Shift Burn (Imogene Museum Mystery #6) Read Free

my eyes bulging,” I huffed.
    “You’ll get used to it.” Frankie smoothed and patted and adjusted, then stepped back for another review.
    It almost didn’t look like me in the mirror. Suddenly I appeared a whole lot like my much taller, slimmer and more elegant mother. White must work wonders on my physique. Or it could have been my overexertion flush and happy eyes.
    “It’ll do.” Sheriff Marge nodded crisply and pulled a little notebook from her chest pocket. She leaned a hip against the counter, easing her weight off her healing left leg. Her bulky walking cast had to be uncomfortable, but nothing slows her down. “Now that’s settled, I heard from Bob that you had a fire this morning.”
    “Barkdust, in the kitchen garden, or what will be the garden when I’m through with it.” I swiveled so Frankie could unzip me. The last thing I wanted to do was perspire in or stain the perfect dress. It was going back in the protective bag until the last minute.
    “See anyone suspicious?” Sheriff Marge asked.
    “There’s never anyone around that early in the morning. Why? Bob seemed to think it was spontaneous combustion.” My voice became muffled as I bent and tried to step out of the dress without tripping on the beaded folds.
    “No juvenile males?”
    “Just Henry, but he came to the rescue.” I peeked through the crack in the partition to see, with great satisfaction, that additional pink crept into Frankie’s cheeks again. Just the mention of his name seemed to have a tremendous effect on her. I flopped the dress over the door and wriggled into my jeans.
    The dress disappeared over the side, and I heard Frankie zipping it up. “You have specific boys in mind?” she asked.
    “Not keen to say — just yet,” Sheriff Marge replied. “They’re rumors until there’s evidence. Why?”
    “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 c alls 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