Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) (25 page)

Bacon, caramelized onions, the tang of sourdough toast — yummy smells were drifting out of the galley’s open hatch. I jumped to my feet and found Pete stirring a brownish mash in a skillet — his food always tastes amazing, but it won’t win points for presentation — with a dishtowel flipped over his shoulder. A jar of Harriet’s home-canned salsa sat open on the counter beside him — a condiment for the eggs.

I turned my phone off — not just silenced the ringtone, but all-the-way off — and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then I wrapped my arms around his waist.

“Everyone accounted for?” he asked.

“And thriving,” I murmured before kissing him.

SNEAK PEEK — MAYFIELD MYSTERY SERIES

BAIT & SWITCH

A Mayfield Mystery — book #1

Jerusha Jones

When Nora Sheldon’s husband is kidnapped while they’re on their honeymoon, all her hopes and plans tumble into a nightmare. Then the FBI comes knocking. Turns out Nora doesn’t know her husband as well as she thought she did, and the feds are equally anxious about Skip’s fate.

Is Skip Sheldon a con man or some kind of Robin Hood or simply misunderstood? And if he really loved her, why did he drag her into this mess?

She’d interrogate and then throttle him herself (and save his kidnappers the trouble) if she could — but she’s not so sure he’s still alive to bear the brunt of her worry.

Nora and her stalwart executive assistant, Clarice, seek refuge on one of Skip’s properties — an abandoned poor farm on the edge of the Dark Divide in Washington State — to wait for a ransom call and entertain obnoxious FBI agents.

Can Nora wriggle through the maze of Skip’s accounts and questionable acquaintances before she falls under suspicion herself? And for what crimes, exactly? She wishes she knew.

CHAPTER 1

His giant blue-gray eye bulge
d in the peephole, the red squiggly veins in his sclera pulsing. I held my breath, then nearly jumped out of my skin as the door beneath my fingertips thumped with another volley of determined knocking.

“Mrs. Sheldon. We know you’re in there.” He spoke in a low voice, as though his mouth was pressed against the crack between the door and the frame.

I squinted through the peephole again, this time to see a badge — an ID card? — waved across the distorted scope of my view.

“FBI. If you don’t open up soon, we’re going to collect a bunch of spectators out here on the lawn. Not something you want, I’m thinking.”

I didn’t care what he thought I wanted. I exhaled and spun so my back pressed against the door. What I really wanted was my husband of fourteen hours to return.

Skip had promised, “I won’t be long, honey.” He’d kissed me on the forehead while sliding his arms back into his linen suit jacket sleeves. Then he’d gone out, and I was left standing in the middle of one of El Escondite’s luxury bungalows surrounded by our luggage and staring at a closed door.

The same door rattled again, and I leaped away from it. “One minute — a few minutes. Please?” My voice shook, and I tried again, louder. “It’s late. I need to dress. Five minutes?”

“Five minutes,” Mr. Badge echoed into the crack. “Hurry up.”

I fled for the bedroom and the piles of clothing I’d just started unpacking. I’d figured the silky negligee and skimpy robe I had on were all I was going to need tonight. I dug through my suitcase and found a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, the appropriate underwear.

My hands shook as my mind raced through scenarios. Skip had been injured —  fallen off an embankment into the sea, hit by a car in a crosswalk, held at gunpoint — that one made my heart stop. Skip had the net worth to make kidnapping appealing. But he was strong — he wouldn’t go without a fight. A knife fight with banditos? What else could it be?

But why was the FBI at my door? They didn’t follow ambulances around, informing the family, especially not in Cozumel, Mexico.

I hopped on one foot, trying to pull a sling-back espadrille onto the other. I’d bought these shoes for our honeymoon, thinking they’d be good for long walks through El Mercado and the side street shops while holding hands with Skip. I closed my eyes and gulped a deep breath. Maybe the nice man outside would explain everything — a simple misunderstanding, a knock on the wrong door in the wee hours of the morning.

But he knew my name — my new name.

A quick check through the peephole showed two cheap suits standing under the bright porch light, poking their phone screens. Just like the television shows — the FBI always comes in pairs. I squared my shoulders and opened the door.

The lead guy’s head popped up. He wrapped a warm hand around my elbow. “The car’s at the curb.”

“Who are you?”

“Special Agent Mick Jordan. And Patrick Moreno, my partner.” He gestured toward the man who took up position on my other side.

“Are you here about Skip? Is he okay? You’d at least tell me that, wouldn’t you?” At the hard look on both men’s faces, I bit my lip and whispered, “Please?”

“It’s best if we save the questions for when we get to the office,” Agent Jordan said.

They propelled me through the sticky night, cutting across the curves of the resort’s meandering lighted path to an idling dark sedan. Agent
Jordan followed me into the backseat while Agent Moreno folded his bulky body into the front passenger seat.

The unintroduced driver gunned the car into the sparse traffic. He had a pale strip of skin between his haircut and shirt collar. Yet another non-local.

I twisted my purse strap between my fingers, rubbing it hard the way my housecleaner, Rosemary, parses her rosary beads. I’m not Catholic, but having something to hold onto right now seemed an absolute necessity.

Five minutes later we pulled up in front of a bougainvillea-covered wall in what was clearly a residential neighborhood.

“Office?” My voice quivered.

“For now.” Agent
Jordan let me exit the car unassisted then pushed open the silent wrought iron gate.

The house was typical — whitewashed adobe walls and barred windows with a heavy wood door. We stepped into a tiled foyer and around the corner into a sparsely furnished sitting room. And by sparsely, I mean a few metal folding chairs and a card table crammed with electronic equipment and laptops. A couple empty duffel bags lay crumpled in a corner. Not exactly hospitable, and certainly not the usual government agency office.

A very large, very white barefoot man wearing a Madras plaid shirt stretched taut across his beer belly and khaki cargo shorts slouched in one of the chairs — the only one of the four men who even came close to fitting in with the local tourist population. He glanced up for a fraction of a second, one bushy gray eyebrow raised. “Still got nothin’,” he grunted. His right hand flicked a computer mouse, and his eyes returned to scanning the screens.

“In here, Mrs. Sheldon.” Agent Jordan led me through a galley kitchen that looked and smelled the way I imagine a frat house would — partially empty take-out cartons, tipped soda cans, scrunched plastic bags, even a bunch of brown-spotted bananas swarming with fruit flies. I never got near those places in college for precisely this reason. I pressed a hand to my nose and almost tripped on the back of Agent
Jordan’s heels in my haste.

The dining room looked more normal, and unused, with heavy carved wood chairs lined up around refectory-style table. Agent
Jordan pulled out a chair and pointed me into it.

He peeled off his suit jacket and slung it over the back of another chair. “Something to drink?”

I shook my head. I pressed my knees together and clenched my purse on my lap, trying to suppress my trembling. I had a horrible, irrational thought that the less DNA I deposited, the better. I didn’t know the first thing about how FBI agents work, but this crew seemed shady and poised to clear out in a hurry.

Agent
Jordan returned with a steaming Styrofoam cup and dropped into his chair with a heavy sigh. “Your husband’s gone.”

I scowled. He had to drag me out of my comfortable bungalow to tell me something we both already knew?

“You wanna tell me where?” He loosened his tie and ran a hand through his stiff hair.

“What do you mean? Is he hurt? Have you checked the hospitals?” I pitched forward on the edge of my chair. “Why are you interested in my husband’s health?”

“Believe me, lady, I’m not. He’s in a high-risk occupation. It’d just be nice to have a body as proof — that’s all.”

NOTES & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The
Imogene Museum mystery series is a tribute to the Columbia River Gorge and the hearty people who live in gorge towns on both sides of the Oregon/Washington border. It’s an extraordinary piece of God’s real estate, and I savor driving, sightseeing, picnicking and camping its entire length. Hitching a ride on a tug run from Umatilla to Astoria is on my bucket list.

If you’re familiar with the area, you may realize that I’ve taken liberties with distances in some cases. Mostly I squished locations (albeit fictional) closer together to move the story along and also to showcase the amazing geologic and topographic features of the gorge. In real life for many gorge residents, the roundtrip to a Costco or a bona fide sit-down restaurant might well take a full day. This kind of travel time is not helpful when you’re chasing a fleeing murderer. But if you’re not Sheriff Marge and have time to enjoy the scenery, the gorge is spectacular, and I encourage you to come experience it for yourself.

However, please don’t expect to actually meet any of the characters in this book. All are purely fictional, and if you think they might represent anyone you know, you’re mistaken. Really. I couldn’t get away with that.

oOo

Profound thanks to the following people who gave their time and expertise to assist in the writing of this book:

Sergeant Fred Neiman, Sr. and all the instructors of the Clark County Sheriff’s Citizens’ Academy. The highlights had to be firing the Thompson submachine gun and stepping into the medical examiner’s walk-in cooler. Oh, and the K-9 demonstration and the officer survival/lethal force decision making test. And the drug task force presentation with identification color spectrum pictures and the — you get the idea.

Beth Anne Steele of the FBI Public Affairs Office, Portland Division, for letting me attend the Community Relations Executive Seminar Training program even though my only (non) qualification is that I make stuff up for a living. And to the special agents and support staff who shared their expertise and stories.

I claim all errors, whether accidental or intentional, solely as my own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I live in the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. After too many years as a VP of inventory and analysis, I find writing mysteries much more stimulating than squinting at spreadsheets. When not typing, doodling or staring out the window, I’m usually planning my next local tourist adventure, listening to NASCAR races and Mariners, Seahawks and Trailblazers games on the radio, or sneaking dessert for breakfast.

I post updates on my website
www.jerushajones.com

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