Read Online Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) by Jerusha Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerusha Jones
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fireworks?” Sheriff Marge asked.
“ Yeah. You?”
She shrugged. “Depends on how many drunks and crazies are out tonight. How many people light something on fire they didn’t mean to — or did mean to. Not my favorite day of the year, but I’ll try to swing by later.” She turned to look at Amos’s truck. “I’ll get Verle to pull that beater out in the next couple days. Tow truck drivers are just about as busy as emergency personnel on New Year’s.”
The radio on her shoulder crackled and the voice of the dispatcher, Nadine, garbled something about teen boys shooting off firearms behind someone ’s house.
“ See you.” Sheriff Marge trotted to her Explorer, climbed in, pulled a squealing U-turn and sped off toward town.
The driver of the ambulance honked and waved, and he pulled out too. I caught a glimpse of Amos through the lit widow in the rear door. He was pressing a bandage to his nose.
I suddenly ached as though I’d been in a wreck myself. I rolled my neck and massaged my trapezius muscles. It was going to be a long night.
Tuppence whined when I opened the truck door.
“Sorry for the wait, old girl. I know you’re hungry.”
Back in my cozy nest at the Riverview RV Ranch, I fixed another grilled cheese sandwich and settled Tuppence with her consolation prize for being confined all night. Then I pulled on a second layer of everything – long underwear, thermal t-shirt, sweatshirt, scarf, hat, puffy down coat, mittens.
My phone rang.
“Of all the—” I had to yank off several items to gain the mobility and dexterity necessary to pick up the phone and speak into it. “Hello?”
“ Hey, Meredith,” Greg said. “I heard back from my friend’s friend about the flower bulbs. Wanted to tell you now because it’ll be too noisy and crowded to go over the details at the fireworks tonight.”
He had a point. I stretched for a pad of paper and a pencil.
“Shoot.”
“ Most likely they’re all the same, and they’re all crocus bulbs or, technically, corms.”
“ Anything special or unusual about them?”
“ Hard to tell from the picture, but he said crocuses are very common, not native to North America, but they grow easily in the local climate zones. They’ve been cultivated for colors and shapes — lots of varieties, but the only valuable ones are saffron crocuses.”
“ Saffron?”
“ Saffron threads are the dried stigmas of one type of crocus — crocus sativus. The flowers and corms aren’t particularly valuable in themselves. The high labor cost required for harvesting three stigmas per bloom is what makes saffron so expensive.”
“ But saffron could be grown here?”
“ If you wanted to put in the effort. Yeah.”
“ Wow. Thanks.”
“ Sure. See you in a bit.”
So Spence Snead came home injured from Vietnam and decided to take up crocus farming? Seemed far-fetched. Maybe he developed a taste for saffron-based sauces. Maybe it was a hobby. Maybe the bulbs belonged to someone else in the family. Not Wade, though. I just couldn’t picture him stooped over carefully plucking three tiny red stigmas out of each delicate flower.
CHAPTER 8
I found a parking spot close to the marina. I’d be blocked in later, but it didn’t matter.
The wind whipped around and sliced through my layers — already. I pulled my scarf tighter and trotted down the gangplank toward the floating Burger Basket & Bait Shop. It’s a fun little diner during the summer if you don’t sit too close to the stinky bait coolers. Finney Hooper owns the place, and it’s closed in the winter with the exception of New Year’s Eve. In a goodwill gesture for the community, Finney turns on the heat and provides basic creature comforts and restroom facilities for everyone while they’re waiting for the fireworks to start.
I spotted Sally and Mort through the Burger Basket ’s wrap-around windows. They were moving long tables into a
“ Yeah. You?”
She shrugged. “Depends on how many drunks and crazies are out tonight. How many people light something on fire they didn’t mean to — or did mean to. Not my favorite day of the year, but I’ll try to swing by later.” She turned to look at Amos’s truck. “I’ll get Verle to pull that beater out in the next couple days. Tow truck drivers are just about as busy as emergency personnel on New Year’s.”
The radio on her shoulder crackled and the voice of the dispatcher, Nadine, garbled something about teen boys shooting off firearms behind someone ’s house.
“ See you.” Sheriff Marge trotted to her Explorer, climbed in, pulled a squealing U-turn and sped off toward town.
The driver of the ambulance honked and waved, and he pulled out too. I caught a glimpse of Amos through the lit widow in the rear door. He was pressing a bandage to his nose.
I suddenly ached as though I’d been in a wreck myself. I rolled my neck and massaged my trapezius muscles. It was going to be a long night.
Tuppence whined when I opened the truck door.
“Sorry for the wait, old girl. I know you’re hungry.”
Back in my cozy nest at the Riverview RV Ranch, I fixed another grilled cheese sandwich and settled Tuppence with her consolation prize for being confined all night. Then I pulled on a second layer of everything – long underwear, thermal t-shirt, sweatshirt, scarf, hat, puffy down coat, mittens.
My phone rang.
“Of all the—” I had to yank off several items to gain the mobility and dexterity necessary to pick up the phone and speak into it. “Hello?”
“ Hey, Meredith,” Greg said. “I heard back from my friend’s friend about the flower bulbs. Wanted to tell you now because it’ll be too noisy and crowded to go over the details at the fireworks tonight.”
He had a point. I stretched for a pad of paper and a pencil.
“Shoot.”
“ Most likely they’re all the same, and they’re all crocus bulbs or, technically, corms.”
“ Anything special or unusual about them?”
“ Hard to tell from the picture, but he said crocuses are very common, not native to North America, but they grow easily in the local climate zones. They’ve been cultivated for colors and shapes — lots of varieties, but the only valuable ones are saffron crocuses.”
“ Saffron?”
“ Saffron threads are the dried stigmas of one type of crocus — crocus sativus. The flowers and corms aren’t particularly valuable in themselves. The high labor cost required for harvesting three stigmas per bloom is what makes saffron so expensive.”
“ But saffron could be grown here?”
“ If you wanted to put in the effort. Yeah.”
“ Wow. Thanks.”
“ Sure. See you in a bit.”
So Spence Snead came home injured from Vietnam and decided to take up crocus farming? Seemed far-fetched. Maybe he developed a taste for saffron-based sauces. Maybe it was a hobby. Maybe the bulbs belonged to someone else in the family. Not Wade, though. I just couldn’t picture him stooped over carefully plucking three tiny red stigmas out of each delicate flower.
CHAPTER 8
I found a parking spot close to the marina. I’d be blocked in later, but it didn’t matter.
The wind whipped around and sliced through my layers — already. I pulled my scarf tighter and trotted down the gangplank toward the floating Burger Basket & Bait Shop. It’s a fun little diner during the summer if you don’t sit too close to the stinky bait coolers. Finney Hooper owns the place, and it’s closed in the winter with the exception of New Year’s Eve. In a goodwill gesture for the community, Finney turns on the heat and provides basic creature comforts and restroom facilities for everyone while they’re waiting for the fireworks to start.
I spotted Sally and Mort through the Burger Basket ’s wrap-around windows. They were moving long tables into a
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