Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) by Jerusha Jones Page A

fair share of widows and widowers — strong, independent souls who are a testament to the hard life associated with a rural area — farming, ranching, logging, manual labor jobs, and raising big families. I buzzed around the store, filling my cart. But my mind was occupied with admiring the spunk and resilience of my friends who had chosen to live here their whole lives. People who had outlived beloved spouses, survived natural disasters and economic downturns with their sense of cheerfulness and humor more firmly entrenched than ever.
    And then there was Rhonda who was bitterly sleeping through her marriage. Country living is not idyllic. Like anywhere, you need to choose your friends — and your mate — wisely.
    I paid and pushed the obstinate cart out to my truck. Tuppence craned her neck through the open window, prepared to inspect every item I’d purchased and hopeful of finding something edible.
    My phone rang. I pulled it out of my purse and cradled in between my shoulder and ear as I flopped bolts of felt over the side into the pickup bed.
    “Meredith? This is Karl DeVoss. We delivered your shipment yesterday.”
    “We’re so grateful for all your help unloading,” I replied. “How’s the drive today?”
    “Hot. Sure glad we have air conditioning in our rig. But that’s not why I’m calling. I don’t mean to pry. We transport sensitive items all the time. But I thought maybe you should know—” His voice trailed off.
    I dropped a stack of plastic trays back into the cart and grabbed the truck’s side mirror for support. Tuppence’s dry nose bumped my shoulder. “Karl? What’s happened?”
    He exhaled into the phone. “This is a first for Ginger and me. Our dispatcher just instructed us to detour to the FBI office in Pendleton before we pick up our load in Hermiston. Apparently, the FBI wants to talk to us about the shipment we dropped at your place.”
    I squinted against the glaring sun and licked my chapped lips, thinking about how to phrase the questions that immediately leaped to mind. “Were they asking about the shipment or the shipper?”
    “The dispatcher didn’t have many details. Frankly, she was a little flustered. We’re accustomed to scrutiny from state patrol troopers — just doing their jobs — but the FBI is another matter.”
    “No kidding,” I muttered. “Did you help load the shipment in New York the same way you helped us unload it?”
    Karl snorted. “Nope. Never met an unfriendlier bunch of people in my life. Fancy estate up in Dutchess County’s horse country. We had to pick up late, after 11:00 p.m. per their specifications. I really hate loading and unloading in the dark — too easy to make a mistake or have an accident with a forklift or something. Semi-trailers actually have pretty thin skins, and it’s not hard to cause damage. They didn’t even have decent exterior lighting. But they had the manpower. Told Ginger and me to wait in the cab, then called me around back when it was time to lock it up.”
    “I understand secrecy and security, given the contents of the shipment. Guardado’s paranoia is rubbing off on me too,” I muttered under my breath.
    “What? Didn’t catch that,” Karl asked.
    “Sorry,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know. We’re going to start unpacking the inner cartons this afternoon, so if we find anything fishy, I’ll know to contact the FBI.”
    “Ginger wants me to tell you something else,” Karl blurted. “We didn’t think much of it at the time—” Karl paused, and I heard Ginger speaking in a chiding tone in the background.
    “Okay,” Karl resumed, “ I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it’s possible we were being followed. We didn’t see them every day, but pretty regularly. Not too many vehicles take the exact same route across the country at exactly the same time and pace. And we were moving. With two of us driving, we were on the road sixteen to twenty hours a day.”
    “What did the vehicle