type but with a dash of debonair flare in professorial tweeds. I didn’t know how he could stand to wear wool pants in this heat, even though inside the Imogene was a good twenty degrees cooler than outside.
Rupert straightened and padded toward me, his face flushed from the exertion. “Meredith, my dear. I do apologize for the unfortunate timing of this delivery. I feel rotten about interfering with your honeymoon.”
“It’s not your fault.” I patted his arm. “Do you know why the donor was in such a hurry to transfer the collection? Seems unusual.”
“It’s my understanding he’s packing up his entire household — and quite a household, you should have seen it — because he’ll be living abroad indefinitely. Tell me about the Tins—”
Rupert’s words were obliterated by the blast of a jackhammer. I jumped and clutched at his elbow. No matter how aware I am — one can hardly avoid it — of the construction, the jackhammers get me every time. Rupert blinked as a new sprinkling of fine white dust settled on his glasses.
The jackhammer stopped as quickly as it started, and Rupert was left shouting, “Tinsleys. Herb and Harriet?” He modulated his deep, gravelly voice. “I heard about Herb’s stroke.”
“It was minor. He seemed to be responding very well to treatment last night.”
Frankie bustled up. She was wearing a pair of neat jeans and cute short-sleeved blouse with lace edges — her idea of grubby clothes for the heavy lifting we’d be doing later. “Is he coming home today?”
I nodded and winced as another jackhammer barrage sounded from the opposite side of the building. The workmen had been doing this last week too — the bizarre staggered squawks of jackhammering all around the building’s perimeter — like some kind of freaky, grating mating calls of blind pterodactyls who were playing Marco Polo, trying to find each other. It was horrible.
As soon as the racket stopped, while my ears were still ringing, Rupert slid his warm, plump hands under Frankie’s and my elbows and scooted us out onto the sidewalk. “I am buying you two fine ladies a cup of coffee at the Burger Basket. I can’t think straight in there. It’s a good thing we decided to close the museum during repairs — no visitors could endure this.”
Tuppence must have thought Rupert’s idea was excellent because she trotted ahead of us toward the marina, the white tip of her tail in the air. I satisfied — as much as I could anyway — Rupert’s and Frankie’s concern about the Tinsleys during our stroll. They peppered me with questions about the barn fire too, and I truthfully skirted around the answers as best I could. Clearly the rumors about an arsonist had spread and reached even the normally quiet halls of the Imogene. Sheriff Marge’s battle to contain the information was already lost.
Technically, Finney Hooper’s fine establishment is called the Burger Basket & Bait Shop and floats on algae-covered pontoons alongside the marina’s rental slips. We tramped down the gangway and entered the restaurant end of the building. I figured Tuppence smelled nicer — at least now that she had recuperated — and was better behaved than most of the paunchy old men who regularly sat around the long tables swapping tales and only occasionally making the effort to fling a line over the edge of the dock, so Finney wouldn’t mind if I let her inside.
We helped ourselves to Finney’s guaranteed-to-grow-hair-on-your-chest coffee from the giant urn and crowded around a table covered with a red and white checked vinyl tablecloth. Rupert dumped a packet of powdered creamer in his mug and swirled a spoon in it until the coffee was mud colored.
I wanted to divert his and Frankie’s attention from fires — whether wild, accidental or
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